can i ask for more hawke/isabela hahaha...with this from the touching prompts? "falling asleep on the other’s shoulder " happy friday!!!
Just a short one but I hope you enjoy it, thank you for the prompt!
(If you’d like me to write you a da2 fic, send me a prompt from here!)
@dadrunkwriting
Pairing: HawkeBela
Characters: Marian Hawke, Isabela
Tags: Deeps Roads, Yearning, pre-relationship
Rating: Teen and Up
They’ve been in The Deep Roads for three weeks now, and Isabela still isn’t sure what in the demon-infested abscesses of the Maker-blighted Fade possessed her to agree to this. She is a woman built for fresh air and wide, salt-soaked blue horizons. She is absolutely not designed to be trapped into neverending bloody tunnels, cleaning darkspawn piss off her tunic and hoping it doesn’t somehow infect her.
On her shoulder, Hawke snores softly, her mouth half-open. Isabela pauses in her scrubbing to look down at her. In sleep, Marian looks almost gentle. Her pale skin is suited to these macabre surroundings, almost luminescent in the shadowed dark. Her long, thick eyelashes are brushstrokes of black ink, and her haphazard birds’ nest of hair is a pile of raven’s feathers, bending gently where she’s resting against Isabela’s shoulder.
It would be so easy to kill her now, Isabela muses. The rest of the camp is asleep - even Varric, ever watchful of his prized bird, possessive with the love of deep and certain friendship. The embers of the fire have burned low, smudging some long since forgotten dwarven flagstones. The dark smells acrid and sulfurous, creeping around them like something alive. Isabela could slip a knife into her belly and claim it was a hurlock. It would hardly be difficult to find one. All she had to do was toss a pebble and they’d come running. Such a shame, they caught her in the night, at least she didn’t feel any pain.
Protectively, Isabela’s fingers curl around Marian’s wiry arm. She’s like a child, like this. Hardly the one-woman tornado who had so easily and so routinely upended her life.
Something screeches in the distance, and Isabela tenses. On her shoulder, Hawke snorts a little, and a chuckle escapes Isabela like a butterfly, flying free of her lips without conscious thought. Bartrand and his mercenaries mutter and sniff farther off, and closer-by Varric half sleeps with measured, quiet, shallow breaths.
Hawke frowns a little as a lock of dark hair falls down her forehead, tickling at her eyelids. Her nose wrinkles, and her lips press shut. Isabela curls, and moves the offending cowlick, careful as a forger with a priceless Orlesian masterpiece. Her fingertips trail over Hawke’s warm, soft cheek. When she speaks, it’s barely a murmur, “You’re going to be the death of me.”
But Hawke doesn’t hear the meaning of the words, just the sound of her voice. A sleep-softened smile curls around her rose-pink lips, and she presses closer to Isabela, breathing her in with a deep, happy sigh. Isabela ferociously ignores the stabbing pain in her chest, and lets her. For a moment she just sits there, one arm around the strong shoulders of the woman she - of her friend, listening to the cricket’s chorus of their company snoring in the night, and the distant, terrible cacophony of howling monsters.
Then she turns her attention back to the stain on her tunic. There’s no way she’s going to get it out. Hawke mutters and nuzzles her cheek against Isabela’s shoulder. Isabela sighs, and puts down the wash-cloth. There’s no hope. She’s committed now.
