some dragon agey ficlits
Jul. 1st, 2011 09:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
freezingrayneSome more drabbly than others, two written for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dragon_age's weekly drabble-fest, and one for the kinkmeme.
First two worksafe, the second less-so. No spoilers.
Fenris/Hawke
One thing can be said for Antivans—they certainly know their wine.
They also appear to know their scented oils, baths full of rose petals, and gratuitously overpriced inn rooms. Fenris seems rather stumped by it all.
“There are…too many pillows on this bed.”
Hawke drops down onto the mattress with a laugh, upsetting some of the red and gold embroidered cushions. “When you’re tired and sore enough, there are never too many pillows.”
“Oh?” Fenris’ eyes narrow, voice going low and rough. “And how do you plan on making me sore enough to appreciate them?”
“Why don’t you come up here,” Hawke suggests lightly, leaning back on the mound of pillows, “And let me show you?”
Hawke/Fenris
They find the waif in Lowtown, curled up on a filthy old grain-sack, one eye swollen shut and lash marks on his back. His features are delicate and his ears are pointed, but not quite pointed enough.
When the boy opens his mouth and Arcanum comes tumbling out, Fenris almost falls over from the shock. “Potesne pecuniam mihi dare, Domine?”
Hawke glances at him with a raised eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
Fenris shakes his head, even as Hawke hands the boy a few silvers. Glancing back over his shoulder as they mount the stairs to Hightown, Fenris sees the wounds on his face and the ones in his eyes, still fresh and new and painful.
He nods a goodbye. “Vale, filii.”
He knows those eyes will haunt him in his sleep.
The next morning, as Fenris is letting himself out of the servant’s door of the Hawke estate, he almost trips over something that had looked like a dirty pile of rags.
The boy straightens up. “You’re of Imperium?” His Common is atrocious.
Hawke comes home that night to find a battered half-Elvhen boy sitting at his kitchen table, licking gravy off his fingers.
“Messere,” Bodahn greets, shuffling his feet in distinct discomfort. “Serah Fenris brought a guest in for dinner.”
Fenris meets his eyes, something bright and challenging gleaming in the moss-green depths of them.
He shakes his head, propping his staff up against the table. “And I was just telling Anders off for picking up stray cats.”
“He escaped from his master when she was on business in Kirkwall,” Fenris tells Hawke later, the two of them installed on the balcony that overlooks the sitting room, watching Sandal introducing the boy to the family Mabari. “She was a Magister—.” The word drips with hatred, with barely-suppressed violence, “But he wouldn’t give me her name.”
Hawke strokes a hand over fingers gone white from gripping the banister. “What’s his name?”
“Marcus.”
“Are you going to ask me to let him stay, or not?”
The look on Fenris’ face is a bit like hope and too much like shame.
“He has nowhere to go,” he says after a moment. “And my manor is…not the place for a child.”
“No, I agree. Too many corpses.”
That gets the barest hint of a smile. Down in front of the fire, Marcus is now covered in enthusiastic dog, face being assaulted by a sloppy pink tongue.
Hawke heaves a melodramatic sigh. “I suppose it would be a tragedy if the Hawke line ended with this generation. If anyone asks, we say he gets his dashing good looks and irresistible charm from me, alright?”
Fenris releases his grip on the rail to wind his fingers with Hawke’s, making a noise of contentment as Hawke pulls him back against his chest. “If we must.”
Isabela/Fenris
Written for a "propositions during sex" prompt.
“Fenris…” Isabela flutters her tongue against the head of his cock, licking up a thick drop of fluid. “A friend of mine’s got a job lined up for tomorrow night. Should be good coin.”
Fenris’ eyes are narrowed to slits, one hand wrapped tight in her hair. “What?” he asks, voice gravelly and low.
“It will go so much smoother if you’re there.” She sucks him into her mouth, pushing down, swallowing around him, pulling up with a moan. “You’re always…mm…so helpful.”
“Isabela…”
She can feel the flex of smooth muscle in his thighs, the tiny stutters of his hips, as if he’s trying to prevent himself from grabbing her by the hair and fucking her throat.
She pulls away with a sloppy sound, wrapping a hand around the slick length of him, strokes fast and tight. “You’re so…threatening, with that big sword of yours.”
The muscles in his abdomen are pulling tight, breathing rough and uneven.
“Fenris…” Isabela grazes a nail against the slit. “Say yes.”
It comes out in a growl, complete with a flash of lyrium scars and dangerous narrowing of bright green eyes. “Yes!”
“Excellent,” She slips a hand down into her smalls. “Now that that’s business out of the way, let’s move onto pleasure, shall we?”
dragon_age's weekly drabble-fest, and one for the kinkmeme. First two worksafe, the second less-so. No spoilers.
Fenris/Hawke
One thing can be said for Antivans—they certainly know their wine.
They also appear to know their scented oils, baths full of rose petals, and gratuitously overpriced inn rooms. Fenris seems rather stumped by it all.
“There are…too many pillows on this bed.”
Hawke drops down onto the mattress with a laugh, upsetting some of the red and gold embroidered cushions. “When you’re tired and sore enough, there are never too many pillows.”
“Oh?” Fenris’ eyes narrow, voice going low and rough. “And how do you plan on making me sore enough to appreciate them?”
“Why don’t you come up here,” Hawke suggests lightly, leaning back on the mound of pillows, “And let me show you?”
Hawke/Fenris
They find the waif in Lowtown, curled up on a filthy old grain-sack, one eye swollen shut and lash marks on his back. His features are delicate and his ears are pointed, but not quite pointed enough.
When the boy opens his mouth and Arcanum comes tumbling out, Fenris almost falls over from the shock. “Potesne pecuniam mihi dare, Domine?”
Hawke glances at him with a raised eyebrow. “Friend of yours?”
Fenris shakes his head, even as Hawke hands the boy a few silvers. Glancing back over his shoulder as they mount the stairs to Hightown, Fenris sees the wounds on his face and the ones in his eyes, still fresh and new and painful.
He nods a goodbye. “Vale, filii.”
He knows those eyes will haunt him in his sleep.
The next morning, as Fenris is letting himself out of the servant’s door of the Hawke estate, he almost trips over something that had looked like a dirty pile of rags.
The boy straightens up. “You’re of Imperium?” His Common is atrocious.
Hawke comes home that night to find a battered half-Elvhen boy sitting at his kitchen table, licking gravy off his fingers.
“Messere,” Bodahn greets, shuffling his feet in distinct discomfort. “Serah Fenris brought a guest in for dinner.”
Fenris meets his eyes, something bright and challenging gleaming in the moss-green depths of them.
He shakes his head, propping his staff up against the table. “And I was just telling Anders off for picking up stray cats.”
“He escaped from his master when she was on business in Kirkwall,” Fenris tells Hawke later, the two of them installed on the balcony that overlooks the sitting room, watching Sandal introducing the boy to the family Mabari. “She was a Magister—.” The word drips with hatred, with barely-suppressed violence, “But he wouldn’t give me her name.”
Hawke strokes a hand over fingers gone white from gripping the banister. “What’s his name?”
“Marcus.”
“Are you going to ask me to let him stay, or not?”
The look on Fenris’ face is a bit like hope and too much like shame.
“He has nowhere to go,” he says after a moment. “And my manor is…not the place for a child.”
“No, I agree. Too many corpses.”
That gets the barest hint of a smile. Down in front of the fire, Marcus is now covered in enthusiastic dog, face being assaulted by a sloppy pink tongue.
Hawke heaves a melodramatic sigh. “I suppose it would be a tragedy if the Hawke line ended with this generation. If anyone asks, we say he gets his dashing good looks and irresistible charm from me, alright?”
Fenris releases his grip on the rail to wind his fingers with Hawke’s, making a noise of contentment as Hawke pulls him back against his chest. “If we must.”
Isabela/Fenris
Written for a "propositions during sex" prompt.
“Fenris…” Isabela flutters her tongue against the head of his cock, licking up a thick drop of fluid. “A friend of mine’s got a job lined up for tomorrow night. Should be good coin.”
Fenris’ eyes are narrowed to slits, one hand wrapped tight in her hair. “What?” he asks, voice gravelly and low.
“It will go so much smoother if you’re there.” She sucks him into her mouth, pushing down, swallowing around him, pulling up with a moan. “You’re always…mm…so helpful.”
“Isabela…”
She can feel the flex of smooth muscle in his thighs, the tiny stutters of his hips, as if he’s trying to prevent himself from grabbing her by the hair and fucking her throat.
She pulls away with a sloppy sound, wrapping a hand around the slick length of him, strokes fast and tight. “You’re so…threatening, with that big sword of yours.”
The muscles in his abdomen are pulling tight, breathing rough and uneven.
“Fenris…” Isabela grazes a nail against the slit. “Say yes.”
It comes out in a growl, complete with a flash of lyrium scars and dangerous narrowing of bright green eyes. “Yes!”
“Excellent,” She slips a hand down into her smalls. “Now that that’s business out of the way, let’s move onto pleasure, shall we?”
