Attack of the Fenpaca

spicyshimmy:

frikadeller:

Male!Isabela, Hawke, and Zevran.

After everything Hawke had been through—multiple wide-spread fires, an enforced qunari occupation of his favorite city, his home in Lothering being completely destroyed, breaking a nail that morning, finding his first gray hair that afternoon, being tossed sky-high by a dragon guarding the Bone Pit before supper and supper itself being under-seasoned—it was high time things started going right for Kirkwall’s champion.

And by that, Hawke meant going wrong, only doing it the right way for a change. A way that didn’t involve mabari slobber—hopefully—or blood magic—not Hawke’s thing, almost too kinky—or gathering anything in the sewers—Anders had the sexy tortured look down, to be sure, but sexy tortured Sela Petrae just wasn’t the same.

That delicate balance of deviance and delight only Kirkwall could offer in its naughtiest dreams and darkest corners; the reason the place had called to him like the open water called to a sailor, or the open road stretched all the way to the sea…

It could be found in the poetry of the Hanged Man—and Hawke wasn’t talking about the rhyming verse or the heart-worms or the speed griffons, either. 

He was talking about the painted elves, the sea-scarred pirates, the strangers who might have been friends and the friends who might have been strangers, all of them gathered to see which one of them would be the first to swallow a tooth in Corff’s special brew. 

‘Ah,’ Hawke said, fishing someone else’s molar out of his mouth. ‘This must be my lucky day.’ 

‘This,’ Zevran said, with his hands grasping Hawke’s hips, and the strength of fine Rivaini backside musculature—in other words, Isabelo’s magnificent arse—keeping Hawke in the air for once, so that he was no longer expected to engineer the thing himself, or recruit a high dragon for the task, ‘must be your lucky day, my friend.’

‘Stranger,’ Hawke replied, breathless, sweat on the small of his back, his heel against the dimple flanking a pirate’s arched spine. ‘They make the very best friends, so I’ve found, whereas not-strangers tend to make the best enemies.’ 

Lips on his shoulder, on his throat, a tongue against a freckle and teeth scraping stubble, scattered across a very happy pulse. What he held onto—and, thankfully, what held on to him in return. 

It was rare to find reciprocation like that in the City of Chains. 

Fools and mercenaries, rusty blades and brand new ones—but there were very few poets.

Hawke’s toes curled and Zevran’s laughter sounded like the wind in unfurled sails, the salt on Isabelo’s lips like the sweat on Hawke’s brow. 

Three certainly is company, Hawke thought. He’d have to find a way to convince Anders and Fenris of that too, someday.