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The mabari — a large and ancient breed, their reputation as a fierce protector often precedes them. They’re strong and intelligent beyond words — this, any Ferelden could tell you, regardless of whether they’ve ever owned one themselves. Heroic hounds charging into battle, teeth bared against their foes, piercing howls that seem to rumble the battlefield… it’s a powerful image — one that’s etched itself into all of Ferelden, or perhaps, even all of Thedas. But what people don’t know, is that for all their might, they’re rather clingy, too.
A dramatic sigh from your doorway tells you that your lover is finally coming to terms with this fact.
You look up from your book, grinning in amusement. You raise your other hand in a wave, but the moment you pull your hand from the dog atop your chest, the hound lets out a whine — just as pitiful as his owner’s. You chuckle in turn, turning your attention back to the dog, but not before placing your bookmark in its place to cast the novel aside. It lands with a quiet “thud” somewhere on the bed, quick to be forgotten in favor of the pup demanding your attention — as though he hasn’t been commanding it for the better part of the day. It’s not often that you get a day free from your little “errands,” as you and Garrett have taken to calling them over the years — so the Maker will have to forgive you for using it to relax with your favorite animal. Both hands now free, you scratch behind his ears once more, and he grumbles contentedly, flopping back down with his head to your chest… meanwhile, Garrett grumbles in his own discontent, shutting the door to shuck his armor.
“You’re a war hound, Dog. War.” His chest piece falls to the floor, and he raises his hands in mimickry. “Barking, bloody, vicious? Ever heard of it?”
Dog, in response, only makes himself cozier in your hold. Hawke scoffs, fighting his way out of the last of his leathers with a half of a hop, nearly falling on his face in the process. You watch the display, amused, as he finally gets the damnable piece off. “Glorified lap nug,” he murmurs, before throwing his voice back to the dog, “I know you can understand me, Dog.”
Again, no response.
This time you can’t help but laugh in full — typical of him, to lose an argument with his own dog —but extend a beckoning hand nonetheless. At this he perks up from his melodramatic rambling, rounding the bed to instead kneel at your side. He leans forward, placing a quick, familiar kiss upon your lips. Some of the tension of the day seems to slip from his shoulders at this, and melts only further when you card a free hand through his hair to massage lightly at the base of his scalp. His eyes flutter shut at the gentle ministrations. For all of the adventuring you’ve been on over the years, you’re still shocked at how soft he’s managed to keep his locks — not that you’d ever ask “how,” for fear of inflating his ego any further. Although as you work your way through the tangled mess, the crunching sensation of slightly-singed hair makes itself known. You frown.
“You weren’t off fighting dragons without me, were you?”
“By the Maker, you think me so cruel?” His eyes crinkle in mischief, peering up at you from his spot on the ground, “I would never deprive you of such a thing.”
You raise your brow, questioningly, and he continues.
“I’m just too good at what I do…”
“Meaning?”
“Rogues work in the shadows, unseen… and I just happen to be so good at it that our wonderful, magical compatriots also didn’t see me before hurling a bit of fire.”
“So what you’re saying is that you were in the way?”
He chuckles, leaning into your hold a bit more, eyes drooping — “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
You chuckle softly, taking in his gradually relaxing form. “Fenris will have a field day with this one,” you murmur.
“Don’t remind me,” he responds, letting his eyes finally flutter close.
That is, until the Mabari covering you barks in protest, startling you both out of the moment. Garrett shoots a glare at his companion, and you extract your hand from his locks to flick his chest lightly in warning — coaxing a pout from the man, not unexpectedly — before returning it to the hound.
“Be nice to him,” you scold, “he’s been doing a very good job at keeping me safe, you know.”
He hums, “Ah yes, because you’re so defenseless. I leave you at home for one day, and suddenly you’re helpless against the evils of the world? No, it must be quite the danger, for you to need a hand. What’s he protecting you from today? The horrors of the written word?” He gestures at your discarded book. “Or is he protecting you from your lovely—” a kiss to your forehead, “dashing—” to your cheeks, “devoted—” to your lips, “and exhausted boyfriend?”
You smile at his antics — dramatic as ever. “Well you see, it’s rather cold out tonight. Bit of a draft, we’ll have to find someone to fix that.”
He blinks, eyebrows raising in question. “So he’s protecting you from… the cold?”
A hum of affirmation from you, and he grins wickedly.
“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” He leans further into your space, continuing lowly, “If you needed a knight in shining armor, I am happy to apply, you know. I, myself, know plenty of ways to keep you warm, your majesty.”
You laugh, placing a hand to his bare chest to push him away playfully. “Maybe he should be protecting me from you!” Although your attempts to nudge him away backfire as he grabs your wrist, keeping the contact as he holds your hand firmly to his chest. He rises to his feet, only to prop his leg on the bed to lean over you. Dog barks wildly at this, and scrambles to the other side of the bed when he realizes Hawke is not, in fact, stopping his advance. You laugh, struggling in his hold, but to no avail.
“Gare’, you are filthy—”
“Your loyal protector has defected from the royal army—”
“You are not getting on this bed without a wash—”
“Whatever will you do, your majesty? There’s no time to waste, you’ll freeze if we wait any longer—”
“You are incorrigible—”
He silences your protests with a kiss, slotting himself between your legs as Dog barks on, until the latter ebbs into a single, defeated whine. Bested at his own game, he pads off to go play with another — at least, that’s what you assume. It’s hard to think straight when Garrett muddies your thoughts so effortlessly — he smiles into the kiss, and against your better thoughts, you throw your arms around his shoulders to bring him in closer. He groans softly into your mouth, pressing himself against you so firmly that he quickly becomes your whole world. Large, scarred hands wander down, and down, and—
Furious scratching at the door breaks you out of the moment once more, and this time the groan your lover lets out is rather different in tone. You laugh to yourself — Fuck it, you’ll wash the bedding tomorrow. You squeeze his bicep fondly, nodding your head towards the door: “Go let him out, love.”