I was feeling like shit last night after I got back from the fireworks last night, so I didn’t quite finish this on time. Not that I think anyone cares. Let’s say I took a holiday, and then neglected to make up for it later, because this isn’t great.

I’ll try to do today’s drabble proper before I run off to go camping, and see about writing or at least drafting the others while I’m gone, I s’pose.

——-

Winter was Hawke’s favorite season. There were multiple reasons—nostalgia for the time spent playing in the snow as a child and the magic his father used to use to manipulate it, a simple preference for cold weather over hot, the holidays and the excuses to gather with friends and sit in front of the fire all day. The greatest reason, however, was that there was something so utterly romantic about the season, and he loved it and having someone with whom to spend it.

Fenris disagreed.

Winter wasn’t magical. It was cold and wet and miserable, particularly to a man who refused to wear shoes and whose lyrium tattoos reacted slightly to the chill.

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Yep.

More Hawke/Fenris because fuck you that’s why

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Though sarcastic and not always capable of stopping himself from saying something inappropriate, Hawke was flawlessly polite, or at least tried to be. He liked his friends to know they were appreciated, he would say, so most things came with a casual word of gratitude.

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I accidentally skipped a day so I’m trying to write two drabbles

WHOOPS

——-

“You look cold,” Hawke remarked.

Fenris said nothing, tucking his numbing hands into his armpits. Night had fallen on their meager camp, and the oncoming winter was making its presence known with bitter winds and a constant threat of snow from the ashen clouds overhead. A fire would be ideal but the templars had nearly caught them that morning, and they feared the smoke from a campfire would bring the hunters right to them. Hawke could bear the chill for the time being, with a well-worn fur-lined cloak and heavy Champion’s robes. Fenris, on the other hand, wearing only his leathers and stubbornly refusing shoes, was not so lucky.

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This third DA2 run I’m trying to finish (so that I can actually put away the game for a little while) is basically a big amalgam of things I didn’t do during the first two—a pro-templar, rogue Hawke who is a big jerkface, with a rivalmance of Anders. I thought I’d be able to breeze through, but my brain can’t handle a character who doesn’t make sense, and this run is actually shaping up to be really tragic as a result.

So have some Rowan Hawke thought processes.

——-

Rowan Hawke really hated Anders.

It wasn’t the kind of hate that one would expect—no loathing of the man’s very existence, no resentment for every word he spoke, no firm belief that everything Anders did was a crime against humanity itself. No, Rowan hated Anders because he loved Anders.

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mediocrememory:

marnaeileen asked you:

OH GOOD OH GOOD OKAY OKAY! Fenris and f!Hawke hangin’ out and talkin’ about how much Danarius sucks! OH OH AND THEN THEY FINISH THE CONVO WITH A MAKE OUT SESSION! :D

Fenris tossed the bottle into the fire, the glass glowing in the embers. “He is dead now. It is a blessing.”

Hawke thought on what to say, still startled by his sudden burst. Her fingers curled around the glass she had poured- unwilling to share the bottle with Fenris for fear of what he had just displayed happening.

“He was a terrible man- to make you suffer what you did.” she stated in a low voice, not wanting to increase his rage. His temper was already at peak and the best she could hope for is that it would burn out on its own.

“Suffer?!” Fenris scoffed, standing and moving toward the table to grab the second bottle of the wine Hawke had brought with her. “Suffer is not quite a strong enough term to cover all of it.”

Hawke pursed her lips, staring at the ground. It was the sound of Fenris’ sigh that brought her attention back to him.

“Forgive me. I do not mean to whine to you like a small child. It’s just-” he pulled his arms out to his side in a gesture that let her know he was trying to find the right words to describe how he felt.

“I was a toy. A belonging- not a person. To get past the feeling of being a possession versus a thing capable of thought… it is not easy.” he caught her eyes with his and emeralds stared her down with sadness attached.

“I am trying.”

“I know.” she replied, transfixed by his gaze. She stood, stepping to him and cupping his jaw in her delicate palms. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” he began to protest, but her lips against his stopped any other words.

In her attempts to calm his temper, to stop his mind from going to that same dark place it tended to venture to, he found himself in utopia. Even if just for a moment.