He was always cold. It was rare, or so he'd been told by his female companions, for a male to be cold all the time. Often Hawke, Isabela, and even Avaline commented how males of all races seemed to be walking heaters. All but him. Fenris had a million excuses – his armor wasn't conducive to keeping in heat, maybe elves were different, he felt plenty warm to himself so maybe they weren't actually cold. He suspected it was actually due to the lyrium etched into his skin that made his veins chill, but was hesitant to voice the opinion. He was already enough of a freak.
He had grown used to the chill, never noticing that his fingers and toes were always colder than the rest of his body. He did, however, notice Hawke's amused stare whenever he found himself scooting closer to the fire. She would tell him that he looked like a cat stretching out in front of the flames, smug and satisfied at his own warmth. It seemed to him that the only time he actually stayed warm was when her fingers grazed his skin, a sensation that both startled and excited him.
In some ways, Fenris was still a virgin. Or rather, he had been until Hawke. Danarius was more about power and control, using Fenris in ways that made the elf want to squirm in discomfort. Hard and unyielding, the mage had abused the elf's body and used him solely for his pleasure, ignoring the pleas Fenris had uttered. Or, worse yet, used him just to listen to him beg. And beg he did, a fact that caused shame to crawl over his skin with pink fingers of embarrassment.
Hadriana hadn't been much better, preferring pain to sexual stimulation. She would beat and bruise his body, tormenting him physically and psychologically. It was at her feet that he laid the blame for him being used to always being cold. One of her favorite punishments would be to take away his blanket and put out his fire. Then she would beat him for shivering. There were times when, even now, he would jolt awake after mere minutes of sleep, bracing himself for her attack. There were many times where he would have sworn she'd literally gotten off after striking him across the face.
The times it was sexual were, in many ways, worse than anything Danarius had done. He at least attempted to get a rise out of Fenris, so to speak. More often than not, the attempt would end after just a few moments as the mage focused on his own pleasure. But Hadriana completely ignored his arousal, or rather, lack thereof. She preferred him to be limp; with what she did to him, there would have been worse consequences had he actually enjoyed any of the sadistic things she did to his body.
The sheer thought of it made his lip curl up in a sneer, fists clenching at his sides as he paced across the ruined floor of the once beautiful mansion. The late morning sun was filtering in through the dirty glass and ripped curtains, patches of light spotting the cold floor. His armor was off for once, pieces of it lumped together in a pile in the corner. Unbidden, the memories of Danarius and Hadriana flooded his mind, making him feel dirty, unclean and unworthy of anything or anyone, let alone Hawke. His precious Hawke.
At the thought of her, a small smile played across his lips. His companions would be shocked to see something other than a glower on his face. His pacing slowed until he was standing in front of the windows, subconsciously moving into a shaft of light, thoughts of Hawke distracting him from his previous stream of consciousness.
They had slowly been forming a friendship and he often realized that she handled him delicately, trying to find the balance between treating him like everyone else and helping him heal. He had accompanied Danarius to a circus once and remembered seeing the same expression on the face of one of the lion tamers. Once he began to trust her and relax in her presence, Fenris started to see through her teasing nature and hear the flirtation behind it.
The first time he flirted back with her, the shock was apparent on her face for a full three seconds before her wicked grin grew. From there, they would go back and forth in the privacy of his home, such as it was. He did his best to keep his mouth shut when they were with the others, not wanting to give her any reason to stop. She slowly began to incorporate touch with her wit and words, a gentle hand on his arm or shoulder. It was natural for her to touch while speaking and soon it became natural and expected for her to touch him as well. He would never admit to it, but it was something he had actually began to look forward to.
And now he ruined it. Fenris scowled darkly, the memory of Hadriana's blood on his hands as he shrugged off Hawke's attempt to comfort him. His awkward apology. The sweet, glorious night he spent with her.
The heat. Maker's breath, you couldn't begin to imagine that sweet, glorious heat. It was like dipping your hands in a snow bank for several minutes then running hot water over them. For the first two seconds, you feel absolutely nothing and then it gives way to that sheer, searing, wet heat. Under that armor, Hawke had been nothing but soft, hot, silky skin. He could have spent hours trailing his fingers along it, learning every mole, every scar.
He cursed as he stubbed a toe on a loose tile, a sneer growing as he glared at the offending floor. Hawke would come over on occasion and pester him until they spent the afternoon fixing the tiling on one of the floors or some other task.
Hawke.
Maker help him, he was completely over the moon for that girl. And he was as helpless to stop his feelings now as he'd been to stop the abuse his mind and body had taken over the years. The thoughts of her tight warrior's body, her long black hair kept coiled in a bun and her bright, intelligent blue eyes, were enough to have his body stirring, aching to be buried inside her again. It didn't help matters any that hers was the first body his had found solace in.
Fenris clenched his fists again, a snarl ripping from his lips in protest of his needs, as he continued to pace. As his body swelled, the fizz and burn of his lyrium markings began to trickle across his skin. It was a light feeling, like someone dragging their nails gently across his skin, a tingling sensation that crawled down his spine.
With a frustrated sigh, he reached a hand down to adjust himself. The burning sensation increased as he touched himself, little licks of pain that reduced the pleasure he felt. It was why he generally didn't even bother with any sort of self-gratification.
But Maker's breath, being buried in that sweet, delicious heat. It had been worth every second of the burn, every unwanted memory rising up to hammer at his mind while she slept contentedly against his side. Hadriana's voice played in a vicious loop in his head, telling him everything from how worthless he was to what a pitiful excuse of a man he was. Unable to stop her voice from ringing in his ears, Fenris had spent countless minutes fighting his own demons. He'd known then that he couldn't keep Hawke. Had he even attempted it, his hatred and anger would eventually spread out and leech into her.
Fenris rolled his eyes at himself. He'd known for a while he couldn't keep her. He kept trying to tell her that, that he was unworthy of her. Him, a former slave and broken beyond repair, and her, the beautiful and passionate warrior. She was the sun to his world.
Jaw set in grim determination, Fenris dug in the armoire where he stored the few belongings he owned. After several moments, he surfaced with a small metal crest wrapped in a band of red silk. The elf dragged his armor to the table and sat down, working on attaching the crest to his armor. The silk he rubbed idly against his lips, leaning back to stare at it, tracing the intricate lines of the Amell family crest with his eyes.
The silk gradually warmed to match the temperature of his skin and the sensations took his attention from the crest hanging off his armor. It felt as the skin at her throat had, minus the scar from some close call that had nicked her flesh. He found that even the sight of it brought back the memories he'd made during the brief time he'd let himself forget that he didn't deserve her. He felt comfort in knowing that while he couldn't keep her, he could keep this. Fenris stood to don his armor, the red silk bunched in his fist. It was impulse that had him tying it to his arm. It was skill that had him able to do it with one hand. With a heavy heart and the onset of a full out brood, the elf settled back down in front of the fireplace, his fingers stroking the silk cloth.
He felt the warmth then, seeping from the silk and into his fingertips as he idly touched the fabric. A smile spread on his face, eyes sliding shut as the sunlight streamed around him. Here, he would find his warmth, his salvation from the horrors he'd witnessed. Here, he would proclaim his love.