#fenhawke fic

[barbex]

Happy Friday! From the sappy prompts, “I can’t stay away from you.” Maybe FenHawke?

Thank you! This is a continuation from this fic, for @dadrunkwriting:

--

Fenris doesn't remember how he got outside of the Hanged Man. Inside, the traces of the battle and Danarius' death are already scrubbed away, fresh paint covering the burn marks on the walls. He is free now, just like Hawke said, but instead of celebrating with his friends, he is alone.

Alone, because he pushed them away. Because he still can't let go of the horror of being owned by a mage, even though Hawke never acted like that towards him. 

"You're an asshole, you know?"

Fenris whips around, only to face Anders. "Mage. Leave me alone."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm gonna." Anders pushes away from the wall and gestures towards the stairs up to Hightown. "Hawke went home, Amell mansion, in case you've forgotten." 

"I... I cannot..."

Anders sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Listen. You just went through a whole load of trauma, and it made you lash out. That sucks, asshole move and all that, and you made Hawke cry, but it's not the end."

"How can it not be the end —" 

"Because you can apologise. Comes with being free."

The ground seems to shift under his feet. "I don't know how."

Anders watches him for a moment, then gestures at him to follow him. As they climb up the stairs to Hightown, Anders starts speaking. "It's as simple and as hard as saying 'I'm sorry. I hope you can forgive me one day.' And you better mean it. I've never seen Hawke cry and I don't want to see it again."

The door to Hawke's home looms in front of him. Anders doesn't give him a chance to be a coward, knocking on the door for him. Bodhan opens, looks from one to the other, and steps wordlessly aside.

"Thank you," Fenris says to Anders. 

"Don't thank me yet. The hardest part is yet to come." He makes a vague gesture with his hand and walks away. 

Fenris leaves his sword and armor with Bodhan and climbs up the stairs to Hawke's private room. Every step seems to be harder than the one before. At her door, he nearly turns away again, only embarrassment at his own cowardice makes him knock.

"Who is it?"

"It's me, Fenris."

The door flies open. Hawke stares at him, holding the door open with one arm. Her eyes are red and puffy from crying. Guilt at causing this pain makes Fenris' knees shake.

"Don't you dare to fall to your knees," Hawke says, her voice rough and hard.

"But I should. I am sorry. I... what I said..."

"Get in here." 

He steps inside, hovering in the middle of the room as Hawke closes the door. He can feel her presence behind his back, her magic like a beacon. Maybe it is easier to speak if he can't see her face. "I came to apologise. I'm sorry to have caused you pain. You have every right to hate me now and I will leave if you ask me to. But I... I have never regretted anything more than what I said to you back there."

A hand touches his back, sliding down his spine. She is closer now, sliding her hands over his waist to wrap her arms around him from behind. "I already know that I can't stay away from you. I waited for you so long." She presses a kiss to his neck. "You hurt me, but I know that your entire world changed in that moment, and I can forgive you for being confused."

Fenris turns in her arms, taking her face in his hands. "I don't deserve your forgiveness."

"It's not about deserving and earning." She turns her head to kiss the inside of his wrist. "It's about dealing with emotions and speaking about them. Do you think you can do that?"

Relief spreads in his chest like fresh air. "Yes, I can."

"Then we'll figure it out." 

She kisses him, and he finally believes in his new life.

[barbex]

Ohhh! I love this, you must write more of this. I can just imagine how good Fenris sounds over the radio.

Hello writerly friend!

Regrading the WIP fic title things, can you tell me about, and give me a snippet for the fenhawke college radio AU?

🥰

This one is ANCIENT, like 2015 levels of ancient, so it might be bad!

The host’s voice is a handsome baritone, like a stream of melodious velvet as he introduces song after song. The sound of it is more captivating than the music, which already has a hold on him. Having nothing else to do, Hawke’s imagination wanders to what this radio host might look like. Is he a human or an elf? A dwarf, or void, even a qunari?

“Remember,” the enrapturing voice reminds him just after a song so catchy that it has Hawke whistling its tune. “Callers may submit requests using the radio call line.”

The next song is just as fantastic as its predecessors, and so is every song that follows. Whoever is choosing the music, be it the host or otherwise, is doing a damn fine job.

“Welcome back,” the host says in a tone more deep and formal than previous song introductions, “It is now two in the morning. This has been Fenris with Late Night Beat on KWDL, Kirkwall University’s own campus radio station. Thank you and goodnight.”

[shivunin]

"I know that wicked shape to your smile." - Where Is Your Rider // for Maria :3

Thank you, Mary! <3

Here is some post-Arishok recovery and some very messy feelings:

(Fenris/Hawke | 1,257 Words | CW: Injury/recovery)

To Languish in Repose

“See, your face wasn’t quite as I remembered, but I know that wicked shape to your smile.” —The Oh Hellos, “Where is your Rider”

When Hawke woke near dawn, Fenris was not overly concerned.

The first few times Hawke had woken from her magically-assisted slumber, there’d mostly been the basic necessities to contend with: discerning if she could stand, helping her get clean, fetching her clothing or water or food. 

Every other time, Fenris had stood silently on the periphery, pouring a glass of water and handing it off to Merrill to administer or opening the cabinet for Varric to retrieve a nightgown for their friend. He’d found little to say, even if most of the others had joked or told stories until Maria—until Hawke fell asleep again. The woman herself had said only a handful of words since her near-death at the Arishok’s hands. It was to be expected; Fenris was certain that she had, for a moment, actually been dead. 

And just before she had, she’d said—

Nevermind. It mattered little what she’d said. 

Fenris was not concerned when she woke that morning, nearly three full days since she’d taken her wound. He need not worry what to say to her when she was unlikely to speak, after all. It wouldn’t be a concern that the only other person in the room was Aveline, still half in her guardsman armor and snoring loudly on the settee they’d dragged over to the fireplace. 

When she stirred, he did not move from the wall, but watched and waited. Perhaps Hawke would ask for water or another pillow and then fall asleep again. She’d done as much a dozen times since he’d carried her here through the burning city. 

“I don’t suppose you’ve—any idea of the time,” she said instead, words disjointed where she stopped to catch her breath. 

Fenris, hand already half-reaching for the pitcher on her desk, looked at her. 

“It is nearly morning,” he said, and cast a glance in Aveline’s direction. The other woman did not stir. 

“Oh,” Hawke said. She shifted on the bed, buoyed by a small fortune of pillows, and grimaced. 

“Need something?” he asked. 

“Meredith is awfully—” she began at the same time and sighed. 

“No,” she took a slow breath, grimacing again. 

Fenris had half a thought to retrieve Anders from wherever he’d tucked himself away downstairs. If she was in pain—but she went on again before he could make the decision.

“She’s awfully late,” Hawke finished. 

Fenris frowned at her for a moment, trying to puzzle the words into something that made sense.

“What do you mean?” he said finally, at a loss. His hand had found the handle of the pitcher and he grasped it now, more for something to hold onto than for any actual assistance it might provide. 

“I thought she’d—” Hawke drew in a slow breath, “have me locked in the Circle by now. If I didn’t—die, that is. I thought I…thought I would be...”

For a moment, he could see the outcome of such a thing so clearly that the idea of it filled his bones with ice. He had not even considered—if Meredith had come for Hawke after she’d been wounded, they would have been hard-pressed to fight off the Templars. All of them had been forced to battle their way through the city in the wake of the attack. They had not been at their best. The Templars, comparatively untouched, would have easily cut their way through the lot of them and Hawke—

“No,” Fenris said. “No. She did not come.”

“Well, I did suppose—not,” she said. 

Someone—Merrill, he thought—had braided her hair into a crown. It had more or less stayed in place for the last few days, but a few curls had crept loose overnight. They clung to her forehead with sweat now—it occurred to him that this conversation must be a strain after days of recovery. She should not be speaking like this; not now.

“I would be elsewhere—if she had,” she closed her eyes for a moment. 

The room filled with the sound of her breathing, labored as it was, and Fenris turned away to pour the cup of water she hadn’t asked for. 

“Wouldn’t want you fools,” she sighed, “to get hurt on—my account.”

Fenris snorted. 

“I like you too much,” she went on, “to see you knocked about for me—when I can’t even hit back.”

When you were dying, you said—Fenris thought, and watched the water swirl wildly in the cup before slowly coming to a dizzy halt.

“Drink this,” he said when the water had drawn away from the mouth of the cup, and crossed to her bed to hold it out to her. Hawke didn’t take it. She stared at it instead, as if she didn’t recognize what it was. Her hand half-lifted from the sheets but fell again almost at once. 

“Would that I could,” she said, and the pained half-laugh she managed was cut off by another grimace. 

The next few moments were taken up by Fenris attempting to help her drink without looking too long at her—sallow and exhausted and still breathing too hard. When she drew away, her mouth brushed against the second knuckle of his forefinger and his chest gave a sick lurch. He could not do this, could not be here, but what choice had he? It was nothing; it was nothing.

I did love you, she’d said three days ago, thoughtful—as if she was remembering something she’d forgotten from an earlier conversation. Said it and then stopped breathing, half-smiling at the ceiling as if trying to remember the name of an acquaintance she’d forgotten. I did love you, she’d said, and Fenris was certain she’d died for a moment with the words still clinging to her lips. 

He doubted she would ever remember saying so, but he—how could he forget it? He could more easily wrench his own heart through his chest. It felt as if he already had. 

Fenris waited until she was done and he’d drawn away again to speak again.

“She will not take you now,” he said, and cleared the gravel from his throat. “You’ve been named Champion of Kirkwall. Or—you will be.”

“I—what?” 

Hawke didn’t go on. Fenris turned to look at her, somewhat alarmed, and found that her mouth had fallen open in shock. 

“Yes,” he said. “The letter arrived while you slept.”

“Oh!” she said, and went on. “Ohoho—oh, that must really gall her. That must—”

She paused for a moment, closing her eyes tightly, and went on when her breathing had steadied again. 

“Champion,” she said. “Of Kirkwall.”

“So the letter said,” Fenris told her. 

“Oh,” she said, and the laugh she was repressing curled the corners of her mouth. “Just wait until—Carver hears. Oh, he’s—going to be so annoyed.” 

Fenris might have said something then, but Maria smiled and he entirely forgot whatever he’d been thinking. She smiled like she had before her mother had been taken, before the months of blankness had taken her in turn, smiled like he hadn’t seen since before they’d—

“I think,” she said after a moment, that same pained laugh hiding between her words, “I am going to sleep more. But oh—what a relief!” 

Fenris had little to say to that. He nodded instead and tucked himself against the wall again in his silent vigil. She fell asleep almost at once, wrinkles of pain smoothing out again, but the curve of her smile stayed with him long after the sun rose.

[inquisimer]

dragon age oneshot fic recs

@dreadfutures said that we should do more fic recs and she's absolutely right, so I'm starting what will hopefully be a series of fic rec lists, leading off with some oneshot recs! These are just standalone stories that don't require a big time commitment and definitely stuck with me after I read them.

Check them out! and leave a comment or kudos to let the author know you did 💜

Feel free to reblog this post and add your own oneshot fic recs! Or make your own fic rec post and tag me in it so I can read and promote your awesome recs :3

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My Lover's Phylactery by FrodaB

Cullen Rutherford/Female Inquisitor | G | 1472 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: She doesn't destory it Mer's Rec: this is an excellent piece that fills the gap DAI left (imho) about Trevelyan's phylactery! There's some excellent introspection from the Inquisitor and a bittersweet but somft and heartfelt ending between Cullen and his love.

Bent, Not Broken by spirrum (@spirrum)

Fenris/Female Hawke | G | 1595 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: In which Hawke doesn't run off to Weisshaupt, and an angry elf turns up at the Inquisition's door. Mer's Rec: this is a little slice of interpersonal relationships that beautifully captures Hawke's spirit! It starts with some platonic Hawke & Varric, perfectly encapsulating the exhaustion both of them feel after HLTA, and transitions smoothly into the heart-tugging reunion between Hawke and a frustrated Fenris who's very much in love.

last man standing (perhaps) by havvke (Wintertree)

Charade Amell & Carver Hawke & Female Hawke | T | 6749 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: Hawke’s teeth glinted when she grinned, except for the gap of her missing left dogtooth. Funny how they did that, even in such poor lighting. Glinting. Hawke barely seemed real. They’ve gone on a mission or two together since that initial, embarrassingly disastrous meeting, and it was still shocking that the woman lived up—if not surpassed—her nearly legendary status. Compared to the other missions Charade led with the Jennies, this was somewhat easier than her normal fare. But while Hawke was a known figure, and by technicality kin, Charade still didn’t know her. Mer's Rec: Okay, I'm admittedly biased toward this piece, because it was a gift for me as part of the 2023 Platonic Ideal Exchange. That being said, it is an INCREDIBLE work of sibling dynamics and I think of it whenever I think about Charade Amell. Havvke explores the relationship between Charade as a Red Jenny, Carver as a Grey Warden, and Hawke as...Hawke, in a beautiful web of complicated choices and found family. Over a year later, it still holds up as one of the best exchange gifts I've ever received.

Doggone by leggywillow (@leggywillow)

Alistair/Female Warden, Alistair & Anora Mac Tir, Alistair & Warden's Mabari | T | 3042 words | No Archive Warnings Apply Author's Summary: Alistair and the Warden are no longer together, but they still exchange letters - through Dog. Alistair struggles to find happiness in his life as king, but he isn't entirely alone. Mer's Rec: I read this one just recently and oh my GOODNESS it both made me laugh and also pulled at my heartstrings. Leggy alters the canon breakup between a King Alistair & the Warden to be somehow even more heartbreaking and the way that he talks to Dog is just so essentially Alistair, I could hear every line in his voice. Add to that several well done bits between Alistair & Anora and this piece absolutely delivers on the "sad" and "heartache" in the additional tags.

That Word You Call Me by thewitchofthewilds (gossamerstarsxx) (@saiyanshewolf)

Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford | T | 1768 words | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Author's Summary: The first time she tells him she loves him is the time he needs to hear it the most Mer's Rec: I love this piece for the intermingling of angst and fluff between Lavellan and Cullen. It leads in with one of the better descriptions of nightmare panic that I've seen and the way that Lavellan grounds Cullen from it is smooth and heartfelt, as is his reaction to her comfort. It caps off with some sweet fluff and a taste of human/elf relationships dynamics, for which I am a sucker, and which end the fic on soft, heartfelt note.

[teine-mallaichte]

This... this started with a prompt, but it moved so far away from the vaguely angsty, survival situation SO FAST that I don't think it fits the prompt anymore 😂 but it was fun to write regardless. And seeing as I seem to have made Adrian be the most irritating man in all of Thedas it only feels fitting that Fenris gets to tease him for once. So a bit more post DA2 FenHawke for @dadrunkwriting

"Well, this is just perfect," Adrian muttered under his breath, raking a hand through his brown hair in frustration. "Lost in some cave full of rocks, dust, and probably a few nasty surprises lurking around. Just what I needed."

The air was damp and thick, the smell of earth and decay pressing in from all sides. His torch barely held off the surrounding darkness, casting flickering shadows that seemed to move with a mind of their own. It was unnervingly quiet, and for a moment, Adrian thought he could hear his own heartbeat echoing in the stillness.

"Is this what dying feels like? Because I swear, the suspense is getting old," he grumbled, his voice bouncing off the stone walls, swallowed up almost immediately by the hollow space. Turning to look behind him, the narrow tunnel he'd come from had vanished entirely, swallowed by the blackness. The caves had a way of distorting things - nothing seemed to stay in place for long. He hadn't meant to get lost.

With a resigned sigh, he continued forward, his steps echoing around him, "Alright. Let's make a game of it: Find the exit, try not to get eaten by anything, and then get back to the ship for some rum. At least I can do that."

A soft voice interrupted his rant, "Ate you planning on narrating this entire experience?"

Adrian’s lips twitched into a half-smile he knew Fenris couldn't stay quiet forever. He'd just need to irritate him enough to get him to speak, "Of course I am," he answered, his tone breezy despite the discomfort creeping under his skin. "How else would you keep track of me in the dark?"

Fenris' voice came again, flat and matter-of-fact, like he was stating a simple fact. "Elves can see in the dark."

Adrian stopped dead in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat as he whipped around, eyes widening. "What?" he stammered, blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust to the dim light. "That’s cheating! And… how did I not already know that?"

A soft chuckle reverberated from the shadows, echoing off the stone walls, just a bit too close for comfort. "You’ve never asked, Hawke," enris replied, a smug edge to his voice. "And if you’d been paying attention over the last decade, you might have noticed."

Adrian scowled, though Fenris couldn’t see it—or could he? The unfairness of it all stung. He glanced around again, but the torchlight barely pierced the suffocating blackness, leaving him blind to whatever surrounded him. "Can you stop talking to me from the abyss?" Adrian spat, frustration rising in his chest.

There was a pause. Then Fenris spoke again, but this time, his voice was so close that Adrian felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. "You’re unnerved by the dark?”

Adrian groaned, as his pulse quickened, a chill running through him. "Oh, Maker… you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Watching me stumble around with my pathetic human eyes?"

Fenris’ voice didn’t waver, but Adrian could almost hear the smile in it. "You’ve faced demons, blood mages, dragons… but a bit of darkness and you’re practically useless. It is… amusing."

Adrian threw his hands up in mock despair, though he doubted Fenris could see it—or maybe he could. The unfairness still rankled. "Yes, yes. Mock my tragic human limitations."

A shift in the air—light as a whisper—brushed against his arm. Adrian’s heart stuttered in his chest as he jumped, a string of curses escaping him before he could stop them. "Maker’s breath! Don’t do that!"

"You really are jumpy in the dark, aren’t you?" Fenris’ voice was soft and teasing, but Adrian could hear the amusement clearly.

rubbed his arm, trying to shake off the lingering sensation of Fenris’ touch. His grip tightened on the torch, but it didn’t help. His pulse was still too fast. Every slight sound seemed amplified, every brush of air making him jump. What was it about this place? Why did it feel like he was losing control?

As he turned in a circle, scanning the shadows again, something glinted—just for a fraction of a second—in the dim torchlight. Adrian froze, narrowing his eyes. He thought he saw… eyes? A pair of glowing orbs reflecting the light, hidden just beyond the reach of the torch. But when he turned sharply, they were gone. The darkness had swallowed them, as if they had never been there at all.

His skin crawled, and he swallowed hard. What the hell was that?

Another shift in the air, and this time Fenris’ voice was much too close, his breath just a whisper away. "What’s wrong, Adrian? No witty retort? No flirtatious quip?"

Adrian stiffened, heart hammering as he spun around, torch raised like a weapon. The light swung through empty air. He froze, breath held. The oppressive silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. He took a shaky breath, trying to calm himself, but his pulse was still too fast. It wasn’t just the dark—something was wrong here.

A soft laugh echoed in the darkness—Fenris’ laugh. It was too close, almost directly behind him, and before Adrian could even react, Fenris was there. One hand brushed lightly against his arm, sending a jolt of warmth through his body. His heart skipped again. He jerked his arm away, spinning around, but Fenris was too fast, his presence too fluid.

"You are enjoying this too much," Adrian grumbled, his voice shaky as he tried to keep his composure. He could feel Fenris shifting behind him again, just out of his sight, but the sound of his breathing was impossibly close.

"And why shouldn’t I?" Fenris’ low chuckle echoed in the cave again, "You’ve made it your personal mission to irritate me at every turn."

Adrian swallowed hard. He could feel Fenris standing just behind him, too close, but he couldn’t see him. The darkness seemed to swallow everything but Fenris’ voice—low, steady, unnerving.

He hadn’t realised how much he relied on sight until it was taken from him. His chest tightened as he scanned the shadows for any hint of Fenris' presence. The elf was too quiet, too quick, and it was driving him insane.

Fenris’ laughter was soft, almost mocking, from directly behind him this time, "You know, Hawke, you’ve been remarkably quiet," Fenris teased, his voice low, near a purr, "I almost miss the incessant chatter."

"Stop—" Adrian’s words died in his throat when he felt a soft breath against the back of his neck. He stiffened, his eyes wide and unseeing in the dark.

Before he could gather his thoughts, he felt a light pressure on his waist, pulling him back against a solid, familiar chest. Adrian froze, his breath caught in his throat. The warmth of Fenris' body radiated against his back, and his arms slid around his waist, locking him in place.

Fenris’s grip tightened for a moment, pulling him just a little closer, "it seems I’ve found a new way to keep you quiet."

[fuckyeahmhawkefenris]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke, Fenris/Hawke Characters: Fenris (Dragon Age), Male Hawke Additional Tags: Fenris jerking off while thinking about Hawke, After they've slept together, But before they've talked, So there's a healthy dose of angst in there too, Slavery mention Summary:

Fenris can't stop thinking about Hawke's touch.

-----------------------------------------

okay, before trying actual porn, lets start with something less obvious...

Let us all take a moment to remember this lovely rendition of the fenhawke first night by adelaiderowan. One of my personal favourites I keep coming back to again and again.

If I were a little better with words I’d leave a whole lot of comments on ao3, but I really don’t want to embarrass myself. It’s just really really good.

[meggannn]

A Crow Flies Down Fenris/Hawke | 5k | teen | thanks to @kesla and @meredithalden for betaing!!

The decision to leave had actually been fairly simple: Neither Fenris nor Bethany was stepping anywhere near the Inquisition and their conscripted mages and Cassandra Thousand-Name Pentaghast and that altus from bloody Tevinter if she had anything to say about it. So Hawke came to Skyhold alone.

Excerpt:

In Varric’s warm suite above the kitchens, Hawke’s fingers trailed the bookshelves over his mahogany desk. She found a copy of Tale, a first printing, and yanked it open. This chapter was about Feynriel, whom she’d sent off to Tevinter, a decision she suspected Fenris had never really forgiven. She flipped further. The beheading of the Viscount. Flip. The escape of three blood mages from the Circle, which she had delayed addressing for a week, rejecting it as a templar scare tactic to avoid falling into Meredith’s political trappings; a week long enough for two of the escapees to rack up a two-digit body count in the alienage.

Hawke told herself now that she didn’t have to sit here and think about how much better everyone in her life, everyone in Kirkwall, would be doing without her. She had better things to do. She couldn’t think of what those things might possibly be, but she told herself they existed.

Practice her longbow technique, which Sera had told her last night was passable at best. Help that Warden in the yard take care of the horses. Eat a full meal. Fucking write to Fenris to apologize, if she was going to. Stop waffling around already.

She closed the book and left the room.

[vilnan]

fenris

[densewentz]

god someone help me find this da2 fic please it was f!hawke (a warrior i think) and it was fenhawke the relationship between leandra and hawke has been really shitty and hawke maybe isnt living at the estate anymore? (she might be living with fenris?) but fenris and the gang decide to stage a like intervention? in the Rose, I think, where they try to force hawke to 'reconcile' with her mom. Only Leandra just keeps saying shit to blame hawke for Carver dying and Bethany being in the gallows. and feeling extra guilty about it all, fenris ends up like, sneaking into the gallows to make Bethany respond to hawke's letters Ring any bells to anyone? I'm having major issues finding it again 😩

[echoes-sounds]

Anyone got any good solavellan or fenhawke fic recommendations? I’ll also take Abelas and Lavellan.

[barbex]

I'm here to give you some prompts for DADWC! First prompt is “I love you, please don’t go.” for Fenris/Hawke.

Thank you for your prompt! For @dadrunkwriting, this is part one, I have a second part coming.

--

It is wrong. Everything is wrong. Variana runs out, not even looking at him. Danarius' blood still drips from his gauntlets. He should feel happy, elated, relieved. He killed his tormentor, the mage who stole his memories, and made him suffer. But there is nothing.

"Fenris, you're free." Hawke steps closer, her voice so careful that he nearly doesn't hear her over the noise in his head. "It's over."

"How can it be over?" He glares at her, anger bubbling up like an old friend. Her magic resonates in his markings, another mage stepping closer, like she owns him. "It's never over. There's another mage just waiting to take his place. My own sister wanted to become a magister."

Hawke's hand burns on his arm and he rips his arm away, stepping back from her outstretched hand. "Leave me."

The hurt in her eyes is unbearable. Her fingers clench around nothing before she draws her hand back to her chest. "Please, Fenris, I love you. Don't go, not now." She takes a step towards him but stops when she looks him in the eyes.

"I don't take orders from you," he presses out, knowing by the pain in his chest that he will regret this. This is the end of his path. "I'm leaving. Alone."

Outside, people walk towards the market as if nothing happened. For them, it's a normal day. For him, it's the end of the life he knew. 

By the time he reaches the mansion, regret has already taken root in his heart. He hurt Hawke, his first friend. The woman who trusted him, who dared to love him, waited for him for years, and he just threw it all into her face. Like a rabid wolf, he bit the one person who never turned away from him. 

Is he just a wild wolf, like Danarius said?

He turns, running back to the Hanged Man. He pushes the door open, but he only finds a crew of dwarves and elves cleaning up. One fixes a burned floorboard, where Hawke turned a demon into ash. Another scrubs at the stain of blood where Danarius found his end. Fenris climbs up the stairs, knocking on Varric's door, but there is no answer and the door is locked.

He stares dumbly at the closed door. His friends are gone. He is alone, just like he wanted.

--

no worries, second part coming up

[bardspeak]

And if you lost it all, and you lost it | ao3 link

(Some of) Hawke's letters to Fenris during dragon age inquisition. Hawke was left in the fade here.

-

Fenris -

I’m sorry for leaving, and I’m sorrier for getting angry that you didn’t want me to. I know you want to be with me, to protect me from what’s to come. I also know that what you could most protect me from is also what could most hurt you. I can’t have that. We protect each other, right?

I’d have you with me if it wouldn’t kill me to see you hurt.

The Inquisition has been looking for me, and Varric has held them off long enough. I guess I’ll find out why it was so important for them soon, but I know for me it’s Corypheus. We were both there – and I’ll never feel safer than when you have my back – but this is a burden of my own. It was my father’s blood that locked him away and mine that set him free. I feel I should be able to know him, understand at least the little my father must have, but I’m just as clueless as anybody else. I just know I can’t sit by and watch him happen to someone else. I hope you can forgive me.

You haven’t said, but I know I’ve been hurting you. I’m not sure why I don’t know how to live without something like this to turn to, to throw myself at. But I won’t drag you into it with me. It doesn’t mean I love you any less, and it doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t ache to be away from you. I love you so much I don’t know what to do with it some of the time. When you’re just gone for the day I’ll turn to tell you when you’re not there. I love your humor, even when you’re laughing at me. I love your anger, even if you’re angry with me now. I love your happiness, and I can’t be sorry enough that it’s not what I’m leaving you with.

You’re with me, even if I didn’t let you be. I’ll be thinking about you all the time. I’ll be dumb enough to forget I left you behind. But I’m leaving my heart there with you.

Make sure nothing happens to it, if it’s not too much trouble.

- Hawke

Fenris -

Varric hasn’t gotten anything from you, but I hope you’re reading this anyhow. I know you hate letters going through him (the nosy rat), so maybe you’re waiting to say whatever it is when I get home. I hope I’m not too long to hear it.

Everything here reminds me of you, even the Inquisitor! She’s not much like you, but I suppose I see an elf glow and I get misty in the eyes. In all seriousness, she’s kind of lovely once you get past the weight of the world on her shoulders. She even got me talking – I told her a couple stories from when it was all of us, and even about that hawk I brought home once. I still have the scar from where he bit me and you didn’t even appreciate the likeness. Still sore about it!

She got me to talk about you, too. But that’s not particularly difficult. What’s the opposite of a sore subject?

Varric’s the same as always, but he seems to feel the weight of Corypheus too. I know I shouldn’t tell him to back off, but come on. That’s my burden! The blood of my father trumps being the guy who came along, in my most expert of books. He’s also in trouble with a seeker here for hiding me for so long. Well. I suppose I’ll take a punch for him, if it comes down to it. Even though he didn’t tell me that CULLEN is a COMMANDER in the INQUISITION!

I couldn’t believe it either! They let him within an egg’s throw of command again? But alas. It’s just like old times, only instead of staring in judgment across the gallows it’s across fields of burly men, or a particularly robust table.

There hasn’t been much action yet, though we’ve gone to see our warden friend. I suppose there’s more than corruption in the ranks, if Corypheus has anything to say about it. I can only be glad Carver’s still in Highever.

Blood magic’s abound, there’s a Tevinter altus (as he so insists) trouncing about the library, and I can’t step three times in any direction without knocking into a templar. But as much as I’m glad you aren’t having to deal with this, I do wish you were here. I miss you more than I can say. Maybe that’s selfish of me. Sorry. You can be cross with me about it when I get back.

I love you! I hope you’re doing well. I always hope you’re doing well.

Don’t forget to walk the dog! I wouldn’t mind if you killed a couple of snakes in my honor, if you’re already at it.

All my love

-Hawke

Fenris,

I’d have given anything to not have to send you this letter. I’d have given anything to send him back home to you. But there was no fighting this. Fighting him.

Hawke is gone.

We were fighting something impossible. The fight had dragged us into the Fade, and that’s where we left him. We couldn’t go back. You know I would have if I could. I’d have been lost right along with him if the rift hadn’t closed behind us.

He slipped from my grasp, gone before I could do anything. The Inquisitor says he stayed behind to save her, shoved her through so she couldn’t even look back, and stayed to fight on his own. He liked her well enough. They got on like a house on fire. Maybe he thought it was something we would have been proud of him for. I’d just have wanted him alive. I know you do too.

He was staying in one of the rooms and I found a note on top of the mess he’d made of his desk. It doesn’t say it, but I know it’s for you. He was wearing his token, though, so I can’t send it with you.

I’m sorry.

Varric.

I’m hoping I’ll be able to throw this away, or it might be some sort of something I bring with me when I come back home. A reminder, maybe, of how much I wish I was there with you. Something to knock me over the head with if I ever decide to leave again. I still hope you never have to read it.

I’ll do anything I can to make it back, I’m not giving up. It just seems like this gets bigger and bigger in my head every day I’m here. You know I’ll throw my lot in with anything I believe in even if it gets me nowhere good. It got me you, though, so it can’t all turn out bad.

This might be the most important thing I’ve ever done, but right now all I can think of is you. I’m still sorry for leaving you, for hurting you and not letting you be with me. I’m also sorry for being glad you’re not here. That feels like the worst thing I’ve ever done, but I know I wouldn’t have been able to say goodbye to you to your face. And you deserve that, if you can’t have a promise kept.

I’m not sure I’ve ever told you how proud I am of you. You’ve been the strongest person I've known since I met you, and you knew my mother. It’s a pretty high bar. But you don’t have to be strong all the time. You can hate me, never want to think of me again, and I’ll still love you. My heart is still there with you whether you choose to bury it or not. I’m not sure I’ll ever live up to how I wish I could love you, but I love you all the same. I still turn to tell you when you’re not here.

-Hawke

[andorerso]

rivalmance fenhawke you will always be that bitch

[shivunin]

Dragon Age Fic Recs

In honor of the Just Leave a Comment Fest, and with no particular theme, here are a few of my favorite Dragon Age Fics:

(If you wrote one of these fics and want me to tag your blog, please let me know and I'm happy to do so!)

**Always check the tags before jumping in; this list is no exception.**

Origins: 

be my mirror by ella_vellan: (T; 5,798) Alistair & Morrigan. Alistair meets Kieran for the first time in Orlais. The dialogue in this feels so well-paced and authentic, and it really navigates a fraught situation with grace. One of those fics that feels bittersweet in the most cathartic way. 

a gentle, beating heart by rynleaf: (M; 5,115 Words) Warden/Zevran. The Warden finds out she is pregnant sometime after Origins and puts off telling Zevran. The epistolary pieces of this frame the underlying story so well, and the flow of the fic itself is extremely well-paced.

A Man’s Word is His Bond by howlsmovinglibrary: (M; 35,135 Words/9 chapters) Zevran/Warden Soulmate AU. Honestly? This Surana cracks me up and I adore this fic. She is just having absolutely none of his nonsense. No thank you. Also, the implications of a soulmate-identifying mark are really well-explored here.

Dragon Age II:

see me bare my teeth for you by calypsid: (T; 2,978 Words) Fenris/Hawke vampire AU. This one has really good pacing and Fenris’s POV is really effective. Would absolutely read way more about the dynamic between this Hawke and Fenris. 

to hold you by the edges by vesperics: (T; 4,059 Words) Fenris/Hawke wound-tending set sometime in Act 1. I am a sucker for wound-tending anything, but I really enjoyed the way this fic explores Hawke and Fenris’s early dynamic and the way she navigates his boundaries about magical healing. 

River Stone by loquaciousquark: (M; 45,633 Words) Fenris/Hawke. Hawke is captured and subjected to a botched Rite of Tranquility. Hawke survives by pretending it worked while Fenris tries to find her. The pain in this fic is so delicately and thoughtfully depicted; it might be my favorite hurt/comfort fic ever. There is an art to writing something that hurts like this while still making the catharsis of resolution feel earned, and this author absolutely knows how to do it right. 

Inquisition: 

Portrait of a Man by Dulcidyne: (T; 3,136 Words) Cullen/Inquisitor. Cullen sits for a portrait. Love the dynamic of person vs. role here, and the idea of how someone is depicted potentially outliving who they actually are. A fic I would hug if I could. 

Truth-Telling by todisturbtheuniverse: (M; 3,988 Words; CW: Fantasy Racism) Adaar/Josephine. Adaar tells several stories about how she lost her horn, but saves the truth for Josie. There are so many great pieces in this about the faces shown to people we trust vs. people who pry for information. Love the almost-but-not-quite together state of their relationship here, too. Yearning, my beloved. 

Port in the Storm by kvella: (E; 89,445 Words/19 Chapters) After nearly hooking up, Cullen and Josephine navigate their tensions while trying to build a memorial for Haven. A lovely slow burn! Characterization is enjoyable and consistent, smut is well-written, and the tension is palpable. The sections involving Josie’s family were some of my favorites.

[hawkezone]

[[ RETURN TO HALAMSHIRAL - PART ONE ]]

A missing Queen Cousland, whispers of an elven rebellion, and one hell of a party: Hawke, Fenris, and Varric attend a lavish ball at the Winter Palace celebrating Empress Celene and Marquise Briala's alliance, where Hawke finds himself enlisted to help by a man with a strong Fereldan accent and a deep-seeded fear of swooping. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, sequel to The Seat of Power.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1]

♕

“I cannot believe you’ve talked me into this, Hawke.”

Fenris, frowning, fidgeting uncomfortably in his velveteen guardsman’s uniform. It was the closest thing either of them had for formalwear - Hawke, being a man of habit, had smuggled some amount of finery out of the Hawke Estate when they’d escaped Kirkwall that night so long ago, but, much like Hawke’s usual escapades, he neglected to pick up a few key items - such as britches that actually matched their doublets, and shoes. Any shoes. At all.

“I think you look handsome,” Hawke smiled, impishly, knowing that Fenris, while grumpy, had a little room left in him for some light teasing. Unlike Hawke’s usual methods of heavy teasing, which typically led to even heavier petting when the two were left alone.

Fenris didn’t take this well, but he merely sighed, tugging the uniform so its creases unfolded. “My least favorite part of going undercover,” he said, solidly and glumly, “is that the rest of us have to play-act while you always get to be yourself. Do you remember when we went to Chateau Haine? You had to accompany that awful Tallis, and Varric and I were assumed to be your manservants.”

“I remember,” Hawke chuckled. “You almost threw that guard in the moat outside the formal gardens.”

“I should have!” Fenris pouted. “Manservant. The gall.”

Hawke turned, and swept Fenris up by the waist. He smiled, from ear to ear, and Fenris - very briefly - forgot what he was mad about. Briefly.

“I promise. This ball will be better. And if anyone calls you a manservant, I’ll punch them in the face,” Hawke smiled.

Fenris, despite himself, let out a crooked smile, too. “That would blow your cover, I think.”

“Who’s to say the Champion of Kirkwall doesn’t go about punching random nobles in the face for calling his boyfriend a manservant?” Hawke said, defensively.

“You’re ridiculous,” Fenris said, but he didn’t let go of Hawke. Or stop smiling.

-

The gardens at Halamshiral were abuzz - it was a hot, breezy, summer night, and the fireflies were out in full force. The sun had set not but an hour ago, and the coolness of the evening had just begun to lay down on the stuffed shirts in attendance at the Winter Palace. The hum and splash of the magnificent fountain, forming the centerpiece of the front gardens, made for a soothing backdrop to the idle chatter and excited gossip of the guests. This was a much less fussy affair than the Winter Ball - but as an afterparty of sorts, to greet guests cordially as one of the first “informal” parties of the social year, and to introduce the Empress Celene and her recently reconciled lover, the elven Marquise Briala.

Hawke and company, however, had alternative goals in mind.

“Thanks for coming, Hawke,” Varric muttered, feeling rather out of place at the soiree.

“You still haven’t told me why we’re here,” Hawke replied, a little suspiciously. “You’re not one for parties. Well, not this kind of party, anyway.”

Varric sighed. “Just - trust me when I say I’m glad you’re here, all right?”

This time, unlike at Chateau Haine, Varric was wearing an unusually formal shortcoat, and he seemed ever so slightly nervous, shuffling from one foot to the next - which piqued Hawke’s interest, as his best friend almost never showed any signs of things getting to him. Especially social affairs.

Bethany was dressed in an Orlesian gown of periwinkle blue and white, in lush velvet, with a high collar in delicate gold filigree, embellished with designs of leaves and rings, reminiscent of the Circle. It had been a gift from Leliana, sent by courier when she had heard the Good Lady Bethany would be attending her first party at the Winter Palace. Hawke had interpreted this as a nice gesture, but Varric was quick to point out that the Nightingale had probably gifted her the dress as a sort of measure against the Inquisition’s acquaintances, however distant, being played as rubes in the dangerous machinations of the Game - especially when debuting.

Varric seized a beignet from the tray of a passing masked server, staining his gloves immediately with powdered sugar. The server either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

“Are those the ones with the chantilly cream?” Hawke asked, with interest. “Last time I was in Orlais, they had these tiny little beignets full of chantilly cream. And dusted with sugar, just like that. Only I think they had little swans made of gold foil on the top, too.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. “Nobles,” he said, scoffing. “Always trying to outdo one another.”

Varric bit into the beignet, and made a face. “Nope. No cream. It’s filled with something, though.”

“Hmm,” said Hawke, eyeing the server who’d gone off with the tray. “I could go for some something.”

Before he could pop off in search of the most ridiculous food the party had to offer, Varric grabbed him by the coat.

“Have you noticed,” Varric began, very slowly, “That this party is filled to the brim with people who have pissed off the Tevinter Imperium?”

Bethany, who had taken a beignet of her own and was nibbling with interest, nodded along. “Isn’t the majority of Orlais an enemy of the Tevinter Imperium? That’s like saying the Qunari and Tevinter are in a little spat.”

“No,” Varric continued, slowly, looking around again. “I mean, this party, specifically, is full of people who have made specific enemies of the ruling magisters of the Tevinter Imperium.”

Hawke, listening, subtly reached for one of his sheathed daggers, which he’d kept on his attire for an emergency. Most people saw it as a bit of a Hawke-esque flourish, just another quirk of the Champion of Kirkwall. But it comforted him - as both an accessory and an accessory to a quick escape.

Varric, who had finished his beignet, patted down his coat as well - just to make sure Bianca was in play. “We’ll keep an eye out. Could be the Empress just keeps really good company.”

“I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a who’s who of people I’d like to meet,” Hawke said. Was that even a hint of being impressed in his voice?

Fenris, in the meantime, had not let his guard down for one second since entering the gardens, and was stationed just to the back of Hawke, in a position, he subconsciously realized, to thwart any surprise attacks on his charge. What was he to call Hawke, now that they were together, but he still felt compelled to protect him? What did Donnic call Aveline, do you think?

“I don’t trust a thing anyone at this party has put forth,” Fenris said, muttering, darting poisonous glances at the nearest group of nobles, who huddled together and began to giggle, which only infuriated Fenris more.

“Keep it together,” Hawke advised, patting Fenris on the arm. “They’ll probably kick you out if you try to rip out their organs. Although it is rather salacious when you do.”

Fenris frowned, but Hawke winked, boyishly, and he found himself smiling, despite himself.

Towards the group came a meandering group of ladies, all dressed in triplicate; the Empress’s Ladies in Waiting each curtsied lightly, one after the other, like a set of ascending piano keys.

“Messere Hawke,” the first one said, curtseying lowly. Her golden mask glinted in the gaslights that dotted the garden’s walls.

The second one giggled at Varric, and bowed to Bethany, who began to wave, then began to proffer a hand, then, finally, attempted a sort of curtsey, which was rather hard to tell in the voluminous dress Leliana had lent her.

“Why didn’t Mother ever prepare us for this sort of thing?” Bethany hissed, turning ever so slightly to Hawke.

“Mother was trying to run away from this sort of thing when she met Father, I think,” Hawke said, with a smirk.

“It is most pleasurable to see you, Lord Tethras,” the second one continued, to which Varric immediately held up his hands, which were still powdered with beignets. 

“Please,” he said, shaking his head. “Just Varric. Thank you. This is hard enough.”

“We’ve read the Tale,” the third one said, nodding at Varric, who - Hawke could tell behind his mask - was already sheepishly shrugging in extreme apology for the fracas that he was about to invite.

“Yes, the Tale,” the second one went on, animatedly. “Is it true, then, that the Champion really defeated the Arishok in hand to hand combat?”

“Well. It was more knife to knife,” Hawke shrugged, with a lopsided grin.

“And is it true, too, that your fellow Isabela ran off with the sacred texts of the Qun?” the first one asked, leaning in, with genuine curiosity.

“Just one book of the Qun, but yes,” Varric admitted.

“And is it true,” the third one said, earnestly, leaning in even further, “That you fought a High Dragon on the outskirts of the Bone Pits?”

Hawke, shrugging again, gave them a bit of a grin. “Fenris was there for that one. Varric, too.”

Tittering, the Ladies all looked at each other, flapping their fans at premium speed. A quick rush of whispers went through them, before they turned again to Hawke.

“We shall have to return, then,” the first one said, smiling coquettishly under her mask.

“And hear more of you and Lord Tethras’s stories,” the second one went on, as Varric winced at the “Lord Tethras” comment once more.

“It was a pleasure, truly,” the third one said, and all three of them curtsied, deeply, again, as Hawke bowed as they took their retreat, into the throng of the gardens.

It was as if they’d narrowly had a brush with a storm - or a windfall.

“Ugh,” Varric groaned. “Remind me to never tell people who I am or what I do, next time.”

“...Did they ignore you?” Hawke asked, looking back at Fenris, who was still standing a small distance away, his heavy, two-handed sword almost dragging in the garden lawn.

Fenris, sighing, barely looked up at Hawke as he dusted off the sword’s hilt. “I believe they are accustomed to people of your stature bringing elven servants as part of your coterie. Perhaps it would have been impolite to acknowledge my existence.”

Frowning, Hawke crossed his arms, glaring after the trio of Ladies-in-Waiting. “Perhaps it’s impolite to ignore you, at all,” Hawke said, scoffing.

Sighing heavily, Varric dusted the last of the beignet sugar off his hands with a clap.

“Well, I’m going to get just drunk enough to forget what’s going on, while being sober enough to remember why I’m here,” he said, stalking off with the firm purpose of a man who’s on a mission for nothing but the worst Antivan wine.

“And I would like to meet some new people,” Bethany said, with enthusiasm. “Is that the Marquess du Pompadour? Do you know her? Can we be introduced?”

“No, but I’m sure she’d be enchanted to meet the great Lady Bethany of House Amell,” Hawke smiled, as Bethany squeezed his arm excitedly before bounding off to introduce herself to Orlais’ best and richest.

“Have fun,” Hawke beamed, wagging his fingers at Bethany as she bounced to the next group of nobles, who already began chatting with her excitedly about the gold filigree neckline and the status of the party’s hors d’oeuvres.

Looking back at Fenris, Hawke frowned - but not at him.

“I don’t mind. Truly,” Fenris said, but his anger betrayed him in the way he wore his face.

Hawke frowned even harder.

“Well, I do,” he said, crossing his arms again. “One of the reasons why I agreed to come to this silly thing was to make up for Chateau Haine in the first place.”

Now, it was Fenris’s turn to frown. “Chateau Haine? I had assumed we came here to pry information out of the Inquisition. To assure their allegiance against the magisters. Or whatever strange twisted plan Varric has fished up.”

Nodding, Hawke waved a hand in the air. “I’m as eager to fight some magisters as the next man,” he said, continuing, “But I really wanted to come and show you a good time. I don’t like how things worked out at Chateau Haine - and I know how you feel about Tallis. I just supposed - perhaps - I wanted to take you to a party, and have you by my side. Properly. For once.”

Hawke looked rather embarrassed at this, and shrugged a little, in his reclaimed part-Hawke Estate part-leftover-guardsman-formal-uniform combination of attire.

“Hawke…”

Fenris’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. He reached for Hawke’s arm, and squeezed it.

“If you wish to have me by your side, you need only ask.”

Hawke, smiling, sweetly against the honeyed air of the garden, squeezed his hand back.

“I always need you by my side, Fenris,” he said, softly.

-

Meanwhile, at the other end of the party, Dorian Pavus was getting drunk. Very, very drunk.

He had harangued Josephine for an invitation to the Inaugural Ball, and, despite her best efforts, he had finessed his way into blackmailing, cajoling, and, in one case, outright bribing assorted members of Skyhold staff into bugging the Ambassador straight into sending Dorian one of the Inquisition’s coveted invitations to Empress Celene and Marquise Briala’s first ball, formally thrown together. Not counting the last one, of course. He felt he deserved it, after all, since he was both the life of the party and present for when they got together. The second time, anyway.

Dorian was engaging in one of his favorite pastimes - flirting with the masked drinksman serving the flutes of violet cocktail - when he was jostled by another patron, elbowing his way in.

“Ale, please. Not dwarven. Please tell me you have ale that isn’t dwarven. Everyone says it’s top notch but it just tastes like piss, and I know it does, so don’t tell me otherwise.”

Dorian’s ears perked up. That voice. It sounded weirdly familiar. Weirdly… Fereldan.

Looking over, the man next to him, wearing a simple silver mask with blue silk piping, slumped over, sighing, putting his head in his hands. His dirty blonde hair was just barely poking out of the back of the silks of the mask, and he had the stature of someone who had spent a long, long time training as a warrior - and an even longer time sitting around afterwards, getting all antsy as those muscles waited for their next workout. The man tapped his fingers on the table - and his heavy rings clanked against the delicate, white-lacquered wood. One demon head ring, as big as two knucklebones. One thick, silver sigil, like the symbols carved on the tunnels in the Deep Roads marking the location of Darkspawn. And, on his ring finger, a delicate, tiny silver band, with the smallest of silver roses, inlaid with flakes of mother-of-pearl and red ruby.

Dorian raised his eyebrows.

“You’re not very subtle, Your Highness,” he said, leaning against the bar, rolling his R’s. Loaded, like bait.

Startled, the man turned around, coughing and straightening up, making sure his mask was covering his face.

“We’ve met,” Dorian went on, somewhat relishing in the man’s uncomfortableness. “However briefly. I believe you know my paramour, Lord Angus Trevelyan? He has nothing but good things to say about you. King Alistair.”

The man, startled, whipped his head back around to the bar, to make sure nobody was listening, then, as best he could, made an extremely frustrated gesture at Dorian, hunching over, clearly annoyed.

“Have we met?” he said, irritably. “Because you are absolutely blowing my cover, here. …Which would make you, I suppose, a likely candidate for Angus’s new boyfriend. Which is who I suppose you are.”

Alistar sighed, and put his elbows back on the bartop. The server returned with a large flagon of ale, and Alistair placed several sovereigns on the bar. The server sniffed.

“We don’t take Fereldan currency, messere,” he sneered, pushing the coins back towards him. Alistair - even with a mask on - looked utterly defeated.

“Here,” Dorian said, hiding a smirk, pushing a handful of shiny Orlesian gold pieces towards the server, who nodded curtly, and disappeared back behind the bar.

“Thank you,” King Alistair groaned, putting his head between his arms. “You would not believe the amount of social faux pas I’ve racked up tonight. If I’d gone as myself, Orlais and Ferelden would be back at war by now.”

Dorian looked at him curiously. “Why are you here, if I may ask?”

Alistair shook his head. “Ale first. State secrets later.”

Dorian laughed. “You’re cute. I see why you’ve got the whole country wrapped around your little finger.”

“I do?” Alistair said, surprised.

“Not this one. They seem to think you’re a gauche little imp, here,” Dorian said, airily.

Alistair frowned.

“Ferelden,” Dorian clarified. “I hear you and your little wife are something out of a fairy tale, a Grey Warden King and Queen alike. Must be some sight to see. Does seem rather romantic, in a way.”

Alistair paused, then, slumping even further, let out a sigh that seemed to shake the very foundations of Halamshiral, let alone the bartop.

At that moment, Dorian remembered the other thing Angus had told him about Alistair - the important thing.

“Ooh. Ah. Sorry. I - I know it must be difficult, with your wife missing, and all. I’m sure - I’m sure she’s busy doing, ah. Grey Warden. Things.” Dorian thought about this for a moment. “Ah. Oh dear.”

Alistair looked hopeless, but downed his entire ale in a resolute gesture of bravery. “Lord Dorian of House Pavus, right?” he said, straining his last Kingly muscle to make the most out of the situation.

“Yes. Please don’t tell anyone I’ve so successfully put my foot in my mouth,” Dorian said - charmingly. As charmingly as possible, under the circumstances.

Alistair sighed. “You’re part of the Inquisition, then. You - were at Adamant.”

Dorian shook his head. “Not personally, no. …And don’t get me started on how I feel about that. Have you ever had your boyfriend go off into the Fade and have you think he was dead for almost twenty-four hours? No, I suppose not.”

Alistair gave him a withering look.

“...Right, missing wife, right,” Dorian said, hastily. “Here. I shall buy you another ale, and I’ll answer everything you wish to know about our visit to Adamant, as told by Lord Trevelyan himself. But no promises on me remembering everything correctly. I’ve had quite a lot of champagne.”

Alistair sighed, then nodded, solemnly. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Finishing off his ale, Alistair motioned to the bartender for another, while Dorian slipped over another handful of silver coins.

“Then let’s begin,” Dorian said, with a raised eyebrow and a mischievous grin.

-

[teine-mallaichte]

Happy Friday! [ thumb ] sender starts gently caressing receiver's knuckles with their thumb for Hawke and Fenris, maybe? It strikes me as something you could work into a whumpier prompt if you wanted.

gah my brain finds this comfort thing is so much hard than angst and whump 😂 but given it a go. So more post DA2 Adiran. This time trying to help Fenris who is suffering because living on a boat can suck when you have chronic pain and the weather can trigger flares.

@dadrunkwriting

The creak of wood beneath boots echoed on the stairs, each step intentional and measured as he approached the cabins at the back of the ship. After pausing for a moment Adrian pushed the door open with a low groan, and slipped inside.

Moonlight filtered through the small window, casting pale lines across the room. Fenris sat at the edge of the bed, his posture stiff, hands loosely clasped in his lap. His gaze was distant, failing to even look round when the door opened.

Adrian moved quietly to the bed, settling beside Fenris, letting the silence stretch for a moment before reaching out. His fingers closed gently around Fenris’s hand, his thumb brushing lightly over the knuckles.

"Headache again?" he kept his voice soft, no teasing this time—just quiet concern.

Fenris’s fingers twitched beneath Adrian's touch, his eyes briefly shutting, "It is… manageable," he muttered, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the discomfort.

Adrian hummed, unconvinced. Over the years, he’d learned to read Fenris's off days—the subtle shifts in his behavior that told him when the pain from the lyrium was flaring up. Days when Fenris’s joints ached, his head throbbed, and his skin felt as though it were burning from the inside out. But it wasn’t until they’d moved onto Isabella’s ship that they noticed the pattern between his pain and the weather. He knew the signs by heart now. "You’re like a living barometer," he teased lightly, his thumb continuing its gentle movement over Fenris’s knuckles. "Bella thinks the storm will hit overnight. Looks like you were right again."

Fenris huffed, his gaze never leaving the distance. "A talent I’d gladly trade," he muttered, frustration lacing his words.

Adrian chuckled softly. "Shame. We could’ve made a fortune. ‘Fenris’ Forecasts.’” His lips curved into a grin, his thumb never ceasing its slow circles.

The corner of Fenris’s mouth twitched, a reluctant smile threatening to show but quickly smothered by a faint scowl. "Do not give the pirate ideas."

Adrian laughed, the sound light. "I’ll keep you safe from her schemes," he murmured, his grin still tugging at his lips. Then, with a flicker of concern, his voice softened. "Is it bad enough for me to go get Anders? He’s probably not busy..."

"There is no need," the elf replied quickly with a slight shake of his head and a grinace, as though trying to convince both Adrian and himself. "It will pass."

Adrian studied Fenris closely, noting the subtle tension in his jaw and the occasional twitch of his fingers. Fenris could try to hide it, but Adrian knew him too well. They’d been through this countless times before. The stubbornness, the withdrawal, the occasional irritation. It was all too familiar. And it would never last long.

"You’re being stubborn again," Adrian whispered, nudging Fenris’s elbow lightly with his own. His thumb moved in slow circles, never breaking its motion. "But alright, for now we can just see if some quiet, darkness, and perhaps sleep help."

Fenris exhaled sharply, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. "I am not 'being stubborn,'" he murmured, finally turning his head to meet Adrian’s gaze. "It will pass."

"I know." Adrian’s voice softened again. He could hear the distant rumble of thunder now, the storm growing nearer. He would likely need to get back on deck soon, aid Bella and the crew, but he wasn’t ready to leave Fenris just yet. "Come on," he coaxed, his arm slipping around Fenris’s waist as he gently pulled him down to lie beside him. "Let’s try to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning."