Fenris' day had been going splendidly indeed.
It began with his usual Sunday routine. He woke before the sun — he always woke before the sun, a byproduct of adapting to Danarius' unconventional sleep schedule — to commence his stretches until the sun began to show its crimson face on the horizon.
When light enough touched Danarius' courtyard — his courtyard — to there he would go, sword bolstered on his back, dressed in only light and flexible linens, to practice. Three dummies of straw wrapped in burlap he had erected, each with dozens of lacerations across their makeshift bodies. He began slow, drawing each muscle out of sleep, moving progressively quickly until he was darting between his three targets, spinning his sword overhead before slicing away a straw arm, leg, or head. When the three 'enemies' were sufficiently vanquished — usually when the sun had fully overtaken the sky and turned it a shade of blue closer to white — and his white hairs stuck to his forehead with sweat, he retreated indoors for a cold bath, drawn the night before.
Once refreshed from bathing, he dressed in his usual armour, securely wrapping Hawke's band of red fabric around his wrist — a reminder of why he rose from bed each morning — equipped his longsword, and marched towards Lowtown.
Spirits were high today, in both the Hightown and Lowtown markets. Young urchins would harrass him with a vendor's wares, insisting to him that their amulet would repel the influence of blood mages and demons, or that their finely tailored clothing would earn him the attention of the most beautiful women in all of Hightown.
He scoffed and waved them away, but not after slipping a bronze into their palms moist with sweat, earning him a look of wide-eyed look of admonishment and wonder before they skittered away.
Opening the door to the Hanged Man, as always, assaulted his nose with the reek of stale ale and vomit, a smell he had grown too familiar with. Varric, Sebastian, and Merrill already occupied their table; Merrill was speaking animatedly, her eyes wide and the wave of her arms coming dangerously close to their neighbours, who sent a scowl towards her. Fenris occupied the vacant seat next to Sebastian, who nodded at him amicably. Fenris muttered, "Morning," the first word to emit from his lips that day, a greeting which all three of his companions returned.
"No Isabela this morning?" he asked, raising his arm for Norah's attention. She quickly trotted over — likely due to Sebastian's presence, not Fenris' — and he ordered a tea in a low voice.
"She had a busy night," Varric supplied with a wry twitch of the corner of his lip. Fenris required no further explanation.
As the morning passed, first Anders joined them, then Aveline, and finally Isabela, looking much the worse for wear and demanding an early morning whiskey. Fenris ordered his standard fare (two sausages, ham, three eggs [scrambled], toast, and an orange) and drank his weight in tea while making occasional junctures into the rampant conversation in the group.
Some time before midday — and that was early by his standards — Hawke stumbled into the bar, looking even worse than Isabela. Yet he managed to send a sly smile Fenris' way that made his heart start palpating before he harassed Norah into making him a rushed breakfast (five pieces of bacon, four eggs [fried], four pieces of toast, ham, three sausages, and a light ale) by slipping a silver into her apron. As always, Norah scolded him, but smiled all the while.
"Morning all," he grumbled, slipping between Fenris and Aveline to plant a wet kiss on Fenris' cheek. To this day, Fenris still blushed when Hawke did that. His dark hair was ruffled, pointing in every which way, and the dark lines beneath his eyes emphasized the age lines in their corners.
Yet never before had Fenris seen anything more handsome.
Hawke had a rule. Sundays were what he called "family days". On family days, no jobs were to be taken, and the group had mandatory lunch-ons together, where all grievances and worries were to be put aside so that a cordial meal could be shared. At first, many — Anders and Fenris especially — were against the idea, believing such a proposal was entirely unfeasible, but after a great amount of insisting on Hawke's part, they both acquiesced. Although for some relationships among them the lunches were akin to an application of elfroot to a mortal wound, other friendships blossomed, and it was energizing to forget about the bigger picture: the war between mages and templars that brewed around them.
Midday passed. Anders returned to the clinic, Aveline to the Keep, and Sebastian to the Chantry. The rest chose to remain for a few hands of cards, but Hawke excused himself first, citing his history as a horrible card player (Fenris had realized long ago that Hawke was terrible because he threw his hands to ensure the others won). Before his exit, he quietly requested of Fenris, "Will you come to the mansion for dinner? Orana bought a beautiful duck at the market I wanted to roast."
Fenris smiled broadly. Hawke was an excellent cook, likely due to his passion for food which had only grown after their Deep Roads Expedition. "I would like that."
"Excellent!" Hawke planted a peck on his cheek. "See you at sunset."
—
The duck was scrumptious, and the Aggreggio that Fenris had picked up on the way to the mansion accompanied it perfectly. Although he had repeatedly insisted that Hawke not pay him more than his due portion for each job completed, Fenris always found hidden caches of sovereigns scattered throughout the mansion. Instead of arguing, he would spend his additional earnings on gifts for Hawke, such as the wine.
Hawke leaned back in his chair and groaned, holding his bloated stomach. "I couldn't eat another bite!" he declared, throwing his napkin atop his plate that had nearly been picked clean.
"It was delicious," Fenris agreed, wiping his mouth with his own napkin before resting it beside his plate that also contained few uneaten pieces. For once, he had chosen not to wear his armour, and instead wore a loose white cloth tunic and black trousers.
They moved to Hawke's study, sitting side-by-side, where Bodahn lit a roaring fire and Orana brought them steaming tea. Although they engaged in conversation while they sipped away at their tea, Hawke seemed troubled. Fenris finally prompted, "Something on your mind?"
Slowly, Hawke replied, "No."
"You're a terrible liar, Hawke."
He gazed into the dregs of his tea while they swirled in his mug. "Yes," he amended.
Fenris did not push him; after a short pause, Hawke confessed in a low voice, "I want to try it."
Involuntarily, Fenris' eyes widened. "Are you certain?"
Hawke's sharp brown eyes met Fenris' green ones. "Positive."
A lump rose in Fenris' throat. Something he had wanted to try for so long with Hawke, something he wanted so badly that he was ashamed of it, and Hawke had agreed to it.
"You're absolutely certain?"
Hawke smiled warmly, the lined corners of his eyes crinkling. "Certainly certain."
Hungry with need, Fenris pushed Hawke onto his back, climbing atop him to kiss him, deeply. Hawke sighed when their mouths met and parted his lips, allowing in Fenris' exploratory tongue. Hawke tasted of tea and mint leaves, his weight beneath Fenris a reassurance.
Fenris was eager. He tried to mask it, but his gasping breaths and flushed throat gave him away.
"Perhaps…" Hawke gasped between rapid breaths. "Upstairs?"
Fenris only needed to nod in affirmation. He stood and held his hand out to aid Hawke.
New lovers, still excited with each other, they raced up the stairs, laughing all the while.
Fenris adored the deep rumble of Hawke's laugh that reached his core; his trousers felt tighter at the sound.
Hawke's room — and four poster — reached, Fenris slammed and locked the door behind them. This time it was Hawke who pushed Fenris onto the bed and Hawke who climbed on top of him, his eyes voracious. He kissed Fenris deeply, but on his mouth the kiss did not linger; Hawke's hot mouth trailed down his neck and chest, pulling his tunic low to caress his dark nipples with his tongue.
Hawke was not a patient or teasing lover; he pulled the tunic overhead, kissing down Fenris' sensitive stomach, his sharp hip bones, the fine trail of dark hair that ventured below his trousers.
Dark brown eyes bore into Fenris as Hawke's strong hand rested on the band of his trousers. "May I?" Hawke asked. He always asked, and Fenris never denied him. This time was no exception. "Yes," Fenris breathed.
A rush of cold air hit his legs as he was made naked before Hawke, who then removed his own shirt in one swift motion. In contrast to Fenris' smooth, nearly hairless skin,
Hawke's chest was covered in dark, curly hair, kept soft with frequent bathing. Fenris began to run his hands through it, sighing all the while. When Hawke's mouth trailed lower, Fenris' hands moved to Hawke's head, gripping his hair in tense fingers when Hawke took his hardness within his moist lips.
A deep, throaty gasp escaped him. "Hawke…" he whispered, his hips bucking forth as Hawke took in more and more of him. The pleasure was so great it was almost unbearable as Hawke sucked and twisted his mouth, the sensations alternating between the heat of his breath and the cool air of the room. He gasped Hawke's name again as tendrils of pleasure spread from his core through his limbs.
His eyes flew open when the sensation suddenly ceased and Hawke's mouth was on his own, and he could taste himself on Hawke's lips. Those lips trailed down his cheek to his ear, and into it he whispered, "Fuck me, Fenris."
He balled the sheets in his fists as primal need filled him. He growled and tumbled atop Hawke, rolling him onto his belly, pulling his trousers off with such vigour that he distantly recalled the sharp scratching sound as they tore. He felt Hawke shiver when he rumbled into his ear, "Is this how you want me to fuck you?"
"Yes," Hawke breathed.
The salve was in the bedside table, he knew, yet his desire for Hawke left a fog over his thoughts. He took in a deep breath to momentarily calm himself, pulling open the wooden drawer and lathering himself with shaking hands; hands which hovered over Hawke, indecisive from a sudden onslaught of nervousness. "May I?" he asked, sounding more confident than he felt.
In answer, he heard Hawke's beard brushing against his pillow as he smiled. "Please, the anticipation is killing me." They laughed together, Hawke's deep chuckle musical.
"Ok," Fenris said, to himself more than Hawke. Steadying his hands on the back of Hawke's thighs, he applied a generous portion of salve to Hawke's entrance, rubbing harder when he began to moan.
"I want you," Hawke said. Those words were enough to take all patience out of Fenris.
He positioned himself between Hawke's legs and slid his slick manhood inside of the man that he knew that he loved, even if he didn't say it, letting out an almost pained groan as he felt the tightness around him. Hawke gasped, in both pleasure and pain, gripping the sheets with his hands, all while angling his hips upward to ease his aching cock. Inch by inch, Fenris slipped deeper, using every bit of his resolve to keep himself slow for Hawke. He wanted to ask how Hawke was but no words could be formed as the fog set heavy in his mind.
Hawke then spoke, the vibration reverberating through Fenris. "Faster."
Fenris clenched his teeth. "Y…yes." His hips moved before his mind, pumping him in and out of Hawke, who gripped his manhood with an open palm and began to stroke, his inhales gasps and his exhales moans.
For so long, Fenris had wanted this. For just as long, Fenris had been afraid to vocalize it. It was shameful to want to do this, he had thought. Admitting it to Hawke had taken all of his bravery; Hawke's response at the time that he wished to try it, yes, just not at that exact moment, and there was nothing shameful about it, had warmed Fenris' heart.
The moment had arrived. And it was more blissful than either of them could have ever imagined.
"Hawke…" His fingertips gripped Hawke's sides as his hips moved faster and faster. "Hawke…" His hair flew out of his eyes as his head rocked back, the tendrils of pleasure reaching his fingertips, his toes, his neck, his face. "Hawke…" He was no longer in control of himself. He pumped hard, his body necessitating the release. "Hawke!" He was spilling into him, the tendrils alight with electricity, his whole body both alive and numb, his pumping slowing. Hawke's body responded in kind; Hawke roared Fenris' name as he spent himself over his sheets. His heart was audibly pounding, his breath coming in rapid gasps, his forehead beaded with sweat as he turned his head to grin at Fenris. He bent down, low, kissing the dampness on his love's forehead, tasting his saltiness before he slipped out and rolled onto his back.
That Hawke was a rogue was a fact Fenris at times would forget; he moved so swiftly while he grabbed a cloth and wiped them both down that, in his bliss, Fenris was surprised to find himself clean.
"Maker," Hawke groaned as he collapsed into bed beside Fenris, pulling him tight in his arms.
"Thank you, Hawke," Fenris muttered, hoping to the Maker and his Bride that this wouldn't be the last time they did that.
"Thank you, Fenris." The bed shook as Hawke let out another low rumble of laughter.
"It's awfully dark now." Hawke said. "Want to stay here tonight?"
As if there was anywhere else he'd rather be.