Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make no money.
Author's Note: This is a much darker version of Hawke/Fenris than I've ever written. It's a look at the type of relationship that would occur should Hawke be played as malicious and blood-thirsty. This is to open a window into that entirely possible, and entirely toxic, relationship. Fair warning for unhealthy interactions ahead.
Afterimage
"'This will not end well,' he pants heatedly into her neck." - Hawke and Fenris discover the danger of desire. Done for the February challenge of the Dragon Age Fanfiction Writers facebook page.
Some days he thinks he hates her.
When she is bloodied and dark and with her back to him.
Fenris straightens himself, his hands still gripping the hilt of his sword tightly, watching her in steady silence.
She stands surrounded by bodies, the ground slick and warm with their blood. She is looking off past the carnage, her face dirt-streaked and turned from him. Her arms hang limp at her side, her sword held lightly in her fingers, the tip piercing the dirt at her feet. Rivulets of gleaming red run the length of the smooth metal.
Fenris is breathing heavily from the recent fight, his muscles still quivering from the exertion. He swallows tightly, keeps his eyes focused on her still form. His chest is heaving with labored breathes.
Hawke turns so that he can glimpse the profile of her marred face. There is a twisting, satisfied smile slowly pulling at her lips. It is vicious and dangerous, and tells of death that does not come easy.
Fenris frowns. He takes no pleasure in the killing himself, though he may recognize the need.
But this woman. This creature of unexplainable horror. She slings death and gore with a passion that scares him with its intensity. And not because he fears for himself. But because he fears these emotions she stirs in him.
She reaches her arm up and over her shoulder to place her heavy sword back into its sheath along her back. She does not even wipe it. Blood catches, sticky and lasting, along the leather carrier. And he can see where several dark stains allude to other battles. She does not wipe her hands. They remain red and death-sheathed. Her fingers curl savagely, deliciously, at the warm sensation along her palms. There is something brutal in her look. It tells of a hunger that is never sated. A lingering, constant ache. A dangerous growling beast that writhes inside her, that howls and pants for blood in a way he has never seen before.
Hawke's eyes catch his in a momentary breath and there is a spark of dark desire.
He cannot look away. He watches her long after she has turned from him. The image of her stays with him long into the night, when he is breathless and alone in his empty bed.
He does not trust the sinister, treacherous laugh that escapes her in battle. He does not trust her when she is bloody. He does not trust how she revels in it.
But more than anything, he does not trust how he dreams of her in sex and shadow.
Hawke likes when Fenris is angry.
His whole body quakes with it. His voice becomes a threatening, low hum in his throat. There is promise to his heat. A rhythmic thunder to his breathing.
She thrills at the sight of it. Finds something slick and dangerous pooling in her gut. Feels her skin tingling in anxious desire. Hawke has never been shy about her wants. Never been quiet or compromising or generous. She recognizes the mortal and the endless. The lasting and the inevitable. And she does not step tenderly. Or softly.
"You have a problem with me, Fenris?" Her voice is low and challenging, her arms crossing confidently over her chest, one brow raised.
Fenris's nostrils flare. "I have a problem with you slaughtering indiscriminately."
Hawke takes a pointed look around his decrepit mansion. "If they can't save themselves, then maybe they deserved to die."
Something flares inside Fenris, and he cannot discern whether it is rage or longing. "Weakness should not warrant brutality."
Hawke looks back to him. "I'm not here to coddle anyone. They were in my way. I removed them."
"And when I am in your way, Hawke? What then?" He asks without even realizing it, his breath tight in his chest, his fingers flexing in taut, controlled fists.
A smirk blooms slowly across her face and he curses beneath his breath at her look. She raises a brow. "Is that what this is about? You afraid I'll toss you aside?" She takes a brave step toward him and his eyes flash dangerously. "Or better yet, that I'll turn on you?"
Fenris swallows thickly, chooses his words cautiously, though they are laced with a venomous warning. "It would not be in your best interest to make an enemy of me."
She takes another step closer, her chest fluttering with the impatient yearning that his words light within her. "No, I suppose not," she answers, far more nonchalant than she feels. "Though I have never considered you weak or helpless. I have no doubts as to your power." She lets her gaze linger meaningfully over his lips, on the smooth skin of his throat, pulsing just above the armor of his chestplate. Her mind follows the lines of bright and brutal lyrium along his olive skin, delving beneath armor that hides toned muscle and sleek form. She imagines the magic-tinged lines spreading wide over his abdomen, the low dip of tattooed pain along his pelvis.
Her breath hitches softly in her throat at his threatening growl, her eyes flicking back to his quickly.
"Then it may be best you do not test it." His words are a low promise, his shoulders stooping barely enough for Hawke to recognize the predatory move. His eyes do not leave hers.
She swallows tightly at the image before her, his body pitched in just the right way to seem both haunted and alluring. Her arms slip from their cross over her chest. "I would like nothing more than to test it," she challenges, her voice laced with perilous promise, her eyes unflinching on his.
The way she does not turn away from him. The way her dark eyes bore into his. The way she looks at him, and sees him. And wants him. The way she does not shy away from the ugly, tempting honesty she offers in her gaze. He does not want to admit to the desire that flares within him. He does not want to admit that it is the simple, unadulterated heat of her eyes that keeps him rooted in threatening hunger. In barely-held want.
Maker, just her fucking eyes.
He almost takes her right then.
"I think you should leave, Hawke," he barely gets out, his voice laden with heat and warning.
She blinks at him, her dark eyes crinkling in knowing recognition. She takes a brave step closer and he must swallow back his tight intake of breath at her sudden proximity.
Her lashes are heavy against her eyes, her gaze intentional and lingering. "If that's what you want," she practically purrs.
Fenris holds her gaze determinedly, though his chest is aching with barely-contained need. "It is what I want."
Hawke's mouth is a tight line, her fingers lighting softly against his chest in a brazen tracing of his armor. She pauses a moment, flicks her gaze from his heaving chest to his eyes. There is the twitch of a smirk hinting at her lips. "You're lying," she says lowly, her voice lilting with the graceful touch of her fingers along his collar.
He grabs her hand instantly, halting its progress. He holds it between them for a long, desperate moment, and then he grinds his teeth, lowers her hand and growls out, "I will not repeat myself."
Hawke pulls a slow breath in, her smile dark and hidden in a face that knows danger. She releases a short stunted laugh, and Fenris trembles at the sound. "No need," she breathes softly, her hand returning to her side. She levels Fenris with one last halting look, and then she is turning, walking from him in swift and sure strides. He catches the smirk along her lips just before she has her back to him, and he is flooded with righteous anger. Anger that bleeds inexplicably and uncontrollably into craving. So that he cannot tell what has him breathless. What has him aching and needy and fervent at the loss of her.
So that he cannot tell what makes him shudder in irrepressible want as the door closes behind her.
He imagines what sounds she might make when he has her pinned to that door, unable to speak those treacherous words with his mouth pressed tightly to hers. He imagines what the dark promise of her body holds, what carnage and blood and danger taste like. He imagines if her lips will feel as threatening when silenced by his own breathless need. He imagines how her savage skin would feel in his palms.
When his hand is plunged deep inside Hadriana's chest, his fingers clenching tightly around her thudding, slick-warm heart, he thinks he can hear Hawke's soft and venomous laugh just behind him. It is hampered by her heaving breathes, barely-there and momentary. But it is enough. It is enough to know that she is watching this gruesome scene with a twisted pleasure. The thought makes him shudder, and he does not know whether it is a welcomed heat or not that makes its way into his gut. He does not know how her hot and anxious breath at his shoulder can make the rage and disgust and heavy spiteful unforgiveness coil deliciously within him.
Fenris's eyes search Hadriana's as she grasps and claws helplessly at his arm, her cries stunted and pain-riddled as she tries to gasp his name. Her voice is caught somewhere between a gurgle and a whimper, her eyes blinking with hot tears, her body trembling violently beneath him.
His lip curls at the sight and he leans in closer, watches the slight widening of her eyes. She jerks against the sudden clench of his fingers around her heart, a flash of lyrium-tinted brutality lighting between them.
Something tells him he shouldn't enjoy it this much.
"Do it," Hawke whispers breathlessly beside him.
Fenris growls lowly, his brows furrowed tightly, the soft twitch of ruthless and heated revulsion pulling at his lip. Hadriana's blood is warm and wet as it trickles down his gauntleted arm, dripping to the cold floor below them. He glances at the sight, watches the slick gush as she struggles against his fist in her chest. Her blood is red. Red and bright and tempting. It is red like his.
He looks back at her at the helpless, pained whimper that falls from her lips. Something wild and hateful passes through her eyes. Her mouth opens in a horrified, silent cry.
Fenris rips his arm from her chest, tearing her heart from her in a violent, swift motion and then she is face-first and still on the ground, her blood pooling quickly around his toes. Her body twitches minutely, only a whisper of after-death.
Fenris pulls a long, slow breath in while he straightens. His whole arm is drenched in blood, gleaming and grotesque. Smelling of coppery sickness. He whips his head around swiftly to lock eyes with Hawke. She is staring at Hadriana's still-warm corpse. Her eyes are bright with excitement, licking her lips in animalistic anticipation. She glances up to Fenris.
There is a moment of quiet carnage passed between them.
Hawke glances to his lips unashamedly, her body tight with a dark blooming eagerness. Her gaze finds his again and he has his eyes narrowed dangerously at her. His fingers curl into fists, one red-tinged arm quaking heatedly at his side.
Hawke's smile is disturbing. "You made the right choice."
Fenris likes to think he has. Likes to think it's because he wanted to, needed to. Because Hadriana deserved it. But part of him wonders.
He wonders if it is this animal Hawke nurtures within him. He wonders if he is slowly slipping, slowly seeping deeper into this inescapable hunger. He has spent enough of his life in shadow.
He should not want this brutality she offers. He should not crave her violence.
He tastes like ashes and wine. Hawke fists her hands in Fenris' hair as she drags her mouth over his. She is pushing them back against the wall, where he falls forcefully against the stone, their lips breaking apart for a single breathless moment. And then his hand is on the back of her neck, pulling her harshly back to him as he growls into her mouth. She keens against him when she feels the painful digging of his gauntleted fingers in her hip. A moan reverberates through their hungry, joined mouths, so that they cannot tell whose it is, so that both of them are clawing at each other in the desperate need to hear it once more. To feel the hot and angry tangling of breathes and tongues, and the bruising ache of each other's hands along skin.
One of Fenris's hands reaches into her hair and yanks her head back sharply, her short yelp of pain lighting something in him that promises depravity. Her eyes flash dangerously to his as she whimpers deliciously against him, his other hand sliding roughly up her side to grasp her neck and jaw in a tight and needy hold. His eyes rove her face, his body hot and coiled against hers. One of her hands clenches swiftly in his own hair and the other grasps firmly on the elbow of the hand holding her head back at a painful angle. She licks her lips, her breathes quick and excited, and Fenris groans at the sight, his eyes hooded and dark on her swollen mouth . His fingers flex against the tender skin of her throat and he leans in so that his breath fans hot against her skin. He moves his lips along her jaw in flutters of warmth that would be gentle if not for the forceful and vicious hold he has on her. His breath is ragged in his throat as his words scrape out. "I will have you tonight, Hawke."
She presses into him further, a thrilling gasp of heat escaping her lips. "Do it," she breathes lowly, threateningly. A dark and taunting challenge. He thinks back to the same words she spoke earlier that day. The way her eyes lit with excitement, the way her whole body tensed in wicked anticipation. Fenris does not expect the flood of desire that threatens to break him suddenly. He moves his lips to graze over hers, his breath hot and angry like an accusation against her lips. He opens his mouth, moving over hers in desperate need. He feels her twisting smile pulling at her lips beneath his and he is thrown by her short exhale of a laugh. His brows furrow as she speaks.
"I already have you," she breathes into his mouth.
He is flooded with a dangerous wrath, his fingers digging into her skin as he pushes off the wall and turns to pin her against it instead. He snarls into her face and she laughs again, taunting and desire-laden even as she is crushed against the wall. His body curls tight against hers like a threat, one knee pushing forcefully between her thighs. She digs her nails into his arm, panting unashamedly as she moves to kiss him. He lets her. Forces his tongue into her mouth angrily, one hand moving to pull at the fabric of her robe hastily. She catches his bottom lip in her teeth and sucks. He moves his mouth roughly against hers, grabbing for the desperate feel of her skin, their breathes heavy and craving and promising of a night that cannot end without pain. Their kiss is bruising, their clawing violent, their hearts brutal inside their heaving chests.
"This will not end well," he pants heatedly into her neck.
"Good," she answers, her voice hot in his ear.
Her scorching touch lingers across his skin long after she has finished marking him for her own.
The silhouette of him is hazy and unreachable from where she lies sated in sheets. He has his back turned to her as he sits beside her on the bed, his hands along his side, gripping the edge of the bed in a quiet rage that does not escape her. He pulls in a heavy breathe, his back arching minutely with the motion, the muscles along his shoulder blades churning in a delicious promise. She watches the subtle motion of his back as he breathes, catches the lines of toned strength and lyrium-lined olive skin as he flexes unconsciously. She finds her eyes transfixed on the simple motion of his shoulder blades as they roll in a haunting ache that speaks of breathless heat between them. She must pull the sheet closer, hold it tight in her fist or she will not be able to quell this slow pool of desire within her.
She halts her breath at the sight of him, ghostly and moonlit. She can hear his steady breathing from where she lays. She imagines it is aligned with her own. She imagines his heart beats with the same ferocity and exactness as her own. She imagines she is not alone in this unending world, this constant barrage of loss, this bloody, hateful lie.
She likes to think she is not the only one hounded, the only one haunted, the only one hopeless. She likes to think this darkness within her is not her own.
He does not speak. Does not hint at any notion of recognition. She is gone from his mind.
But he is still vibrant in hers. She thinks back on the heated thrill of his hands on her skin, the slick and brutal swipe of his tongue, the heavy expel of his breath as they joined, the way he watched her when she writhed beneath him. Hawke finds herself aching with tender and unexpected loss when she watches the planes of his back, the absence of his face turned to her.
She furrows her brows, her throat tight with unspokens. She wants him to look at her.
She wants him to look at her.
He does not move for several minutes.
Hawke is filled with an empty, unknowable fury.
They find each other. In dark, unlit alleys. In the hollow halls of his mansion. In the rain-soaked mud of the Wounded Coast. They find each other wherever they can. They find each other breathlessly and needfully and violently. They do not know how else to be, but to be this.
Painful.
And greedy. And unquenchable.
It is all they feel for a long time. Neither of them know how to turn away. Neither of them know how to uncurl their fingers from each other's throats. Neither of them know how to look at the world and not see each other in it.
It is a slow, inescapable downfall. A knowing and welcomed death. A painful exhilaration.
Hawke reaches intrinsically for him, without shame, without explanation. She does not try to understand this need. She can only look at him and she is lost. She revels in the knowledge that he is just as irredeemable as she.
He tries, honestly. He truly does.
But he cannot be rid of her. This craving he has for her will undo him. This thirst for her taste will drown him. This throbbing desire festers within him in shameful ways he has no words for.
In the end, he knows she will ruin him.
But he cannot stop wanting.
And she will not release him.
Hawke watches him at night, when he stands in the silver streams of moonlight breaking through his mansion's broken windows. He has a hand along the sill, his other threading through a thin red silk at his side. His eyes are trailing something outside the window. Something she cannot see.
She lies on the bed, sheet-tangled and sweaty, her eyes staring in savage need at his naked back. She breathes lowly, her fingers curling into the sheet. He is framed in dark, elusive light, his hair bright against the blackness of night. So that when she blinks she can still see his afterimage burning loud and hot against her lids. So that even when she closes her eyes, he is there.