"Absurd headcanon: Fenris stinks. Like, months old feral fug. Red wine and irregular meals and garlic and layers and layers of sweat. Stinks, too, in the way a heavy drug-user smells strange and chemical and burnt, not quite right. Fenris goes to visit Hawke and waits in that central hall; Hawke stands outside his own front door with his heart skipping a beat and the key momentarily forgotten in his hand, thinking, “Oh. Fenris must be here.” (Leandra is upstairs in her room going, “Oh. The strange elf again,” and cringes at the way she always knows when he stays the night and when he doesn’t, courtesy of the Presence coming and departing along with him.) But the stink is not necessarily the sort of stink which makes you screw up your face and run, especially not someone like Hawke, who is used to battlefield stinks and abattoirs and dogs and gets hayfever like you wouldn’t believe at a whiff of perfume; and maybe “dog” is the best description of the stink, feral, not like a human gone wrong or an elf who doesn’t wash, it’s an honest stink, a personable stink, specific, can’t be separated from knowing the person. Fascinating in its complexity, and the way it’s like a huge set of sensory fluorescent arrows pointing at Fenris, preceding and receding, and in the way that sensory = sensual, this stink = sexual, and Hawke spends far too much time thinking about the smell, puzzling at the smell, finds himself getting turned on just at the shadow of a Fenris lurking around the corner, and holds him down in bed with his arms up over his head and licks and bites his underarms, where there are no scars."
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