here have some fenris

2

its true!!!!!!!!!!!

I very rarely have the impulse to romance men in games, but I feel like Teagan and Fenris are just… made for each other. In an opposites attract kind of a way.

Dragon Age 2 Hands

anders' are soft, the beginnings of calluses that never fully form cresting his palms from years of holding staves and mixing potions. Even though his fingers are long and thin, their tips are blunt, and the joints of his knuckles are thick, like knots in wood. A strange combination of fragile and enduring.

aveline's are smaller than you’d think; long rough palms with short fingers. Every bit of them looking as sturdy as the woman to whom they belong. They’re rubbed worn on both sides, from sword work or gauntlets. It’s almost strange to see one of them curled around a quill, writing out reports, besides, the guard captain would rather lead from the front.

fenris' are sensitive. The lyrium is at its strongest here, weaving patterns that reach to the edges of his fingers, bisecting the length of palms that are clenched into fists more often than not. The skin is always tender, never managing to achieve the hardness that would protect against the sting of wielding a sword as long as he is tall. 

isabela's are deceiving, looking as sender and petite as a noblewoman’s. But they can pick just about any lock, steer a two mast brigantine, and tie a line secure –even in the gravest of storms. Sea rough and world weary. Bela’s hands say nothing and everything.

merrill’s are scarred. Every last inch of them. Small nicks from the coarse stone of primal magic, other larger scars self inflicted, some still not fully healed. Fine boned as any elf, despite how delicate they look, Merrill’s hands could carry the world.

sebastian's are swift and strong as an arrow. Hardened calluses worked into the skin from years of archery. They’re nimble, skilful despite their size, and unmistakably roguish. No doubt they’re more honest about him and his past than he’d like them to be. 

varric’s are thick, robust, used to supporting the weight of a heavy crossbow. There’s something gentle about them when they’re resting on a table or wrapped around a pint mug, flipping through the pages of a manuscript. Varric’s hands have secrets and stories, and they spill from them, taking the shape of words on parchment. 

What Shapes Us (Fenhawke, 3000 words)

It’s dark in Hightown when Fenris unlocks the front door to the Hawke estate and lets himself in, slipping the key back into its resting place against his chest.  It’s become more and more familiar to him, the Hawke estate, and though he never claims it as his home officially, he is here often enough that it has become nearly as much his as hers.  

He regrets the late hour.  Aveline had a tip on some slavers, and Hawke had told him to go, despite the date, despite his protestations.  He is here now, cleaned up, the grime and blood of the encounter washed away.  Normally on a night like this he would sleep apart from Hawke, not wanting to wake her with his appearance.  But he knows she is not sleeping now.  It’s been three years since Cala Hawke cradled her mother’s body in a grubby basement, and he needs to be here for her.

The fire crackles merrily in the hearth.  Fenris leans his sword against the mantle, unbuckles his breastplate and fixes it on the armor stand by the fire.  He slips the gauntlets off, hanging them over the crosspiece of the stand.  The air is cool against his exposed arms, his markings humming with the change in temperature.  He ignores the sensation.  He smoothes his shirt, brushing out the wrinkles.  Bodahn had had the armor stand brought in, once he realized how often Fenris stayed; Fenris had thanked him, gruffly, unexpectedly touched.

Orana and Sandal are in the study, working on their letters together.  Fenris is surprised at them, staying up this late; it must be a good book.  Some nights Fenris joins them.  He reads well now, but sometimes he still finds unfamiliar words, and going through the basics again helps him sort the letters out when he comes across new vocabulary.  Tonight, though, he only waves to them as he comes in, and goes straight to Cala’s room.

She is startled when he comes in, though her look of surprise quickly shifts into a smile when she sees him.  She stands by the fireplace, one hand on the mantle, leaning against it.  It is a very supportive mantle; he remembers it well from other nights, like their first together.  Remembers the way he was the one to lean against it, hoping it would keep his feet on the ground.

She looks tired, her robes creased, her hair mussed.  “Hello, you,” she says as he closes the distance between them and slips his arms around her.  “Everything all right?”

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anonymous asked:

Hi, so, um, a little while ago you answered an anon ask about your thoughts on the level of reconciliation between Eppie and Fenris after All That Remains? And you mentioned that there were stolen kisses during that whole awkward three years. And I wondered if you had maybe any drabbles or ficlets or little notes-to-self lying around that you wanted to share (or have already shared somewhere)? Because *squee*. You are super and so is Eppie. I'm just going to crawl back under my rock now. <3

Fenris is not used to seeing Hawke bedridden. Mages in general, if he is honest; magisters tended to die quickly and brilliantly when their magic failed in battle, and few permitted themselves to linger through the indignity of long illness. But here Hawke lies, eyes bruised, bandaged shoulder to hip and held together by little more than stitches, Anders’s desperate attempts to mitigate the damage of the Arishok’s sword.

Sword, he thinks, and his lips twist. Cleaver.

He does not move, but something in the quiet afternoon stirs Hawke to wakefulness. She blinks slowly, a confusion in her face that disquiets him with its strangeness, and her hand half-rises from the bedcovers before falling again. “Fenris?” she says, and slurs the word. She still has not looked at him.

“Hawke.”

She blinks again; then her eyes clear on him where he sits in the wooden armchair pulled to her bedside, and her eyebrows lift in something like lucidity. “Am I still dreaming?”

Relief surges in his throat; he cannot help the smile. “Do all your dreams involve such suffering on your part?”

“Only most of the time,” she says, but she grins to soften it. “How long have you been here?”

Hours. “Not long.”

“Liar.”

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