[Dragon Age 2] ficlets
when I let go of your throat-sweet throttle
(aggressive!Hawke/Fenris, PG, title taken from I'm Always In Love by Wilco)
It was only the slight pressure building in his ears that gave Fenris warning, though that didn’t stop him from twitching when the loud, thunder-like clap sounded behind him. His instincts were barely kept in check as he felt Hawke’s back pressed against his for a brief moment before the rogue pushed forward to finish off the enemy warrior Fenris hadn’t managed to behead.
He remembered the first time Hawke had used that particular skill on him. Fenris had nearly cleaved the rogue in two from shock alone (and then again out of pure annoyance), but Hawke had smirked with his eyes alight and double blades shining with blood. It was intimidating as well as concerning, that Fenris was following someone so bloodthirsty and frantic when it came down to slashing their enemies dead, dead, dead. There was energy brimming from Hawke, overflowing and coming off in waves, and Fenris could only wonder how Hawke managed so much of it, screaming off all that extra energy with taunts and battle cries. Maybe it was because Hawke was used to keeping quiet until he bled from a thousand cuts and wore a glazed look that Fenris easily recognized as that euphoric fighter’s high, spurred on by the sweeping ebb and flow of every battle
And he had seen Hawke drunk on wine and spirits before, but it was nothing like seeing him intoxicated by his own blood and that of his enemies-across his face, over his armor, down his arms.
“You and I are the same,” Hawke had said, months ago and early enough in their acquaintance that Fenris bristled at the assumption. “When we fight, we forget everything, and there is only us,” he continued, throwing out an unsteady hand to emphasize the carnage and corpses and whatever was left of the raiders’ hideout. Between his fingers was a bottle of wine, looted from the battle but left unopened; it was blood enough that sent Hawke grinning madly and tumbling into Fenris, dragging him down to bite and claw and lick away the drying scarlet from his skin.
Fenris had tried to stay in control, to remain calm and be aware-that he was the one who left Hawke, and that Hawke had let him leave, looking as if he did not care and never really did. It would be better to resent him for all his ties to mages, shallow or not, all his smirks and shameless greed, his unrepentant way of using everyone around him, and everything that Hawke showed on the surface like a distorted, tinted mirror.
The lyrium markings on his hand flickered and Fenris bit back a battle cry, choking it down-control, stay in control-and stumbled back, confused to hear the metallic drag of steel and yelling when he had not raised his sword in time or unclenched his jaw to scream. He glanced up, seeing Hawke in front him, the enemy’s blade sliding against his gauntlet from where he had blocked the blow that was meant for Fenris.
The noise-it was unnerving when it came from Hawke. He shouted as if everything and nothing made him furious and attacked with equal ferocity to match. All Fenris could do was stare, his heart pounding once, twice, until Hawke turned on his heel, taunting and condescending at the same time. The enemy was not dead yet, just thrown off for a couple of seconds, but it was all Hawke was going to offer.
How am I supposed to watch your back when you can’t take care of what’s in front of you?
Fenris wasn’t sure if he had imagined the smirk playing over Hawke’s lips, but the tip of his dagger grazing down the curved line of Fenris’ tattoo was too sharp and precise to be an accident. Whether or not it was deep enough to cut, Fenris did not know; he was glowing bright blue by the time Hawke darted behind him once more, back to back and confident in that arrogant way of his.
Hawke had never asked for Fenris to come back, but he was asking Fenris now, to forget everything-of mages and slaves and scarlet shackles-and lose himself until there were bodies sewn across the ground and the world itself was drowning in a brilliant, sapphire haze.
And because it was only for a moment, Fenris let go, glad that he could not feel the warmth and pressure he was so drawn to when he leaned back, shining blue and screaming out his battle cry.
100 Knives
(PG, a!Hawke/Anders)
Anders felt rather than saw Hawke’s eyes on him. He could have ignored it, he could, but it was as if his feet and body had a mind of its own, or perhaps it was Justice taking advantage of that spark of anger-but Anders turned, the injury kit already in his hands and he was at Hawke’s side.
“Where were you?” Hawke spat, sitting up. There was blood welling from under his light armor, dripping sluggishly down his arm. He looked furious, and had every right to be.
Anders gripped his staff before placing it on the ground next to him. Hawke had every right-as their leader, as his friend-but that did not mean Hawke was wholly justified. Reasoning would have said for Anders to have healed him during the battle, and logic would have dictated otherwise, when Hawke disappeared in that damn smoke cloud of his to appear next to Aveline, way out of Anders’ periphery.
Or so that was what Anders told himself. He had known Hawke was slowing down, taking too many hits, and then that bastard just had to vanish into thin air with a savage and mocking grin. Aveline was strong, the knight could have taken care of herself, but Hawke was drawn to the crowd of enemies like a moth to flame. It didn’t matter if she needed the help out not, and from the apologetic look she threw Anders, Aveline knew that Hawke was wrong, in part; yes, Anders should have healed Hawke, but he did not deserve this, to be yelled at in front of the rest of the party.
With a snarl, Hawke grabbed him by the front of the tunic, drawing so close that Anders could feel the damp, prickly strands of dark hair against his cheek and smell the blood from his brow, see the very place where he had put his lips to it the night before.
“You were supposed to be watching me,” Hawke said, his voice clear and dangerous. “I take priority. You know I do not have the same strength as the others. I need you.”
Anders didn't have to turn around to see the rest of the party make their telltale signs, uncomfortable but unsurprised-the rhythmic click of Fenris’ broadsword against his nail, Aveline’s shield bouncing on her back while she took measured paces around the abandoned camp. Hawke was not an eloquent man, hated to mince his words and so said them at face value. They all knew what he meant. Just because he said he did not have the strength did not mean he was weak.
And just because he said needed Anders, did not mean he didn't needed all of them as well. It hurt, sometimes, knowing that his words were not exclusive, when he valued the number of enemies felled in battle more than the number of kisses in bed, and that the easiest way to his heart was through competency and skill with a staff or blade.
“I understand,” Anders said, handing over the bottle, and Hawke’s hand, warm and sticky with blood, reached up to grasp his wrist, thumb rubbing small circles against his palm. Anders wondered, then, if this was how it felt to love and hate a person so much that he could barely muster the words to scream it.
“Good. I'm glad,” Hawke murmured, just for his ears only, and drank.
The Naming of Cats
(s!Hawke/Fenris, PG)
There was a moment when Bethany called out to him and, before he had turned to address her, Hawke had seen Fenris whip his head around, staring at her with a puzzled look.
At the time, Hawke was sort of bleeding all over the place from their last battle, so he let it go and allowed Bethany fix up his mangled leg. Merrill-Maker bless her-must have seen him staring at Fenris staring at Bethany, and since she had this incredible talent for being both perceptive and dense at the same time, she sat down next to him with a knowing giggle.
“Ye-es?” Hawke asked cautiously, the memory of her sad-puppy-eyes theory about Fenris still fresh in his mind. While he appreciated her observations, it did not always work out so well if Fenris ended up being embarrassed in the process and Hawke had to pay for it with the elf’s sulking silence (which had the tendency to last for days, and Hawke really couldn’t stand being blatantly ignored like that). He held up his hand before Merrill could speak, waiting for Fenris to stop glaring at them as if he knew that he was the topic of inquiry.
“Fenris, are you hurt? Do you need to be healed?” Bethany asked, a little too sweetly.
In reply, Fenris scowled and stalked off to poke at the faraway corpses for spare items.
“Thanks, Bethany,” Hawke said, smirking, “but please don’t do that all the time. I’m sort of courting him, you know.”
“I know, but what kind of sister-in-law would I be if I didn’t?”
“Courting,” Hawke repeated firmly, because there was really no sense in getting ahead of himself like that. The last thing he wanted was to get Bethany on this (she hadn’t been there when the puppy-eyes incident happened, but Varric had, so basically all of Kirkwall knew by now), but he supposed he did owe her for shooing Fenris off. Hawke let out a sigh and motioned for Merrill to continue.
“I think it’s because Bethany doesn’t call you Hawke,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He paused, connecting the dots as far as they would go, but curiosity had always been a weakness of his. Shrugging, he said, “Of course Bethany doesn’t call me Hawke; she’s my sister.”
“But, um, maybe Fenris doesn’t want to call you Hawke either? I don’t know. Just an idea,” Merrill said, peering into his face, and smiled at his expression. “Oh! You’re blushing. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“But Fenris isn’t my sister,” he laughed, waving her away and used his other hand to rub his cheek in a futile attempt to wipe off whatever blush Merrill claimed he had.
“You are being sarcastic again, I can tell.”
“And you are getting good at telling,” Hawke said, glancing at Fenris and wondering if Merrill was right. It wasn’t something he had given thought to before, and he failed to see where it matter for him (and it would only ever matter because Fenris mattered, so in actuality, now that it brought up, it mattered a whole lot to Hawke now). Ignoring Merrill and Bethany’s expectant stares, he stood up, putting weight on his healed leg. As usual, Bethany did a stellar job, but he refused to thank her if she was going to keep looking at him like that.
“He’s probably self-conscious since he doesn’t have his own name to give you,” she said and he knew she did not mean it in a degrading way, merely thoughtful.
Hawke had to smile at that. “I believe he may be trying to find it still, but,” he continued, holding out both his hands for the girls to take, “whether he chooses to call me darling or sweetheart or a complete idiot, I don’t mind either way. I’m willing to wait,” and hauled them to their feet. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, Fenris. Find anything good?”
The elf walked up to them, his expression unreadable, though his attention seemed to be more focused on dividing up the coins in his hands. “Not much,” he replied, tossing a reasonable share to each person before he drew Hawke aside with a faint touch at his arm. “But maybe I should start calling you a sentimental and indiscrete fool, the way you carry on like that.”
“Oh. So you heard,” Hawke said, already counting the days Fenris was going to sulk and ignore him.
“Fortunately, not all of it,” the elf assured, the tiniest hint of a smile flitting across his face. He seemed to want to say more, looking at Hawke with a determined air. In the end, he tacked off the growing silence between them with a weak cough into his fist.
Unexpectedly charmed, Hawke grinned, pulling Fenris’ hand away while the elf mumbled something that might have not been his given name, or darling or sweetheart or even idiot, but-
“It’s a start,” he said, delighted that Fenris tried just the same, and pecked the corner of his mouth, taking the name back, whatever it happened to be.
----
“Do you mean to say that he hasn’t yet?” Bethany asked, leaning forward. “Even when you two-? You know. In bed.”
“Bethany! Mother did not raise you this way.”
“Huh. That’s odd. Does he call you Hawke the entire time then? Or is he silent?”
Hawke bristled, too irritated and offended to get properly embarrassed. “Obviously not, but it’s not as if I expect him to recite-oh, I don’t know-Dwarven poetry while I’m ravishing him over the banisters and on the kitchen t-Bethany, don’t you make that face at me, you asked for this-frankly, I’d find it strange if Fenris started giving me pet names.”
Merrill’s brow furrowed and she stared past him. “Angry puppy eyes,” she murmured, throwing him an apologetic look.
And that’s when Hawke felt Fenris’ hand on his shoulder.
“Darling,” Fenris drawled, pulling him back hard enough to make him stumble, “A word, if you will?”
“I’ll let you have several,” Hawke said, resigned.
And Fenris did.
(aggressive!Hawke/Fenris, PG, title taken from I'm Always In Love by Wilco)
It was only the slight pressure building in his ears that gave Fenris warning, though that didn’t stop him from twitching when the loud, thunder-like clap sounded behind him. His instincts were barely kept in check as he felt Hawke’s back pressed against his for a brief moment before the rogue pushed forward to finish off the enemy warrior Fenris hadn’t managed to behead.
He remembered the first time Hawke had used that particular skill on him. Fenris had nearly cleaved the rogue in two from shock alone (and then again out of pure annoyance), but Hawke had smirked with his eyes alight and double blades shining with blood. It was intimidating as well as concerning, that Fenris was following someone so bloodthirsty and frantic when it came down to slashing their enemies dead, dead, dead. There was energy brimming from Hawke, overflowing and coming off in waves, and Fenris could only wonder how Hawke managed so much of it, screaming off all that extra energy with taunts and battle cries. Maybe it was because Hawke was used to keeping quiet until he bled from a thousand cuts and wore a glazed look that Fenris easily recognized as that euphoric fighter’s high, spurred on by the sweeping ebb and flow of every battle
And he had seen Hawke drunk on wine and spirits before, but it was nothing like seeing him intoxicated by his own blood and that of his enemies-across his face, over his armor, down his arms.
“You and I are the same,” Hawke had said, months ago and early enough in their acquaintance that Fenris bristled at the assumption. “When we fight, we forget everything, and there is only us,” he continued, throwing out an unsteady hand to emphasize the carnage and corpses and whatever was left of the raiders’ hideout. Between his fingers was a bottle of wine, looted from the battle but left unopened; it was blood enough that sent Hawke grinning madly and tumbling into Fenris, dragging him down to bite and claw and lick away the drying scarlet from his skin.
Fenris had tried to stay in control, to remain calm and be aware-that he was the one who left Hawke, and that Hawke had let him leave, looking as if he did not care and never really did. It would be better to resent him for all his ties to mages, shallow or not, all his smirks and shameless greed, his unrepentant way of using everyone around him, and everything that Hawke showed on the surface like a distorted, tinted mirror.
The lyrium markings on his hand flickered and Fenris bit back a battle cry, choking it down-control, stay in control-and stumbled back, confused to hear the metallic drag of steel and yelling when he had not raised his sword in time or unclenched his jaw to scream. He glanced up, seeing Hawke in front him, the enemy’s blade sliding against his gauntlet from where he had blocked the blow that was meant for Fenris.
The noise-it was unnerving when it came from Hawke. He shouted as if everything and nothing made him furious and attacked with equal ferocity to match. All Fenris could do was stare, his heart pounding once, twice, until Hawke turned on his heel, taunting and condescending at the same time. The enemy was not dead yet, just thrown off for a couple of seconds, but it was all Hawke was going to offer.
How am I supposed to watch your back when you can’t take care of what’s in front of you?
Fenris wasn’t sure if he had imagined the smirk playing over Hawke’s lips, but the tip of his dagger grazing down the curved line of Fenris’ tattoo was too sharp and precise to be an accident. Whether or not it was deep enough to cut, Fenris did not know; he was glowing bright blue by the time Hawke darted behind him once more, back to back and confident in that arrogant way of his.
Hawke had never asked for Fenris to come back, but he was asking Fenris now, to forget everything-of mages and slaves and scarlet shackles-and lose himself until there were bodies sewn across the ground and the world itself was drowning in a brilliant, sapphire haze.
And because it was only for a moment, Fenris let go, glad that he could not feel the warmth and pressure he was so drawn to when he leaned back, shining blue and screaming out his battle cry.
100 Knives
(PG, a!Hawke/Anders)
Anders felt rather than saw Hawke’s eyes on him. He could have ignored it, he could, but it was as if his feet and body had a mind of its own, or perhaps it was Justice taking advantage of that spark of anger-but Anders turned, the injury kit already in his hands and he was at Hawke’s side.
“Where were you?” Hawke spat, sitting up. There was blood welling from under his light armor, dripping sluggishly down his arm. He looked furious, and had every right to be.
Anders gripped his staff before placing it on the ground next to him. Hawke had every right-as their leader, as his friend-but that did not mean Hawke was wholly justified. Reasoning would have said for Anders to have healed him during the battle, and logic would have dictated otherwise, when Hawke disappeared in that damn smoke cloud of his to appear next to Aveline, way out of Anders’ periphery.
Or so that was what Anders told himself. He had known Hawke was slowing down, taking too many hits, and then that bastard just had to vanish into thin air with a savage and mocking grin. Aveline was strong, the knight could have taken care of herself, but Hawke was drawn to the crowd of enemies like a moth to flame. It didn’t matter if she needed the help out not, and from the apologetic look she threw Anders, Aveline knew that Hawke was wrong, in part; yes, Anders should have healed Hawke, but he did not deserve this, to be yelled at in front of the rest of the party.
With a snarl, Hawke grabbed him by the front of the tunic, drawing so close that Anders could feel the damp, prickly strands of dark hair against his cheek and smell the blood from his brow, see the very place where he had put his lips to it the night before.
“You were supposed to be watching me,” Hawke said, his voice clear and dangerous. “I take priority. You know I do not have the same strength as the others. I need you.”
Anders didn't have to turn around to see the rest of the party make their telltale signs, uncomfortable but unsurprised-the rhythmic click of Fenris’ broadsword against his nail, Aveline’s shield bouncing on her back while she took measured paces around the abandoned camp. Hawke was not an eloquent man, hated to mince his words and so said them at face value. They all knew what he meant. Just because he said he did not have the strength did not mean he was weak.
And just because he said needed Anders, did not mean he didn't needed all of them as well. It hurt, sometimes, knowing that his words were not exclusive, when he valued the number of enemies felled in battle more than the number of kisses in bed, and that the easiest way to his heart was through competency and skill with a staff or blade.
“I understand,” Anders said, handing over the bottle, and Hawke’s hand, warm and sticky with blood, reached up to grasp his wrist, thumb rubbing small circles against his palm. Anders wondered, then, if this was how it felt to love and hate a person so much that he could barely muster the words to scream it.
“Good. I'm glad,” Hawke murmured, just for his ears only, and drank.
The Naming of Cats
(s!Hawke/Fenris, PG)
There was a moment when Bethany called out to him and, before he had turned to address her, Hawke had seen Fenris whip his head around, staring at her with a puzzled look.
At the time, Hawke was sort of bleeding all over the place from their last battle, so he let it go and allowed Bethany fix up his mangled leg. Merrill-Maker bless her-must have seen him staring at Fenris staring at Bethany, and since she had this incredible talent for being both perceptive and dense at the same time, she sat down next to him with a knowing giggle.
“Ye-es?” Hawke asked cautiously, the memory of her sad-puppy-eyes theory about Fenris still fresh in his mind. While he appreciated her observations, it did not always work out so well if Fenris ended up being embarrassed in the process and Hawke had to pay for it with the elf’s sulking silence (which had the tendency to last for days, and Hawke really couldn’t stand being blatantly ignored like that). He held up his hand before Merrill could speak, waiting for Fenris to stop glaring at them as if he knew that he was the topic of inquiry.
“Fenris, are you hurt? Do you need to be healed?” Bethany asked, a little too sweetly.
In reply, Fenris scowled and stalked off to poke at the faraway corpses for spare items.
“Thanks, Bethany,” Hawke said, smirking, “but please don’t do that all the time. I’m sort of courting him, you know.”
“I know, but what kind of sister-in-law would I be if I didn’t?”
“Courting,” Hawke repeated firmly, because there was really no sense in getting ahead of himself like that. The last thing he wanted was to get Bethany on this (she hadn’t been there when the puppy-eyes incident happened, but Varric had, so basically all of Kirkwall knew by now), but he supposed he did owe her for shooing Fenris off. Hawke let out a sigh and motioned for Merrill to continue.
“I think it’s because Bethany doesn’t call you Hawke,” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He paused, connecting the dots as far as they would go, but curiosity had always been a weakness of his. Shrugging, he said, “Of course Bethany doesn’t call me Hawke; she’s my sister.”
“But, um, maybe Fenris doesn’t want to call you Hawke either? I don’t know. Just an idea,” Merrill said, peering into his face, and smiled at his expression. “Oh! You’re blushing. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“But Fenris isn’t my sister,” he laughed, waving her away and used his other hand to rub his cheek in a futile attempt to wipe off whatever blush Merrill claimed he had.
“You are being sarcastic again, I can tell.”
“And you are getting good at telling,” Hawke said, glancing at Fenris and wondering if Merrill was right. It wasn’t something he had given thought to before, and he failed to see where it matter for him (and it would only ever matter because Fenris mattered, so in actuality, now that it brought up, it mattered a whole lot to Hawke now). Ignoring Merrill and Bethany’s expectant stares, he stood up, putting weight on his healed leg. As usual, Bethany did a stellar job, but he refused to thank her if she was going to keep looking at him like that.
“He’s probably self-conscious since he doesn’t have his own name to give you,” she said and he knew she did not mean it in a degrading way, merely thoughtful.
Hawke had to smile at that. “I believe he may be trying to find it still, but,” he continued, holding out both his hands for the girls to take, “whether he chooses to call me darling or sweetheart or a complete idiot, I don’t mind either way. I’m willing to wait,” and hauled them to their feet. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder. “Ah, Fenris. Find anything good?”
The elf walked up to them, his expression unreadable, though his attention seemed to be more focused on dividing up the coins in his hands. “Not much,” he replied, tossing a reasonable share to each person before he drew Hawke aside with a faint touch at his arm. “But maybe I should start calling you a sentimental and indiscrete fool, the way you carry on like that.”
“Oh. So you heard,” Hawke said, already counting the days Fenris was going to sulk and ignore him.
“Fortunately, not all of it,” the elf assured, the tiniest hint of a smile flitting across his face. He seemed to want to say more, looking at Hawke with a determined air. In the end, he tacked off the growing silence between them with a weak cough into his fist.
Unexpectedly charmed, Hawke grinned, pulling Fenris’ hand away while the elf mumbled something that might have not been his given name, or darling or sweetheart or even idiot, but-
“It’s a start,” he said, delighted that Fenris tried just the same, and pecked the corner of his mouth, taking the name back, whatever it happened to be.
----
“Do you mean to say that he hasn’t yet?” Bethany asked, leaning forward. “Even when you two-? You know. In bed.”
“Bethany! Mother did not raise you this way.”
“Huh. That’s odd. Does he call you Hawke the entire time then? Or is he silent?”
Hawke bristled, too irritated and offended to get properly embarrassed. “Obviously not, but it’s not as if I expect him to recite-oh, I don’t know-Dwarven poetry while I’m ravishing him over the banisters and on the kitchen t-Bethany, don’t you make that face at me, you asked for this-frankly, I’d find it strange if Fenris started giving me pet names.”
Merrill’s brow furrowed and she stared past him. “Angry puppy eyes,” she murmured, throwing him an apologetic look.
And that’s when Hawke felt Fenris’ hand on his shoulder.
“Darling,” Fenris drawled, pulling him back hard enough to make him stumble, “A word, if you will?”
“I’ll let you have several,” Hawke said, resigned.
And Fenris did.