#devouring-time

It’s funny you should ask that, because as much as I’ve thought about the dynamic between Fenris and Danarius, I have put very little time into thinking about Hadriana. Even Little Wolf has failed to address her yet, and I’m not really sure why except that I haven’t read or seen a lot of analysis on her, and I like to compare and contrast others’ thoughts with my own when formulating headcanon. 

I really need to think about it though…

OK, so I like this one, it’s adorable and I had a lot of fun, but I also feel like I maybe rushed it a little so you could have it before I go…..so feel free to request more fluff from me at any time

It’s a sight he’s still not used to yet, Fenris sprawled in the middle of his bed, indolent and content, idly flipping the pages of a book he borrowed from Hawke’s library, though the small smile Fenris gives him when he feels him watching is worth all the time it took them to get there. Candles litter the flat surfaces of Hawke’s room, three currently scattered on the desk he’s using, several lie on the bedside tables, and two more perch somewhat precariously on the armoire. The hour is late and darkness presses close outside the window. They’ve slowly been lighting candles all evening as the sky darkens, and Hawke tips an unlit candle into the flickering wick of another on his desk, placing the newly lit one near his elbow. A precarious place, perhaps, and he shrugs at Fenris’s questioning look before turning back to his pile of correspondence.

This is what he gets for refusing to answer most letters when they arrive downstairs, nearly tagged and catalogued by Bodahn. But he hates pretending to be civil to the nobles and other sundry folk who request his presence or his services. Leandra had been quite helpful with that when she’d still lived, and though Hawke doesn’t miss her very much, their relationship had been rocky to say the least, he does miss the skillful way she handled the other Hightown residents. They don’t much appreciate Hawke’s brusque style and his tendency to reply to invitations with a simple “yes” or “no,” rather than a flowery acceptance or regretful declination. Even with his terse method of communicating, when the letters pile up like this there’s just no way around having to spend several hours on it.

He’s nearly done, thank the Maker, and jabs his seal into the wax on the last envelope somewhat viciously. If he can’t duel his neighbors down the way, Lord and Lady Whatstheirrump, then the slightly crooked, slightly dented seal will just have to make do. Hawke pushes the folded bits of parchment to one side of the desk and folds his hands on the newly created empty space, resting his head on them to look over at Fenris.

Part of the elf is obscured by one of the posters on the bed, and Hawke frowns. It’s covering the bare expanse of Fenris’s chest and that just won’t do. If Fenris deliberately undressed for the purpose of lying in Hawke’s bed and providing a distraction from boring nobles’ letters, and he had for he’d told Hawke just that, meeting his eyes before slowly stripping his tunic from his body, then Hawke is going to bloody well enjoy the distraction.

He stands from the desk, careful not to upset any of the candles and burn the estate down, and crosses to stand at the foot of the bed, leaning against the offending poster. Fenris glances at Hawke out of the corner of his eye then resumes his reading, stretching one leg out long before tucking it back up against the other where it had been. He is incredibly distracting, Hawke’s impressed he actually managed to get everything he needed to done, and he looks incredible there among the messy sheets on Hawke’s bed. The lyrium contrasts against his dark skin, both lyrium and flesh providing a counterpoint against the deep red of the sheets. A master painter could have only this scene and never run out of things to paint.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Fenris asks, allowing the book to fall closed on his finger.

Hawke shakes his head and rests his cheek against the poster, wrapping one arm around it too. “I just…” He huffs lightly and licks his lips. “That’s a good look for you.”

Fenris looks down at himself, lying on his side, and stretches a little, raising an eyebrow. “Half naked in your bed? I imagine so.”

“It’s not that, it’s—” Hawke scowls with no real heat as Fenris smirks slightly. And the elf does have a point: any time Hawke is able to have Fenris in his bed is a good look. He sighs and presses his forehead to the poster.

“Happy. You look happy.”

Silence from Fenris, and Hawke chews on the inside corner of his lips. Had he overstepped? Maybe Fenris isn’t comfortable hearing things like that yet. He adds that to his mental list of things to be careful of and slowly rotates his head so he can look at Fenris.

Fenris, who has half sat up in bed and is staring at him, eyes widened, lips parted. His hair on the side he’d been lying on sticks in three different directions, and Hawke nearly smiles. Fenris’s book has been abandoned to one side of the bed. The hand he’d been using to hold it fidgets in his lap for a moment, then he raises it toward Hawke, beckoning with his fingers when he doesn’t move.

“Hawke.” Fenris’s voice is soft and low, and Hawke takes his hand. Fenris tugs him onto the bed until Hawke is lying on his side, facing Fenris. He traces his fingertips lightly down Hawke’s cheek, drawing across his lips then around the line of his jaw.

“You sound tired, amatus,”Dorian said, and Ryn stifled a laugh.

“I’m always tired,” he reminded him. “You’re forgetting mealready.”

“Not in a thousand lifetimes.”

Ryn smiled to himself, and he let his eyes drift closed. Withthe Inquisition disbanded and its members scattered to the winds, Skyhold felthaunted. Ryn himself would be moving on within the fortnight. Tonight, thelibrary was filled with silence and shadows, but there was something comfortingabout being able to press his cheek to the dusty worn leather of Dorian’s oldchair, to curl his body between the two padded arms and watch the sending crystalflicker and glow. It was warm in his hand.

“How is your arm?” Dorian asked, concern naked in his tone,and Ryn chuckled again.

“Still gone.”

“Don’t be morbid. I worry about you.”

“I’m in your chair,” Ryn said. “Do you remember the time theOrlesian ambassador was visiting, and I snuck up here to suck you off?”

“You’re a filthy tease – and I won’t be distracted.”

“Dorian…”

“All you’re telling me is that I have every cause forconcern. I know you too well. What’s happened? Don’t tell me you’ve lost theother one.”

“Creators, now who’s morbid?”

“Amatus, the nexttime I see you, I’m turning you over my knee.”

“Promises, promises,” Ryn said, but he was still smiling,his eyes still closed. “I’m well,” he said. “Everything is healing fine. Don’tworry about me.”

“But I do.”

Come back to me,Ryn wanted to tell him. I miss you withever fiber of my soul.

But Dorian had work to do, and Ryn did too. Neither one of them could afford to be selfish.

“I want to fall asleep here,” he said instead. “Listening toyour voice. Will you talk to me?”

“That sounds terribly uncomfortable. You’ll wake all stiffand sore and be impossibly cranky all day tomorrow.”

“But I’ll have good dreams.”

He heard Dorian’s heavy sigh, and a silence that stretchedso long he almost thought Dorian had severed the connection. Then Dorian spokeagain. “I hardly know what I’m supposed to talk about for so long,” he said, asif terribly burdened, and Ryn smiled, because he knew he had won.

“Tell me about your mustache,” he teased. “That usuallytakes a few hours.”

(Sry this was supposed to be 1 message but I got carried away) I could read novels that were just about Leo and Fenris laughing together. About Leo’s kindness to children. About the way he gets flustered and nervous around the elf he has a crush on. I love seeing past that hard shell to the man inside who loves and feels so much. I love Leo, basically. Thank you so much for Leo. 2/2

Ah sorry I just thought of another thing! Leo’s control over his magic is intense and I find that his reluctance to use it outside of necessity is a rare thing to find in fic, although it is something my mage Hawke shares. I’ve always wondered if Leo struggled in his youth with any anxieties or depressions about his magic. He’s always been so strong and such an oldest child but I wondered how much hurt was there (linked to his magic, specifically) that he never let anyone see.

I...I mean, this is incredible. I can’t begin to tell you what something like this means to me. Leo is so important to me for a variety of very personal reasons and just...thank you for sending this.

Sorry I don't usually do this but I gotta know. Does he ever buy himself a nice pair of tight underwear that highlights all the right places just to give Fenris a shock?

No. Fenris has brought him home nice pairs, and he can occasionally be blackmailed into wearing them, but he hates them.

11. Do they have any vices?

Is overworking a vice? 

Prior to the Inquisition and falling in love with Dorian, Ryn’s biggest vice was probably physical pleasure. I headcanon the Dalish as being very open about matters of sexuality - Ryn was very flirty and open to sex, without ever really connecting to anyone.

33. Have they ever been in a relationship that didn’t work out so well?

As I said above, Ryn had a lot of partners before he fell for Dorian, but he didn’t connect with anyone. He left a lot of hurt feelings and secret crushes that he was never aware of in his wake. He always felt very disconnected from the people around him - he cared and was appreciative of them, but never found a deeper connection.

45. What is the emotion they most commonly experience?

These days, exhaustion. I hope he gets to rest some day!

yesss ^_^ here’s my stupid babies being adorable, with a generous helping of angst because I’m sorry I can’t help it <3

18. kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lapturned into laying, but it’s the spirit of the thing, right?

The night is late by the time Hawke makes it back to the estate, leaning his greatsword against the wall in the foyer as he racks his armor, waving off a sleepy-eyed Bodahn who shuffles over to help. Orana and Sandal must still be asleep in their rooms, and he moves a bit slower, a bit softer on that assumption. He eschews the silk weave of the house robe his mother bought for him when they first moved in, preferring to move about in the light leathers he wears under his armor. The fire in the grate has burned down to a subdued flicker, and as he passes through on his way to the stairs up, his eye catches the glint of light from the library. He draws the knife from the inside of his boot carefully and slips through the doorway, crouching low.

The light is coming from the upstairs study. Possible angles for attack are few: the only way up is by the single staircase set against the bookshelves and he knows from experience that whoever’s in the study has a clear line of sight to the top of it from wherever they are. He’s at a severe disadvantage, but that’s never stopped him before. He flattens himself as best he can against the stairs, creeping up them one at a time, as silent as he can. Stealth has never been his forte and he’s never needed it to be; his large stature and intimidating demeanor work just fine for tools of the trade. So his ascent up the stairs is somewhat less than quiet, and he tenses, preparing for a fight, when he hears a throat clear.

“I promise my intentions are peaceful,” Fenris says. Hawke lets his head drop against the stairs, groaning. He can hear the smirk in that tone, knows what face the elf is making, and sure enough, when he stands and looks over, Fenris is half-looking at him, one eyebrow raised, lips just slightly curled. His finger is pressed against a page in the book open on his lap, and he returns his gaze to it as Hawke finishes climbing the stairs, setting the boot knife down on the small table next to the sofa Fenris has installed himself on.

“You could have said something,” Hawke grumbles, sitting down heavily next to Fenris and working on pulling off his boots. Fenris just snorts and turns the page. Hawke rolls his eyes. He sets the boots together at the end of the couch and looks over at the book Fenris is reading.

“Hard in Hightown? You’ve got to be joking, Fenris, really? I’m sure I’ve something better on my shelves.”

Fenris chuckles. “Varric has been particularly insistent that I read it myself, now that I can.”

“You mean since you refused to let anyone read it to you before now.” Fenris rolls a hand and it’s Hawke’s turn to snort. “Fine, have it your way.”

“Thank—” Fenris begins to say, but he cuts off as Hawke sprawls across the couch and his lap, covering the book with his massive frame.

“Save yourself, Fenris,” Hawke says around a yawn. “Now while you still can.”

Fenris huffs and wiggles his arms out from under Hawke’s body, resting them on top of Hawke’s chest instead. The book he abandons as a lost cause for now as Hawke lies on it, blinking up at him. He runs his hands lightly along the leather covering Hawke’s body, loosening some of the laces on the sides as he goes. Hawke hums and closes his eyes, abruptly relaxing, his deadweight sinking both of them a little farther into the cushions.

“Are you quite comfortable?”

Hawke’s head is on the couch to one side of Fenris, his ass on the other, his back arching across Fenris’s legs, and his legs splayed, one across the arm of the couch and the other on the floor.

“Mm.” He’s a boneless heap, loose and content, but only here in his house, only with Fenris. This house is the closest he’s come to having somewhere he truly feels safe enough to let his guard down, and Fenris is the only person he’s let close enough to see him like this. Even Carver, when they served together in the army, only ever saw him alert and ready to fight. Bethany and his mother, once they made it to Kirkwall, could only ever see him as a guardian and protector; he wouldn’t allow anything else. His friends, Aveline especially, have seen more, though even to them he is the Champion first and Hawke second. There are parts of himself he keeps hidden from everyone, except...

There is nothing hidden from Fenris.

Hawke makes another happy, sleepy sound, seeking for Fenris with his hands, his eyes still closed. His right hand bumps against Fenris’s hip and rests there; his left squirms its way underneath one of Fenris’s as it tracks across his chest, and Fenris grips it, holding tight. The way Hawke can go from absolutely alert and prowling the house for a potential threat to eliminate to nearly asleep across Fenris’s lap in less than a minute has always saddened Fenris. Early in his acquaintanceship with Hawke and his friends, they had gone to the Wounded Coast, camping along the hills as they tracked a mercenary band. As they set camp and debated the watch rotation, Hawke was awake and sharp, quick to notice a flaw in a tent setup or point out a logistical error in the watch schedule. He’d helped Bethany cook their dinner, sharpened his sword, and traded barbs with Varric. Fenris remembers wondering why Hawke had elected for second watch instead of first if he was so obviously still awake, second watch being one of the tougher shifts. He’d watched, carefully, out of the corner of his eye, as Hawke spread one flap to his tent wide, leaving the other down to cover Bethany as she slept, and dragged his bedroll half out of the shelter, removing only a few small pieces of armor before laying down, hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and near immediately falling asleep. A true sleep. Fenris is keen enough to know when someone is feigning sleep in order to trick him, and he’d stared openly at the warrior once he knew everyone else in their camp was also asleep.

Still, all it had taken to rouse him for watch was his name, and Hawke was bolt upright and making his way to the small fire Fenris tended. The army, Hawke had said, was where he learned to sleep like that. When you knew your sleep could be interrupted at any time for any reason, you either adapted or you died. Fenris had nodded, understanding; it was much the same for any slave.

Now, Fenris leans over, lifting the hand that holds Hawke’s to brush a kiss against his knuckles, then a few more up his wrist and still-leathered forearm. Hawke sighs softly and cracks one eye open to watch. He can see the curve of Fenris’s lips though his eyes are obscured by his hair, white strands swaying gently with each movement. Fenris slowly makes his way up the rest of Hawke’s arm, laying kisses to the leather until he reaches Hawke’s throat. He traces down the veins there with his other hand, and Hawke swallows and flutters his eyes closed, tilting his head to allow Fenris greater access. Fenris makes a pleased little humming sound and nips at the flesh just below Hawke’s ear before soothing it with a kiss. Hawke groans, his hand on Fenris’s hip tightening.

Nearly laying down himself now, Fenris kisses Hawke’s jaw, both cheeks, his forehead, and the tip of his nose before pressing lis lips to Hawke’s. The kiss is gentle and sweet, neither of them moving to deepen it. They just...kiss. When Fenris finally pulls away, he brushes a thumb across Hawke’s cheek then along one eyebrow. With great care, he slips out from under Hawke, allowing the book to fall to the floor, and stretches out beside him on the couch, nestling in between Hawke’s arm and chest, pillowing his head on Hawke’s shoulder. He lifts up to kiss him once more.

“Good night, Hawke.”

Hawke remembered desperate, clawing hands, and shadowed eyes, a desire to wipe out bad memories with good ones. Fenris had not been like this before, Hawke thought, with no small amount of amazement. It was so good to see him brazen and confident. It seemed that before - but then the thought was gone, and with it the troubling nagging feeling that had followed it.

Fenris’s eyes glowed like warm green flames, and the smile on his face was something that nearly stopped Hawke’s heart. His hands fisted in Hawke’s red flannel, he backed the big mage up one, two, three steps, until his back hit the bed post, and Hawke lifted his hands in mock surrender.

“I suppose you have plans for me, then?” he asked the elf, and Fenris’s smile grew. The elf pushed up on his toes, and met his eyes fiercely.

“The night is young,” Fenris murmured, voice low and deep and amused. Hawke’s entire body reacted to that voice. Maker, it had been so long – and he had never wanted anyone the way he wanted Fenris. Fenris was naked, then, where he hadn’t been before, and as Hawke lowered his hands he found himself marveling at the feel of his skin, the strength of his body, the beauty of his form. “Tell me,” Fenris said, cocking his head, watching him so fiercely. “Tell me again how you love me.”

“I love you,” Hawke said, without hesitation, and Fenris smiled again, and leaned closer, and licked the side of his face. Hawke frowned, and he tried to pull away. “Fenris,” he said again, surprised by the weight of the elf against his chest, pinning him there as his tongue lapped wetly. A river of drool trekked its way across his cheek to pool in the recesses of his ear.

Hawke started awake.

He was greeted by a powerful puff of doggy breath, and one of Flower’s lazy, loving smiles. The dog, the upper portions of his massive body perched too comfortably atop Hawke’s chest, angled his head in an attempt to get his tongue up his nose.

Whatever lingering pleasantness Hawke’s dream might have left him with, it was gone now. He pushed the dog away.

“No!” he scolded. “Bad dog!”

Flower was one of the few creatures on the planet who failed to be taken aback by Hawke’s grumpy voice. The large mabari wagged its tailless backside, and snuggled down against the mage’s pillow with a series of grunts and sighs as Hawke tried to get the drool out of his ear. His beard was wet, and his entire bed smelled like dog, and the sun wasn’t even up yet.

Hawke scrubbed his hands through his hair and gave the dog a halfhearted glare.

“You expect me to sleep on the couch?” he demanded.

Flower gave an enthusiastic borf and wagged his backside again.

“No way,” Hawke told him, pushing him. “Shove over. This is my bed.”