#thatssohawke

[fulluponcrazy]

@thatssohawke​ | [x]

“As someone who likes to think he knows you fairly well, I can confirm that you usually are.”

[fulluponcrazy]

[text]: dont tell Alistair, but hE IS so hot

[draft] Wait what[text: Beardsalot] Have i got news for you, then

[fulluponcrazy]

Damn

“Surprisingly, I was already aware of that. But I do like getting the occasional reminder.”

[fulluponcrazy]

@thatssohawke​ asked: "I don’t get it. I just wanna talk about my work and everyone just keeps seeming to bring up all my past of all the shitty stuff I've done. " 

Out of Context sentence starters | Accepting

“Hawke,” Alistair begins so very patiently, “you’re the Champion of Kirkwall.” A short beat, before he emphasizes, “Kirkwall. A city that is, by its very nature, ‘shitty stuff.’ Can you really blame people if that’s where their thoughts go?”

[dirthelgar]

@thatssohawke

Mika knew right away that he had failed, that despite escaping his out of time prison, he had not been able to save what had been his timeline. Because there was no Breach in the sky.

And because he could see Lothering from here, while he run from darkspawn in the small hills. Many darkspawn.

The elf let lightning fly from his hand, knowing it chained on some of the foul beings behind him, but nowhere near enough to make him safe. So he didn’t stop, wishing that he had not lost forever his staff, as there was no way he could allow darkspawn close without one.

However, Mika got lucky, as he managed to loose the darkspawn, not without some slightly dangerous stunt. He could almost hear Cassandra scold him from sliding down like that, but then he pushed the thought away as he felt longing.

Of course, Mika knew he couldn’t stick around. The hord would find him if he did, but at least, he could sit on a rock to rest a bit. His ears twitched when they picked the sound of people running, and he noticed a group of humans coming from the path to his right. From the weapons, he could tell there were two warriors and two mages, the last of the group a middle aged woman.

It seemed they, too, were fleeing from danger. Mika watched them as they grew closer, knowing they would notice him now, and he stood up. He looked hesitant, but not unfriendly.

“The darkspawn, they’re getting close again?” He asked, glancing at the direction they came from for a second. “I guess rest time over.” The path was quite small, meaning that all they could really do was go in the same direction. and so he added with a small smile, “I hope you don’t mind some more company right now.”

[fulluponcrazy]

thatssohawke replied to your post: thatssohawke replied to your post: ...

I don’t think they even do the show anymore so it is a moot point BUT STILL.

They do, but it switched channels and Tyra is no longer a host/judge.

[fulluponcrazy]

thatssohawke replied to your post: For Door 18, let’s explore some AUs! Are there...

AMERICA’S NEXT TOP MODEL WITH ALISTAIR

TOO LATE, THEY NO LONGER HAVE MALE CONTESTANTS but that would be hysterical

[fulluponcrazy]

@thatssohawke

“Who are you supposed to be?”

They met at a robbery, as cliche as it sounded. Hawke tended not to talk with other supers much, be they heroes or villains, but he didn’t have much of a choice in this case. The man with the armor and visor had rendered him rather humanly squishy, and he was doing a very good job at keeping himself in Hawke’s path. The police weren’t going to help, all of them rather thoroughly enraptured a few yards off, where a redheaded woman was singing to them quietly.

“They call me Naught,” the man answered, using his bo staff to neatly cut off Hawke’s path. His voice was...well.

Not now, boner!

There were other code names amongst the group, as far as Hawke had heard. Noble. Kraehe. Golem. Siren. Rampage. Le Fae. And Naught, apparently. Naught, who was proving himself most distracting.

Finally, Hawke surged forward. Powers or no, he was not a weak man, and he simply picked so-called Naught up, the metal staff clattering to the floor. But the struggle Hawke was expecting didn’t happen.

Instead, Naught simply looped his arms casually around Hawke’s neck and crossed one leg over the other. “Usually I wait until the second date to let this sort of manhandling happen,” he remarked pleasantly, “but I suppose I can let you get away with it. I do like the lumberjack look, after all, though you seem to be short a flannel or three at the moment.”

Hawke paused mid-step in his quest to drop Naught at a safe distance to make a dent in the rest of the gaggle. And his brain sort of stopped for a moment, until he simply dropped Naught right there. With a scoff, Naught kicked his legs out from under him in retaliation, leaving both of them on their asses on the floor.

If he intended to do anything else, he didn’t get a chance to, as Noble barked, “Naught! We’re leaving!”

They met a few times, and it generally went similarly. Hawke did what he could to mitigate bystander injuries, but he was a bit too content to let himself be otherwise distracted. The most dangerous thing they did was scuffling halfheartedly.

Until one such scuffle ended with Naught pinned and straddled on the floor. He bucked his hips up with a pointed grin, and Hawke went scarlet behind his mask.

The evening ended...somewhere. Hawke wasn’t actually sure where. A safe house, probably, or at least Hawke was guessing that was what it was by how nondescript it was. He kept his mask on. Naught kept his visor on and didn’t even make it fully out of his armor before Hawke did his damnedest to pile drive him through the mattress.

“Oh, Christ,” Naught laughed afterwards, forehead resting against one gauntlet, “you should come with a warning label.”

Hawke, always a gentleman, belatedly helped divest him of the rest of his body armor.

“You do have an actual name, right?” Hawke wondered, a different day, in a different safe house, his chin leaning on a considerably more naked shoulder.

There was an amused hum, followed by, “I do, yes. No, I’m not telling you.”

Hawke pouted and nosed at the back of his neck, though his mask made the gesture sharper than he intended. “Even if I say please?”

“Even if,” Naught confirmed cheerfully.

“Sociopath,” Hawke sulked.

“Nuisance.”

There were four safe houses. Whichever one got used depended on whichever they were closest to. Hawke kept his mask on. Naught kept his visor on. Sometimes they talked. Naught was very good at talking and saying very little, so it took weeks for anyone to realize they knew nothing about him. Hawke did what he could to keep up.

And he didn’t mention it when Naught went off on a rant one night, gesticulating even as he shed his armor. Voice pitched upwards, Naught mocked, “’Oh, but Ali, we need you!’” before he scoffed. “’Need’ my ass. I’m not made of money.”

Hawke kissed him and pressed him down onto the bed, distracting him before he could realize the slip. “Shhhhh,” he hushed. “Whine later. I need your ass right now.”

Naught--Ali, whatever that was short for--groaned and flung a forearm across his face. “That was awful.”

“You have a face under here, right?” Hawke wondered, fingers idly sliding along one edge of Naught’s visor.

“Yes, much like I’m assuming you do,” Naught returned wryly. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Hawke paused. It was probably a joke, he reasoned. He threaded his fingers into Naught’s hair and gave it an affectionate tug. “My face is not for supervillains.”

“Mercenary,” Naught corrected, just as he did every other time. “And you can’t object that much, considering you’re the one giving me a limp three times a week.”

“...Is it that often?” Hawke wondered faintly.

They lapsed into silence, until Naught took pity on him and decided, “Well, I’m up for round two.”

They were in Hawke’s apartment, barely even big enough to fit both of them, but that didn’t seem important. Hawke was in his civvies, his mask hastily donned once he realized who was hammering at his door.

Naught slid down the wall, head back and breath tight and shallow with pain, before he simply laid down on the floor. “Grab my wrist,” he commanded, voice strained as he nodded his head towards the wrist in question.

Hawke knelt beside him and did as he was told. “Okay?”

“Pull.”

“What--?”

“Pull.” It came out short and snappish. “Slowly.”

Hawke did as he was told, pulling slow and steady on the limb, until there was an odd, sort of meaty crunch and Hawke cringed as Naught’s shoulder slid back into its socket. Naught went limp in relief, breath sighing out slowly.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, uh--yeah. No problem.”

Naught slept on the couch that night. He tried to leave, at first, but Hawke picked him up, deposited him on the couch, and held him there with two fingers until he gave in. So he slept on the couch that night, armor discarded in the corner and visor still in place, and the next morning Hawke learned that Naught could make really good coffee even with a really shit coffee maker.

“So, what happened?” Hawke asked, waiting for the expected tangent.

“Noble and I disagree, occasionally,” Naught replied, more honest than Hawke ever expected. He finished his coffee. “It’s alright, though. I won.”

Hawke...wasn’t actually sure where he was. There was a lot of blood dripping down his arm, and everything was sort of loose and floaty. He had never been shot before, but he found he did not appreciate the resultant blood loss.

Stumbling his way towards...something, he didn’t even realize he wasn’t alone until he walked right into Naught, bouncing off the man’s chest plate. Naught hushed him quietly and readied his staff.

“I’ve been looking for you for an hour,” he groused.

Hawke thought about pointing out that men with guns were perfectly, ordinarily un-super, so what was Naught going to do? But he figured that was a question he didn’t actually want to know the answer to, so he settled for sliding down the nearest wall and waving Naught towards them.

“Good god, how are you so heavy? It’s like you super compact, I swear...”

Naught’s grumbling was sort of comforting.

Hawke woke up on a couch, a blanket thrown over him haphazardly. It was much nicer than his own couch. The view out the windows was also much nicer than his apartment’s view, as he appeared to be in a penthouse at that moment.

His mask was still on his face, though he was wearing little else from the waist up, aside from the bandages on his shoulder. He didn’t remember that happening.

A brown doberman and a dalmatian watched him warily from the other couch before they both curled back up and went back to sleep. He decided they had the right idea.

Naught, Hawke learned a couple hours later, slept with his back jammed against the wall like he was ready for a fight even when he was asleep, even in his own penthouse. To be fair, he probably was. He had one arm folded under his head and the other tucked to his chest, and it was sort of endearing.

He also wasn’t wearing his visor. It sat discarded on the dresser, which itself sat in a sea of discarded armor. And he was really, unfairly pretty.

Slowly, Hawke pulled his mask off and set it on the dresser. Just as slowly, he crawled onto the bed, keeping his weight off of one arm. He prodded at Naught until he blinked one honey brown eye open to glare at him balefully. Finally, Naught lifted the arm that was tucked against his chest and Hawke laid down, perfectly content to play little spoon. Naught’s arm settled over his hip a moment later.

“Thanks,” Hawke mumbled eventually.

“Mmhm.” Naught did not actually sound like he was awake. Not until he offered, a few moments later, “Alistair.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hawke returned drowsily. “Name’s Garrett.”