a/n: There were supposed to only be three chapters to this story, but then I wanted to keep going. Chapters one to three are unchanged, except for adding the year and location.

Skin and Sun

34 Dragon

Kirkwall

Fenris had needed to crack a second bottle for the courage to walk the few streets to Hawke's home. Danarius had never allowed Fenris to drink, and when Fenris drank now, he felt as little like the slave as he ever did.

She wasn't there. As his wait grew longer and longer, he wondered if she'd continued to Sundermount without him, but dismissed it as unlikely. She hated the cold desert nights, and going straight there would add another. More likely, she was at the Hanged Man, avoiding home. With an all-too-familiar jab of jealousy, Fenris wondered if the abomination was there. Once, before the incident with Alrik, he had heard Hawke tell the blonde man that he reminded her of her father. Fenris remembered the hopeful interest that had lit Anders's face. Fenris got up and paced around the dark foyer once more.

He had been waiting long enough that the buzz he'd needed to get here had worn off. With it went the assurance that his last caustic comment could be waved away. With sobriety, the dog in him returned, and he panted for Hawke's return, for her forgiveness, for her leadership. He sat back down and held the slight ache that was his head in his hands. He hated this return to himself.

The door opened. Hawke's white hair, mussed with sweat, glowed in the dim room.

"Fenris?"

He stood, barely wavering. His voice was even steadier, he was pleased to discover. "I came to apologize."

Hawke closed and barred the door, but before she could cross the foyer, he spoke again.

"I was unfair to you." He realized he was standing as Danarius had taught him to stand: hands clasped behind his back. He shifted, but felt more uncomfortable.

"You were angry," Hawke said, carefully. He was glad she was not moving to comfort him again.

"I am tired of being angry."

A pause passed between them. Fenris felt the urge to run, but he spoke instead.

"I do not believe that this needs stating, but magic has not ruined you."

"I know," she said, and she reached for him, comfortingly. "Nor you."

Her face paled in the sudden blue glow of his anger, and he pushed her against the hard stone of her walls. He wanted to shove her through the wall, to bang her head against it until she saw the ruin that magic had left him. The air rushed from her in a huff and he felt the pressure with which he was pressing her. "Do not comfort me, Hawke," he said. He let go and stepped back.

She did not move from the wall, did not look apologetic, and did not look scared.

"I do not wish to burden you," he said.

She reached for him a second time, fingers curling over his elbows. The lyrium there responded to the pull of her magic, but he stood against it. She stepped to him and he felt her warmth, felt her thighs shift against each other. Hawke was not a tall woman, and their mouths were almost of a level. She tilted her head, and all he had to do was close the space. He did not respond, restraint winning out against anger and fear and lust. He did not step away either.

"Burden me, Fenris," she breathed. He pushed her a second time against the wall, one hand pining her hands above her head. She whimpered slightly, and Fenris ran a hand from her elbow to her hip, fingers brushing the side of her breast. She squirmed exquisitely, but he did not kiss her. Fenris had no memory of kissing, but he liked having her trapped against him. Returning his hand to their joined hands, he leaned his full weight into her forearms. Her body lifted from the wall, pushing back against his. Her mouth approached his. He paused, unsure of himself. His grip on her wrists slackened and, in his hesitation, he felt Hawke break loose of him, felt her small hands on his shoulders, felt himself let her spin him, let her push him against the wall. Her mouth found his, and he opened it obediently. Her teeth closed over his bottom lip and her tongue swept the nerves at the edge of lip and skin. He felt her grind into his thigh, felt the uneven stone dig into his back. She smelled of the lyrium she'd drank in the Holding Caves, and its familiarity soothed him.

He wanted to please her. His hands found the bottom edge of her leather top and he skimmed his hands under it. The leggings were thin – he knew how thin they were from watching the sway of her hips. He wanted to please himself. She reached for his hair and forced his head to the side. She fell on his neck, and her mouth, hot and wet, traced the lyrium that curved over his windpipe. It was not painful, but it reminded him of unpleasant things, and the heart of his desire faded. Still, he turned his head to give her better access, and he stood motionless under her ministrations. Her breathing was uneven and she tugged at his clothing.

Upstairs, he felt himself fall into a rhythm. Hadriana had often woken him in his sleep, wet with the power she had over him, and it was her legs that he remembered when he pulled Hawke's bare thighs over his shoulders. Hawke's were stronger and shorter, but quivered in exactly the same way. He ran his hands from ankle to knee, from knee upwards. She was open before him, visibly swollen, and her hips arched in anticipation. Her head was thrown back onto the new, thick feather pillows of her bed. Her eyes were closed tightly, and her mouth a pout of delayed gratification. He wanted to please her, and he lowered his mouth to do so. She tasted as all women tasted: slick and sweet. He had put his mouth on many women while he belonged to Danarius. On Hadriana, who too had smelled of lyrium; on Danarius's guests, when they asked for him; on women who also belonged to Danarius, for his entertainment or the entertainment of others. At each woman, he had quickened, and he quickened now, but there was an earnest edge to his efforts. He wanted her moans as much as he wanted her release. He wanted her as much as he wanted to be free of her.

Under his mouth, he pushed a finger to her opening. She was so slick that it passed easily inside. He added a second finger, stretching and driving her. She panted his name and arched her hips, and he bent both fingers inside her. He felt her clench and unclench, and a small spurt of juice ran into his palm. He wrapped his free arm under her as she went slack, and carefully, gently, he lowered her back to the mattress. She sprawled there, spent. He knelt on her tall bed, watching the rise and fall of her breasts as she caught her breath. Tentatively, he reached to run the backs of his fingers against the side of one, just as he had done in her foyer. They were warm and soft, and the nipple shifted as he stroked her. He laid a hand around it, feeling her breath slow.

She sighed into his touch, and smilingly reached her arms towards him. Her fingers found his face and then his shoulders, and she pulled him down to her.

"Fenris," she sighed, happily. She reached up to touch her lips to his. She smelled of new sweat, and her lips seemed to cling to his. She lowered her head back onto the pillow and, looking up at him, shifted under him invitingly.

He did not speak or smile or kiss her back. Hesitatingly, he lowered himself between her open legs and took his weight onto his forearms, braced on either side of her prone body. Her legs parted further, thighs slipping over his hips, and she raised herself to meet him. He did not respond immediately, and she tilted her head to kiss him again. It was more urgent than her last lingering kiss, but he did not open his mouth to it. She lay back on the pillows and reached between them to guide him into her. He followed the urging of her hands, felt himself sink into warm and wet, and he lowered his head to her shoulder so that she could not reach his mouth.

He began to move in the rhythm that he liked best, the rhythm he'd used when Danarius commanded him to impregnate some other slave, rather than the slow build he'd use for women's pleasure. Hawke moved to meet him, thrust from thrust, and he felt her hands move over the muscles of his back. She scratched him lightly. She arched and thrust, and he reluctantly felt his end approach. He turned his head to see the contrast of his dark hand on her pale belly, and his nose moved over her shoulder. Her shoulder had been bare all day, and she smelled of sun and sweat. She turned her head and he felt her mouth close over his ear.

She smelled of sun and sweat.

He remembered another woman's skin, the sunlight angling through the paneless window across her bare shoulder, the hard clay under his knees. The sweetness of the urge that prompted him, the sweetness of her expression. He remembered the sweetness without remembering her face. Some band over his heart broke, and his eyes snapped open. Behind it was grief and guilt, as he had always known there would be.

He saw the glow of the fire Sandal had laid for his benefactress. He saw the light flicker over the brands on his arm. Cautiously, he opened his mouth and tasted Hawke's skin. She tasted of sweat, but it brought nothing back for him. He closed his eyes and his mouth and breathed in again. Sun and sweat and Hawke. Hawke, who was moving for him, who was, he noticed, saying his name. He turned to look at her face, and there was a sweetness there that had nothing to do with a woman who was bid to be with him or who had bid him be with her. He leaned his forehead against hers, and as she touched his face, he felt himself come undone. He kept his eyes on her face, and she pressed her mouth to his mouth, tightened her legs, and ran both hands down his back. She cupped his flexed buttocks, pulling him as deep as he would go, arching against his last, long push. She wanted it, wanted him. He closed his eyes against grief.