Posts Tagged 'rec'

The Acknowledged!AU

celeritassagittae:

As a self-avowed connoisseuse (read: junkie) of the
Alistair/Warden ship tag on AO3, I thought I’d talk a little about a distinct subcategory
of Alistair fan fiction that I find really fascinating because, so far as I can
tell, a number of people have decided to explore the same premise independently of
one another.  It’s what I call, for lack
of a better term, the Acknowledged!AU.

There are almost as many variations on the premise as there
are fics that explore it, so I’m going to go with a definition that’s a little
on the broad side: an Acknowledged!AU is one in which Alistair is an
acknowledged member of the royal family before
the Fifth Blight starts
(this includes Blightless AUs, since the Blight
never starts in one of those).  He can be
acknowledged from birth, rescued before he gets sent off to the templars, or
hastily removed from them because Cailan happened to die off early.  I think I’ve seen one where he’s still a
templar, but none where he’s a Grey Warden at the start of the story.

Keep reading

I apologize for spamming you with prompts, but you’re like the best DA author I’ve ever read >w< How about Fenris seeing Hawke on their wedding day?

jawsandbones:

You’re not spamming me at all! I love receiving prompts! Thank you so much for giving me some! 

You are far too kind ❤ I hope that you like it!

Recommended listening: Aust by Otto A. Totland


Everything they’ve done has
been in secret. Hawke’s armor sits buried in a chest, hidden but not forgotten.
Fenris’s sword and her staff stay by the door, gathering dust. They wear simple
clothes, his with hoods, and do their best to blend in. Hawke’s hair is longer
now, his shorter, but she still laughs, still loves the same.

The burning of Kirkwall is
still fresh in their minds. The threat of an exalted march even more so. They’ve
found an isolated village, far from the noise of the rest of the world. Hawke
uses her knowledge of herbs and healing, while Fenris uses his strength to help
around the village. Their neighbors are quiet, all of them keeping to their own
business. The perfect place to hide.

Some ask if they are married.
They say no. Around the third time this is asked, Fenris resolves to change the
answer. He has the rings made secretly. He sells his breastplate to pay for
them. He asks a sister to perform the ceremony in a quiet space, away from the
village and after dark. He sells his gauntlets to pay for it. He sets a date
and does not tell her, sneaking out to drape the spot he has chosen in flowers
and candles.

On the morning of, he gives her
a time and directions to the place. She’s confused but does not question. He
collects the rings, simple things of metal engraved with the imagery of hawks
and wolves, and hopes that she’ll like it. He spends most of the day pacing in
their fields, thinking and planning for what he’d like to say to her.

When the time comes, he meets
the sister under the willow he has chosen, and lights the candles. As he waits,
he wavers between excitement and feeling like he’s going to be sick. What if
she hates it? What if she doesn’t
want to marry him? All the words he has been practicing suddenly slip away. His
stomach rolls and he turns the rings over and over in his pocket.

It’s the rustling of leaves and
bushes that tells him she is close. He forces himself to stand still and
straightens, pushing away all other thoughts. Her hair is pulled back loosely,
stray wisps of it brushing across her face. Her trousers have a patch on the
knee, her tunic long and stained with poultice and potion. She is perfect. She looks at the scene before
her, confusion plain on her face, but he watches as comprehension slowly begins
to dawn.

Her eyes widen, a trembling
hand clapping over her mouth, the other reaching for him. He takes her hand in
his, holding it tightly, watching her eyes swell with tears. She looks happy,
and his heart leaps at the thought of him being the one to cause her such
happiness. She uncovers her mouth only briefly to say, “You didn’t,” and begins
to shake with watery laughter when he nods.

“I hope you are pleased. I hope
you want – this.” He hopes she wants him.
Her hand moves from her mouth to his cheek, smiling and still trembling,
nodding vigorously.

“Of course you silly, most
ridiculous, most unbelievable man.” It’s her smile, it’s always been her smile,
which does him in. He leans forward catching her lips with his, the both of
them laughing softly together.

The sister makes a polite
cough. “Shall we begin?” He draws the rings from his pocket and she’s crying
all over again, her fingers tracing them in his palm. He barely hears the words
the sister is saying. He focuses on her hand in his, slipping the ring on her
finger, the breathless laughter on her lips, the way her eyes crinkle when she
smiles, and the way she feels in his arms.

Sea Foam

bettydice:

for @loquaciousquark, who sent me a prompt a while ago for Fenris/Hawke and a kiss on the hand


There are times he thinks of the sea.

Endless waves invade Danarius’ mansion, throwing themselves against the unyielding walls.

Ostentatious furniture becomes driftwood. Residue of spilled blood and magic scrubbed away. Freezing water curls around his legs, trying to pull him under. He stands as immovable as a mountain, chained to the ground. Sea foam caresses his neck, his lips. Salt fills his senses.

The tide is relentless, inevitable. He stands naked and watches the ocean corrode the lyrium on his body.

He’s left smooth and cold as stone in an empty mansion as the water retreats.

He is free.

He hopes and he fears the water will return until the pieces of everything he is break apart and dissolve into sand.


The sun has just disappeared, though it is a reluctant parting and the dying light casts everything in a rusty gleam. The heat stays, lingering in the air, clinging to the stones underneath his feet. He feels it, even in Hightown where it’s always colder.

He lingers, too.

A drop of sweat runs down Hawke’s face and his eyes follow its path along her cheek, her neck, until it disappears beyond her shirt. He wants to lean in and breathe out against the wet line to raise goosebumps on her skin, reenacting something that might have happened once. A memory, a dream. He doesn’t know. He never knows.

His fingers hurt these days, bursting at the seams with longing.

“Fenris.” The skin around her eyes crinkles as one corner of her mouth curves upwards. “You can come in, if you want.”

He has long accepted that he won’t stop wanting.

Elation and remorse entwine around his chest.

Her finger brushes against the red cloth around his wrist.

He wants…

His hand closes around hers and he lifts it to his face. His eyes on hers as he presses his lips to the inside of her hand. The taste of sea foam.

“Good night, Hawke.”

She lets out a shivering breath as he lets go of her hand and then laughs as she disappears inside her home.

Chapter 13

quinnlocke:

Finding my Way Back to You

Wherein Fenris and Hawke are forced to realize they need to talk

I have a prompt idea I’d like to suggest please? Fluffy and fun Fenhawke with either Bethany or Carver doing the normal sibling thing and threating Fenris with whatever if he hurts Hawke

jawsandbones:

I fully admit that I love the shit out of Carver. I think he’s the bee’s knees. I think he’s the one more willing to actually threaten as well. I think Bethany is more, you don’t know bad things are going to happen until they’re happening to you and she’s got a deadly little grin. Thank you so much for the prompt @noonewouldlisten25! I hope you enjoy and like! (◕‿◕✿)


“If you hurt her, I’ll shove
those spiky gauntlets of yours up your ass.” Fenris chokes into his drink. He
comes up coughing, pounding a fist to his chest.

“Excuse me?” He asks this
hoarsely, to an unconcerned Carver. It was rare that Carver ever got permission
to leave the Gallows. When he did, it was straight to the Hanged Man
immediately, to drink until they couldn’t stand. The others were yelling,
throwing down cards and coin, winners screaming bloody victory, losers sulking
into their ale. Somehow, Sebastian had swept a win out from under Isabela, and
Hawke had her head thrown back viciously laughing at Isabela’s disbelief.

“We may not get along, but she
is my sister, and if you hurt her, I’ll hurt you right back,” Carver says,
sipping at his drink. Fenris is by no means scared of the young pup, but Carver
did make an authoritative figure in his Templar uniform.

“Hawke is more than capable of
defending herself,” Fenris huffs.

“You weren’t there to see her
break. What you did three years ago. That changed her. It still follows her.” It’s
hard to see the change. If you’re not looking, you don’t see it at all. The way
her laughter dies just a little before everyone else’s. Wanting to watch,
rather than participate. She tends to her flock even more carefully than
before. Privately, Fenris sees the change keenly. He waits in bed for her to
rise, now. The one time he got up to make breakfast for her, she had come
flying down in a panic, scared that he had left her once again.

“I am… aware,” Fenris says
quietly as he grips at the mug.

“So, if you hurt her again, I’ll
make sure you leave Kirkwall and never come back.” On his own, Carver would not
be able to come close to him. With his friends in the Templars? More problematic.
Not that he was seriously considering that ever being a possibility.

“I would never – she is, to me,
the most – important – Hawke is, I
mean – I am in –”

“Alright, alright, don’t hurt
yourself,” Carver’s slap to his back is no doubt meant to be friendly and
jovial, but it nearly launches Fenris right out of his seat.

“We all know how you feel about
her. You’re shit at hiding it,” Carver says, still laughing at Fenris’s
expression. Fenris is still gripping his mug, somehow gripping it tighter, and
looking over at Hawke. She’s chuckling, shuffling a deck of cards in her hands,
face flushed with happiness and the warm embrace of alcohol. Always, always,
she is so beautiful and Fenris feels
his own face heat up. He hears another chuckle from Carver.

“I told you. Shit at hiding it,”
he says, downing the rest of his drink. He flags down the waitress, ordering
more and more from both himself and Fenris, forcing the elf to drink. Fenris
knows his limits, knows when to stop. Today, he does not. He matches Carver
drink for drink, feeling the need to prove… something? As if drinking with him
will show that he is worthy of Hawke.

Later, Hawke has her arm around
his waist, Carver’s arm as well, and the Hawke siblings are dragging him back
to Hightown. Halfway there he pukes, then turns to Hawke saying fiercely, “I am
yours,” and promptly proceeds to pass
out. Carver roars with laughter as he throws the elf over his shoulder, Hawke
completely mystified as to how Carver ever managed to convince him to drink
that much. Her cheeks are red though, and she wears a pleased smile.

The one where Hakwe jumps off of a cliff

lypreila:

Read on AO3

Re-blogs, Comments, Kudos and Likes are my lifeblood guys. 


Fenris stood at the edge of the Waking Sea, somewhat bemused by the circumstances he’d found himself in.  What was supposed to be a quick bounty to increase Hawke’s funds for the Deep Roads expedition had turned into a long, protracted battle, the four of them, Hawke and Fenris, Anders and a bawdy Rivaini calling herself Isabela, chasing a talented group of mercenaries up and down the coast. 

Keep reading

37 + fhawke/fenris

jawsandbones:

Hope you like! ❤

Prompt #37: “Wanna Dance?” Fenris x FemHawke


He wakes
early, as he is prone to do. It is ingrained in him to rise with the sun, no
matter where he is. Today Fenris wakes in their camp by Sundermount, when the
sun is only just beginning to crack over the horizon. Hawke is sitting, leaning
against a tree, her arms and legs crossed, and her eyes closed. He walks to her
side, standing above her and tells her, “the point of being on watch is to
be awake.” Immediately, an eye snaps open to look at him.

“Not asleep,
just resting my eyes,” she says with a huff. Closing her eye once again, she
shuffles her position, dismissing him with a grunt. He chuckles and settles
down beside her, one knee up to rest his arm upon. He is contented, just to be
beside Hawke. It is quiet, with only the early sounds of birds, the distant
echo of crickets.

“I expected
more dancing,” she says suddenly. Fenris turns to her, amused.

“Excuse me?”
She turns to him, both eyes wide open, her hand waving at the distance.

“Yeah! You
know how many stories I was told about elves dancing in the moonlight? We’re
right by a Dalish camp and nothing. Where are my dancing elves Fenris? I need
my dancing elves!” He chuckles, covering his hand with his mouth. She looks
pleased that he’s laughing, a grin appearing on her face. He rises to his feet,
stretching slightly, before extending a hand to her.

“Let’s dance
then, Hawke,” he says. She’s suddenly hesitant, her grin faltering, and the
hand she places in his is filled with worry.

“I don’t know
how,” she says as he helps her to her feet. He hums an acknowledgement of her
statement but that doesn’t stop him from drawing her into his arms. She has a
frown, a worried bite of her lip, but she does as he directs and places a hand
on his shoulder. He places a hand around her waist, keeping her close.

“Don’t look
down,” he says as her eyes are firmly planted on her feet, “look at me.” Blue
eyes meet green and he gives her a reassuring smile as he begins to move. His
steps are light and quick while hers are stuttered and unsure. “At me, Hawke.”
Another reminder as her eyes frequently flick downwards.

“I’m going to
step on your feet!” She complains. He shakes his head and knocks his forehead
gently against hers.

“Allow me to
guide you and you won’t hurt me,” he tells her, pressing his hand even tighter
against the small of her back. He leads her in the steps slowly, back and
forth, turning slightly, all the while holding her hand tightly in his.

“If you teach
me, maybe I’ll start accepting all those invitations to celebrate the ‘Champion’
and drag you with me,” she says as she begins to ease into the steps.

“Please don’t,”
he says weakly. She chuckles at his reply, giving his shoulder a light squeeze.
They move together for a few moments more, Fenris’s fingertips gently pressing
her in the direction she needs to go. She steps closer, her hand leaving his
and sliding up his arm, until her hands meet behind his head. She smiles up at
him, and presses a kiss to his lips, a hand winding into his hair.

They sway
together closely in silence, and not once does Hawke step on his toes. “There
are so many things I still don’t know about you, like your secret dancing
talent,” she tells him softly.

“It’s an
innate skill all elves are born with, along with frolicking,” he says to her
quite seriously. She barks out quick bursts of laughter in disbelief. He joins
her in laughter, his arms still wrapped around her waist. He swallows up her
laughter in hungry kisses, hands roving over her hips and back.

“I can think
of another few skills you have,” she says slyly, fingertips tracing down from
the tip of his ear to his jaw, settling on his chin where she holds him so she
can kiss him again.

“This is a
wonderful thing to wake up to, praise Andraste,” Isabela says, lying on her
side, propped up on an elbow. Merrill is sitting up next to her, legs crossed
and grin wide, with her hands on gleeful cheeks. Hawke rolls her eyes and
begins to pull away, but Fenris keeps a hold on her waist. He moves one hand
down to her thigh and lifts it, dipping her over in a sweeping kiss. Isabela
and Merrill whoop and cheer, while Hawke is breathless with delighted laughter.


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