Strange Waters-Dragon Age fanfic, f!Hawke/Isabela
I wrote this for ossopesce about his Marie Hawke and Isabela, but I hope everyone can enjoy it! Also, here on AO3.
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Hawke’s house is dark and quiet at night, so different from the raucous life and noise of the Hanged Man at practically all hours, or the constant rhythm of rigging and ship while at sea. Here the only sound is Hawke’s quiet breathing, even and deep, in the bed beside her, the occasional shift of embers settling in the grate.
You’d think she’d feel trapped, stifled, or maybe simply bored. It surprises even Isabela that she doesn’t. Instead the quiet seems … restful. Peaceful, in its own way. She frowns up at the canopy of Hawke’s bed, Hawke herself a warm, solid weight where her back presses up against Isabela’s arm. She can feel the dip in Hawke’s back where her muscles curve to follow the strong line of her spine against her own elbow and bicep.
Restful and peaceful have never been feelings she’s sought out, or particularly welcomed, so why doesn’t she mind them now? Isabela flops down on her back, props one of her ankles against her knee, restless. Hawke rolls over, burrows her face into the pillows, and mutters something in her sleep, breathy and distressed.
Isabela sits up abruptly, leans over Hawke. Hawke’s hair is mussed across the pillow, ink-black and tousled, falling in messy waves over her face. Awake, she is a force of nature, like a storm on the open sea, all fierce blue eyes and laughing grin and strong arms and wonderful lithe muscle. But asleep like this, she seems more fragile, somehow, with her pale skin and her mouth open in sleep; the delicacy of her features shows through, so that rather than her strong jaw and definite nose and mobile mouth, it is the arch of her cheekbone, the thick fan of her eyelashes that Isabela focuses on-not a hero or a stormy sea so much as a woman, just like Isabela herself.
Isabela frowns at that thought, because it brings up all sorts of troubling feelings deep inside her chest, and she just doesn’t have time for that now, and maybe not ever, but she leans down to touch Hawke’s hair all the same, easing back enough that she won’t take a fist to the face if Hawke comes up swinging, and preparing herself for it if she does. “Just a dream, sweet thing,” she murmurs. “Show it who’s boss and dream of something nicer. Like treasure. Or-I know, booty.”
Hawke sighs at that, rolls over and flops onto her back, something relaxing in her muscles and in the tightness of her shoulders. She pushes her face into Isabela’s ribs, mouth open so that she can feel the moist warmth of her breath damp against her side, just below her breast. “You’re missing the good parts,” Isabela mutters, but then sighs, slumps back against the pillows, and lets her hand settle in Hawke’s hair. Thick, silky dark strands curl around her fingers, and before she knows it she is stroking her fingers through them. Hawke sighs and settles deeper into sleep.
Isabela closes her eyes, surprised to find herself yawning. She hadn’t thought she was sleepy.
Her last thought before sliding into the warm dark water of sleep is how surprisingly comfortable she is like this. How very odd, she thinks distinctly, and then she is asleep.