Hawke watched Zevran walk away and, more than likely, out of his life forever. Even his easy stride was tantamount to flirting; his hips swayed in a way that took your thoughts to happy places, and he looked over his shoulder, once, to wink and grin. Hawke let out a wistful sigh. Once the elf was out of earshot, he turned to the other elf and threw his hands out to either side.

"Really, Fenris?"

Fenris gave him a level glare that was only a touch less hostile than the one he'd directed at Zevran only a minute ago. His arms were crossed over his chest.

The delight Hawke had felt in Zevran's company faded. So did the excitement at his flirting and the rising thrill as each suggestive remark surpassed the previous one and escalated their little game. Hawke ran a hand over his face, suddenly tired. It wasn't like he was interested in Zevran. Sure, the elf had been pleasant enough to the eye and easy to get on with, but Hawke was no fool. He knew this was purely born from the frustration of too many long and lonely nights.

Unfortunately for him, the one he had his heart set on refused to return his feelings. Oh, Fenris wore Hawke's favors openly and would more than likely lay down his life if Hawke's was in danger, but when it came to intimacy he backed away.

A wary wolf, burned once by the fire and twice shy.

The most frustrating thing was that Fenris stayed by Hawke's side and guarded him more possessively than a mabari. If someone came too close, he growled at them until they went away. Unwilling to let Hawke in, and too jealous to permit anyone else having him.

And Hawke… Hawke was unwilling to walk away. As long as Fenris was still here at his side, still protective of him, still wearing that blasted red band around his wrist, there had to be a sliver of a chance he'd someday want to try again.

If he was honest with himself, Hawke had flirted with Zevran partially to prod at Fenris' jealousy. It wasn't nice, but they'd been at this stalemate so long moss must have grown on them by now. Hawke's patience, already worn whisper-thin, neared its breaking point.

Hawke stepped closer, mirrored Fenris' crossed arms, and lowered his voice to a hiss in an attempt at keeping their conversation private. It would no doubt be futile; Varric had magically enhanced hearing, Hawke was sure of it.

"Look, there's nothing I want more than to be yours, you know that, but it's been ages. You can't keep a claim on me forever and..." He sighed again and his tone softened. "And not act on it. It isn't fair to me. Nor to you."

"Is that how you feel?" Fenris' brow lowered over his eyes as he spoke, but Hawke thought he'd seen a flash of something like hope in them. Perhaps it was merely his own. Hope was a terrible thing.

"Yes."

Love me or let me go, but end this torture.

Fenris sent one last glare down the road where Zevran was no longer visible. "I see."

Hawke's shoulders slumped and he regretted pushing the issue, as usual. One of these days he'd push too hard and never see Fenris again. He'd just have to pay a visit to the Rose in the near future and sort himself out.

Hawke was about to redact his words and concede the futility of his ultimatum when a fist to his chest interrupted him. Not in his chest, thankfully, but shoving him with enough force to make him stagger back a step.

"Hey, wh—"

Clawed fingers hooked under Hawke's leather jerkin and yanked him forwards again until he bumped against the unyielding form of Fenris' breastplate.

"In that case..." Sharp metal points scraped against his chest through the shirt and Fenris used his grip to lift up on his toes and bring his face level with Hawke's. "I choose to act."

Despite the closeness, their eyes did not meet. Fenris, who was bad at maintaining eye-contact on a good day, had his sight set on Hawke's mouth. Before he could do more than part his lips to speak, Fenris tilted his head, leaned in, and silenced Hawke in the most efficient way possible. His kiss was hard and demanding, his skin warm from the sun, and the familiar taste of lyrium that had taken him by surprise last time flooded Hawke's senses. It took only a second for him to shake out of his stupor and respond in kind.

He'd missed this. Missed the slick, heated flavor of Fenris' mouth, the scent of his sweat and leather. Even the faint sour taste of wine at the back of his tongue was a welcome gift. He'd missed those uncompromising lips against his own, missed the hands that were at once greedy and afraid. Like Hawke was something Fenris didn't deserve, and could be taken away from him at a moment's notice.

Someone whistled, but it was distant and unimportant.

It was frightening how easily Fenris could tear through any defenses Hawke tried to set up. Not that he made much effort building any. There was no point; Fenris' fingers were wrapped around his heart as surely as if he'd stuck his hand inside Hawke's chest to grab it. Hawke was lost. He'd been so ever since the day the white-haired elf had walked into his life, fresh blood on his armor, and introduced himself.

Fenris tilted his head more, deepening the kiss, and Hawke failed to stifle an approving moan. He brought his arms up and around Fenris' lithe body under the pretext of helping to support him, but all he wanted was to press them closer. Fenris' free hand had found its way to the back of Hawke's neck where the cool metal of his gauntlets felt soothing against hot skin. He made no attempt to stop Hawke's own hands when one of them slid down to cup his ass. Hawke had big hands, and Fenris was lean and slender. It made for a perfect fit, like Hawke was meant to have his hand there, always.

After some time, Varric's voice pierced through the pleasant haze. "Ah, as much as we're all enjoying the show and I'm getting copious writing notes… perhaps it's time to head back to camp? You can always continue there."

Fenris broke the kiss, but remained close enough for Hawke to feel the wolfish smirk that curled his mouth. His face was flushed with color all the way to his ears, and Hawke could feel his own skin burn, too. On any normal day, Fenris would be the last person to show any kind of affection in public. Hawke didn't favor it either. This, however, was an exception he was willing to make.

In a hoarse and dark voice, Fenris muttered for Hawke's ears only: "Come see me at my mansion when we're back in town. We'll talk then."

Before he pulled away, as a last little reminder of whose leash was wrapped tight around Hawke's neck, Fenris leaned in and bit his lower lip with enough ferocity Hawke yelped. And then he slipped out of Hawke's grasp and walked off, headed back toward their tents, as casual and blank-faced as though nothing remarkable had happened and despite the redness of his cheeks.

Varric came over and nudged Hawke's side. "I ought to send that Crow a thank-you card; those pining looks were getting old."

Gently, Hawke pressed two fingers against his mouth. His lip had already begun to swell. It would throb and sting for hours, and refuse to let him forget.

Just as Fenris had no doubt intended.

The bastard couldn't be more infuriating if he'd tried, but Hawke had gotten what he wanted, hadn't he? And Fenris had chosen this. Willingly. He'd also invited Hawke home with the promise they'd talk, something he'd desperately wanted ever since the night their budding relationship had died.

Hawke couldn't even bring himself to care that the entire incident had taken place in front of their friends. There'd be an eerily similar scene in Varric's next book, no doubt, but that was fine. Everything was fine.

No.

Fenris had kissed him. Everything was perfect.

Merrill, who seemed oblivious to the gigantic breakthrough that had just taken place, picked up her bag. "Are we leaving?"

Hawke glanced over at her. He might be able to bribe Varric to secrecy, but Merrill would tell Isabela. Not with intent or malice, she'd just blurt it out without a thought to the consequences. And once Isabela knew, they'd all know. He might as well put up a notice on the Chantry board.

"Yeah. Let's go back."

Despite the puffy lip, Hawke couldn't keep an elated smile off his face.

Hawke had the very best of intentions when he made his way through Hightown's streets the next day. They'd returned to Kirkwall in the early afternoon, and after a hot bath and some fresh clothes, Hawke set out to see Fenris.

During his bath, he'd spent a considerable amount of time trying to puzzle out what he should expect. He'd stayed until the water grew cool around him but emerged none the wiser. You can't keep a claim on me and not act on it, he'd said. And Fenris had acted. What that action entailed, precisely, Hawke had no idea, although it was miles better than nothing.

But this was Fenris. Mercurial, ill-tempered Fenris, with a past so dark it rivaled a coal cellar. Hawke had never been able to predict him. Going to him with any kind of expectation for what would happen almost certainly ensured it wouldn't.

So Hawke tried to curb his wild hopes and repeatedly told himself he wanted nothing more than an improvement of the impasse that had lasted far too long between them. He knew it was a lie. A blatant lie. Even so, he clung to those good intentions — we're just going to talk — through the door and across the dilapidated entry hall, and all the way up to the landing. Then he saw Fenris emerge from the shadows at the top of the main staircase and they vanished. He'd foregone his armor and the wide leather belt, and was clad in just the tunic over his habitual leggings. His hair was still damp from a recent bath.

Someone who didn't know Fenris might've said he looked defenseless. Weak, even. That person wouldn't last long.

Rather than wait for Hawke to come to him, Fenris descended. Each step he took was slow and calculated, and Hawke's heartbeat hastened with every one. He felt hunted. Darkened eyes traveled down along Hawke's body and back up again in an equally unhurried and deliberate move.

Hawke wet his lips. "Why do I have the feeling I've walked into a wolf's den?"

"A fitting simile, considering most who've entered never made it out alive." Fenris' voice started out casual and flippant, but it didn't last. He reached the landing, chin held high and his intent gaze uncharacteristically steady, and his tone dropped to a near-growl. "But you want the wolf, don't you, Hawke?"

No beating around the bush, then. A shiver ran down Hawke's back at Fenris' predatory approach, but he'd come prepared to put his cards on the table.

"I do."

He didn't yield while Fenris advanced, nor when they were mere inches apart, but when Fenris' bare hands splayed against his chest he willingly let himself be pushed backward until his rear met the wall behind him. Whatever Fenris had in mind, Hawke would let him lead. After all, when he had tried to make a move it had ended in disaster.

Fenris drew a breath and his mouth moved. His lips pursed, presumably to protest, to call Hawke's judgement into question, but he seemed to think better of it and merely shook his head. "I won't pretend to understand."

I love you, Hawke could have told him. Or more appropriately: I love you, you stubborn, prickly idiot. But that likely wouldn't improve matters. Besides, he was pretty sure Fenris knew by now. At the very least he had to suspect it.

Fenris' hands slid down Hawke's front and settled just above his belt as he closed the gap between them. Hawke ceased any attempt at reasoning and tried to remember he needed to breathe.

This was made difficult when Fenris kissed him and the fire Hawke had worked so diligently to tame and keep low flared up inside him and burned under his skin. Like before, Fenris lifted up on his toes and used his hold on Hawke's body to brace himself, and once again Hawke melted into the ravenous kiss and offered his arms for support.

This time, there were no one else present to halt their progress.

Although a full day had passed, the onslaught of Fenris' unrelenting mouth soon made Hawke's lower lip twinge in pain. When he whimpered and pulled away he worried it'd give Fenris pause.

It didn't. Instead he grabbed a fistful of Hawke's hair and tugged his head backward so he could close his lips around Hawke's exposed throat. His mouth parted and Hawke felt the tip of Fenris' warm, wet tongue slide over the bump of his Adam's apple, tasting him.

As he slowly worked his way down, Hawke could smell the remnants of the soap he used in his hair: elfroot and a hint of vandal aria. A clean, fresh scent that made him wonder what Fenris' own throat would taste like. And his chest, his stomach, his thighs. Fenris took a lazy detour along a collarbone that sent shivers through his whole body, before he ended up in the crook of Hawke's neck, where he nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin.

His other hand began to work on the lacing of Hawke's pants.

A muffled, impatient noise reached his ears, but Hawke didn't know which of them had made it. It didn't matter. His pulse drummed loud enough to drown out the sound of fabric and leather being pushed aside, but nothing could silence the moan he made when Fenris reached down and wrapped hot fingers around Hawke's cock.

His hand may have been smaller than Hawke was accustomed to, but he used a tighter grip. His rhythm was different, too. Within a handful of slow, fastidious pulls Fenris had him moaning again, and Hawke reached beside him, blindly, for something to hold on to. He found a wall of crumbling bricks and located a somewhat sturdy section, while Fenris' head settled against his shoulder so he could look down and watch what he was doing.

Underneath the rising pleasure, apprehension crawled up Hawke's spine until the hairs at the back of his neck rose. In the Antivan camp Fenris had made it clear he chose to act. Chose to kiss Hawke. Chose to invite him into his home. But now… He'd acknowledged he knew Hawke wanted him. Wanted the wolf, teeth and all. What Fenris wanted had remained unspoken.

Hawke swallowed thickly and attempted to not let desire win over sanity. "Fen?"

As lovely as Fenris' touch was, Hawke could never forgive himself if he messed up this second chance. He had to make sure.

"Hmm?"

"I need to know you want this." He paused to gasp and catch his breath. Talking was becoming increasingly difficult. "That you're not — oh — just doing it because of Zevran. Or because I want it."

Fenris chuckled. Maker's breath, he laughed. He also ran his thumb over the head of Hawke's cock and spread the slick that had appeared there, which temporarily tongue-tied him and kept him from making a stupid or witty remark. It turned out to be a good thing.

"I dream of you. Nightly. It's always you." Fenris spoke the words husky and low, while he worked at a steadily increasing pace. His hand moved easier now, but he kept his grip possessively tight and it was driving Hawke mad. "As if it wasn't enough that you invade my every waking thought."

The revelation sent a shudder through Hawke. Why did Fenris have to be so stubborn? Why did they lie awake at night, longing for the other, when they could have this?

He'd ask if it didn't mean interrupting Fenris' monologue, and if he had any faith he could get the words out without punctuating them with moans.

"I dream of your hands. I dream of them touching me."

Hawke groaned and dug the fingers of his free hand into Fenris' hip. He shifted his feet in response, changing their position slightly, and all of a sudden Hawke had a hard length prodding against his thigh. If he wanted something more tangible than words, he had his answer.

"I dream of your mouth. Of your tongue, and the way it felt when you wrapped them around me."

Pressure began to coil at the base of his spine. This would end all too quick. He closed his eyes in an attempt to stall the inevitable, but he couldn't shut out Fenris' persistent whispers.

"I dream of your body, supine and stretched out under me. I dream of you, ready and willing and wanting."

Hawke tried to grab Fenris' wrist to slow him down, but was batted away. "Fen, it's been too long, I don't want it to be over so—"

"We'll do it again, later."

The way he said it was so calm, so confident, Hawke couldn't help but believe him. There was a we. There would be a later. And there would be more. He stopped fighting.

"And every time, when I wake from those dreams…" Fenris paused to press a kiss to his neck and Hawke held his breath as the tension grew unbearable. "I imagine pushing inside you again, and the way you looked up at me that night. It never fails to make me spill."

Hawke didn't stand a chance. He let out an inarticulate cry and his whole body froze for a few seconds as his release was wrung out of him. Fenris never ceased moving, but he slowed down and milked Hawke until the last drop was out.

He sagged, knees gone weak, and once the haze of pleasure began to lift, he found himself supported by and partially hanging on Fenris. He blinked a few times before he could see clearly and drew a shaky breath. Then he turned his head. And frowned.

"You could look less smug."

Fenris smirked. "I'm feeling smug right now. I'll keep it."

Once he regained more of his composure, he discovered Fenris had cleaned him up. His own hand, too. What with, he had no memory of. He also realised Fenris still pressed insistently against him, hard and as of yet unsatisfied. He broke into a smile and straightened, reinvigorated by the prospect of remedying that.

"Let me wipe that grin off your face."

Before he could make a move, Fenris grabbed his shoulders, hoisted himself up, and wrapped long legs around Hawke's waist. There was little else Hawke could do but bring his arms around him and help hold him up.

"You'll do no such thing." But then his expression softened, and he buried his face in the crook of Hawke's neck. "Take me to bed, Hawke."