#hawke x fenris

minwrathous:

It’s Day 3 now and I still haven’t done day 1. WHATEVER. I felt compelled to get this one done, and it’s dedicated to @xiz0rand@dreadwolfiscoming. This is what can happen if you make art that gives me FEELS.

“Hawke.”

His own name is the first thing he hears after the sundering. He had been left alone in the darkness, but now there is light and familiar faces. There are tears then. Shouts. A wail. Hawke hears it, but feels nothing. It’s too late. He was taken and broken.

It’s Fenris who leads their final charge through the Gallows that day. Hawke follows because there is no better way. None of the people he once called friends can bear to look at him. Hawke knows he makes them uncomfortable now. He knows, but does not care.

When it is over, they flee the Gallows. There, on the docks, there is a hurried talk of what they should do with Hawke now. It isn’t safe for any of them, especially not the Champion, broken as he is. When one suggests putting him to the knife, chaos erupts. Hawke watches and doesn’t flinch. He knows he once told them he’d rather die than become Tranquil. But now he does not feel that conviction.

Before the argument even ends, Fenris takes him by the hand and pulls him away.

“Where are you taking him?” Varric demands. His voice had been the loudest in speaking out against Hawke’s killing.

“Does it matter?” Fenris hisses. He had remained silent while the others fought. Now, his gauntlet is sticky with Templar blood and the tips dig into Hawke’s hand. “Do not follow us.”

Keep reading

This is beautiful and I’m glad it didn’t end the way I initially worried it would.

Let me give you some fine Fenhawke wares.

Fenhawke fenhawke fenhawke

Shows up to the fenhawke fandom 10 years late with Starbucks

kaerwrites:

“If you shave it off, I’m leaving you.”

Hawke dropped his hand from his chin and straightened from the mirror, a grin already tugging at his usually-stern mouth as he turned away from the wash basin.

“Good morning to you, too,” he greeted.

The elf in the bed grunted, stretched his arms up above his head. Hawke’s heart always gave the most undignified leap at the sight of him. Hawke was a grown man, not a teenaged girl in pigtails, and yet he could feel an immediate grin stretching his face.

Fenris was always particularly endearing first thing in the morning – soft and sleepy, hair a soft rumpled halo. He didn’t like sleeping in the nude, instead opting to steal Hawke’s shirts, which positively swallowed him, and Maker but Hawke didn’t think he’d ever be able to prepare for the sight of him in the soft early morning glow, collar slipping tantalizingly over a shoulder, eyes warm and fond when they touched his own.

Warm and fond didn’t stop Fenris from meeting his idiotic grin with a scowl.

“Why do you always get up so damned early?” the elf demanded. Petulant, that was what he was first thing in the morning. Hawke would never understand why it delighted him so. Sometimes Hawke suspected that, now that he was safe and free, Fenris was trying to make up for years’ worth of sleep that had been lost while on the run. There were mornings where dragging him out of bed proved a true challenge – mostly because it was so very tempting just to crawl back in with him.

“It’s habit,” Hawke answered, crossing back to the bed. “Farm boy, remember?”

“You can’t keep using that excuse for everything,” Fenris grumbled, but he reached for Hawke as the mage planted a knee on the mattress, and his mouth beneath Hawke’s was gentle and yielding.

“I like it when you stay all night,” Hawke said when they parted, pressing his forehead to the elf’s, the lyrium dots humming warm against his skin. Fenris grunted, eyes drifting closed, and it seemed he was almost asleep again, sitting up in bed, before he gave himself a shake and drew back.

“I suppose you have no end of death-defying idiocy planned for us today,” Fenris mused, idly accusing as he looked away and scrubbed a hand back through the tousled mess of his hair.

“I could probably come up with a few ideas, if pressed,” Hawke murmured, and they kissed again, soft and slow and lingering. Fenris was often most affectionate first thing in the morning. On anyone else Hawke would have even used the word snuggly. His arms twined with heartwarming leisure around the mage’s big shoulders as he lay back, pulling Hawke with him into a welcoming nest of pillows.

He could feel his smile against his lips, how one corner of his mouth curled higher than the other, and Maker but how had he survived so many years without this, without him?

“Your beard,” Fenris said sternly, the low gravel of his voice vibrating against his lips as Hawke turned his attention to the column of his throat. He groaned when Hawke rolled his hips into him – there were other benefits to spending the night together – but he would not be deterred. “I meant…what I said.”

“I’m not going to shave it,” Hawke muttered, distracted by the taste of his quickening pulse against his tongue.

Fenris grunted and gripped at him, moving suddenly. Hawke barely had time to register surprise before he found himself on his back, Fenris seated firmly on his hips.

“Good,” Fenris said, twining his fingers with Hawke’s, pinning his arms as he leaned over him. The lips he pressed to the mage’s were insistent now, hungry.

“Wait,” Hawke grunted between kisses, brow furrowing. “You would really leave me for shaving my beard?”

“Don’t test me,” Fenris warned, nipping at his lips, pulling his arms up above his head.

“I should have known you were only in this for the facial hair.”

Hawke liked the sound of Fenris’s laugh, the sight of his smile in the early morning brightness, light in his eyes and in his manner, the very vision of a man who was well and truly free.

Blue Wraith made me sad, so I drew Fenris receiving all the tender love he deserves from my lady Hawke.