"Fenris?" a familiar voice called from downstairs, tentative and worried-sounding as always.
"Upstairs," he called out. Which is where he was always to be found, but since a near-lethal misunderstanding the first time Hawke had dropped in on his home – unannounced, and walking surprisingly quietly for someone of his size – Hawke always made sure to give him warning before coming up.
The man appeared in the door of the room a minute later, pausing there as he always did, turning a surprisingly sweet smile on Fenris. "Hello," he said nervously, large hands twisting together in front of him. Most people assumed Hawke was a warrior. He had the look of one – tall, scarred, and with shoulders so broad you half-expected him to have to go through doors sideways.
Fenris hid a smile, and waved at the nearby chair; an especially sturdy one he'd carried up from downstairs, after Hawke had broken the original chair that had sat there, companion to the one Fenris was lounging in. "Have a seat," he invited, winning a broad smile from Hawke, who ducked through the doorway – not that he actually needed to duck, more out of a conditioned response to the number of times he had cracked his head against low lintels – then hurried over, pausing only to strip off his staff, leaning it against the edge of the nearby table before carefully lowering himself into the chair.
As he sat down, Fenris picked up the open bottle of wine from the table beside him, and held it silently out. Hawke nodded his head in thanks, plucking it deftly from his hand, and tilted his head back, taking several large gulps before passing the bottle back. Fenris drank as well – in only slightly more moderation – then returned the near-empty bottle to the table. "How did your trip go?" he asked.
Hawke grimaced. "Well enough. Found the mages, anyway."
The grimace told more of the story than his words did. "It did not go well, I take it?" Fenris asked cautiously.
"No," Hawke agreed, looking glum. "They panicked. One of them turned out to be a blood mage. Next thing we knew there were abominations everywhere. By the time we had things back under control, over half of the mages were dead," he concluded, sounding distressed. "And then a group of templars showed up. It was a nightmare."
Fenris stayed silent, knowing anything he might say was unlikely to help Hawke deal with the situation. He was willing to admit, after knowing Hawke for several years now, that at least some mages were not inherently evil.
He would even – grudgingly – admit that having access to a healer like Anders was useful, and that the man had saved or improved many lives thanks to his free clinic in Darktown. But he disagreed with the man's insistence that mages would present no danger if only they were freed from the oversight of the chantry; the man was, at best, being overly optimistic about the nature of power and its ability to corrupt, he was certain.
And Merrill – well, the witch was a blood mage, and the only good thing he could think of to say about her was that at least so far she had limited herself to using only her own blood and, on very rare occasion, the blood of someone already dead who had been attempting to kill the rest of them. However, given the nature of the power behind blood magic, he had little doubt that she would be corrupted in time. It was a slippery slope she was on, one that started with tiny temptations, easy to resist at first. Inevitably there would be incautious moments where some lure of extra power was followed, some inner honour compromised, another line crossed, leading her by increments towards ever greater and more depraved uses of her demon-wrought powers, her innocence eventually lost forever in a torrent of blood.
But Hawke, thankfully, was not like either of them. Nor like any mage Fenris had ever known before. He was, instead, uniquely himself; a mage who cared deeply about the lives of everyone that crossed his path, friends and strangers alike, even enemies, offering them chances to surrender or reform when most others would have merely cut them down as the easiest solution to the problems they represented. Fenris had seen the man weep over the deaths of people he hadn't even known, merely because he did know someone whose life had been torn apart by their death.
Small wonder his small circle of friends were all so fiercely loyal to him; a combination of returning the care and devotion that Hawke showed to all of them, and a wish to protect him from the pains he had to face on a daily basis. In public, in action, he was so strong and confident – it was only when he was in private, with just his closest friends on hand, that he ever let his pain and uncertainty show. As now, as he slumped forward in the chair, face crumpled, hands twisting together again.
Fenris picked up the bottle again, and silently passed it over to Hawke, watched him finish it off. He considered opening a fresh bottle, then decided it was a different kind of forgetfulness and comfort that the mage could most use tonight.
"Hawke," he said, rising to his feet, and stepping over to stand beside the man's chair. Hawke looked up – not very far, as tall as he was his eyes were nearly on a level with Fenris' even when seated.
Fenris reached out, rested his hand on Hawke's cheek, then slowly leaned forward. Hawke sat very still, watching him, eyes only shutting as Fenris closed the last little bit of distance between them. They kissed, a long and gentle kiss. Nothing like the first kiss they'd ever shared, both of them at the time so deeply scared and more than a little angry and above-all desperate – for touch, for connection, to share their different pains with someone, anyone. Though the hunger he felt, the heat that flared between them as the kiss continued – that was the same.
Hawke's hands rose and closed around his head, hands so big they wrapped around his head almost entirely, from the heels of Hawke's palms resting on his cheeks to his fingertips lacing together in back of the elf's head. Fenris shivered as the man's thumbs caressed his ears, his own eyes fluttering closed in response to the sensation.
"Come to bed, Hawke," he rumbled when the kiss ended. Hawke nodded, once, and kissed him lightly on the forehead before releasing him and rising to his feet.
Fenris tensed as the mage loomed over him. Just a little, a response he'd never been able to overcome, no matter how comfortable the two of them were. Something about having so large a man – more, so large a mage – standing over him like that never failed to make him nervous, raising bad old memories as it did. He eased back half a step, before turning and walking over to the bed, Hawke following silently behind.
He stopped, by the bed, and turned to watch as Hawke, too, came to a halt, politely maintaining his distance, and began to undress. The mage did not undress as if it was an erotic act, as a performance of some kind; he simply removed his clothes, swiftly and a little clumsily, fingers fumbling with buckles and getting tangled in his laces in his haste. When he was finally nude he moved to sit down on the edge of the bed, knees spread.
Only then did Fenris move close again, stepping forward to stand between his legs. Hawke smiled at him, reaching up to touch his cheek, brush his hair gently back behind his ear. Fenris made a rumbling noise of approval at the touch, fighting the urge to rub himself against Hawke's hand like one of those damned cats that Anders was so besotted with. It drew a second smile from the mage. Then Hawke set to removing Fenris' armour. His hands, so clumsy and hurried when removing his own clothing, moved slowly, carefully, the troubled expression on his face finally smoothing out as he concentrated on the task at hand. He undid each buckle in turn, neatly putting aside each piece of armour as he removed it, stopping occasionally to touch or kiss the elf who stood so passively before him.
Fenris rested one hand on Hawke's broad shoulder as he shifted his weight, lifting first one foot, then the other, so as to step out of his leggings as the mage skinned them down his legs. He was half-hardened by the time the mage finished stripping him down to skin, bare save for the flowing lines of his lyrium tattoos that swirled everywhere around his body, curling along the edge of every major muscle, tracing along the top and bottom of every finger, with additional curlicues and dots added according to some pattern whose basis was known only to his master Danarius.
Ex-master, he reminded himself, as he had to remind himself every time his thoughts turned to the magister. Ex-master, though he doubted he would ever truly believe that until and unless he received proof of Danarius' death. As long as the man lived, he knew, he would never truly be free of him. Perhaps even then he would never truly be free... for he could never escape his past, nor how his past had shaped him, no more than he could escape the lines of lyrium etched into the flesh of his body. His earliest memories were of Danarius, and pain that erased anything that had come before Danarius. Almost all of his memories were of Danarius, or revolved around him, or were overshadowed in some way by him even in his absence. Even Fenris' years here in Kirkwall, living in the ruins of Danarius' mansion, using the skills he had learned to defend Danarius in order to defend another mage. He shivered, briefly wishing Danarius not just dead, but to never have been.
Hawke, as always responsive to his moods, had paused, and was watching him closely, a faint line forming between his brows as he frowned. Fenris moved closer to him, reaching out to cup his own hands around Hawke's head – covering considerably less of it than Hawke could of his – and leaned down to kiss him. Hawke made a pleased sound, his hands rising to lightly touch Fenris' back, fingers automatically avoiding the raised lines of lyrium to touch only bare flesh. Their kiss deepened, both of them, for the moment, thinking about nothing more than how to best bring together lips, mouths and tongues.
Fenris finally broke the kiss, panting slightly. He stared into Hawke's golden-brown eyes for a long moment, eyes as intense in their own way as Danarius' pale grey eyes had been, but so much warmer, so much kinder. Finally he smiled slightly, one hand rising to brush Hawke's shaggy hair back out of his eyes – the mage needed it trimmed again, something he usually had to be reminded to do – the other hand dropping to push lightly against Hawke's shoulder. "Lie back," he said, voice a low growl.
Hawke smiled, just slightly, and shifted further backwards on the bed, then lay back on his elbows, watching Fenris closely for additional cues. Fenris moved forward as well, raising one knee to rest on the bed, his other foot remaining on the floor. He rested one hand on Hawke's thigh, just above the knee, squeezing just slightly while he looked thoughtfully at the mage. Hawke, for his part, bit his lower lip and chewed on it nervously, his cock twitching a little more erect under Fenris' heated gaze.
Fenris smiled, and nudged Hawke's legs further apart, moving to sit cross-legged between them, his knees just touching the other man's thighs. He reached out and drew the back of one finger lightly up the underside of Hawke's cock, a teasing stroke that made it twitch and harden further. Repeated the stroke, this time using his knuckle and a little more pressure, smile deepening just slightly as Hawke hissed in reaction. He kept up the playful teasing with one hand, while his other reached further down, cupping around the mage's soft sack, gently manipulating the velvety-soft loose skin and the two harder shapes encased within. Hawke's hands tightened, fingers digging into the bedding, and he sucked in air through his teeth as his cock quickly went fully erect. Fenris kept up the teasing touches for a while longer, watching interestedly as Hawke reacted to his touches, muscles tensing and head falling back, eyes shut, as he gave himself over to enjoyment of what the warrior was doing.
Toying with the mage was having a rather inevitable effect on Fenris, as well; his own erection was hard and twitching, aching with the need for stimulation. He abruptly left off his ministrations of Hawke, rose and walked away, returning to the bed a minute later with a newly opened bottle of wine and a ceramic container of oily salve. He handed the salve to Hawke, then stretched out of the bed , his shoulders propped up on a pile of pillows, and drank back some of the wine while Hawke moved to kneel beside him, carefully uncorking the salve and scooping some out. The mage looked questioningly at Fenris.
Fenris took another sip from the bottle, then nodded down the length of his body at his own erection, which had only flagged a little. "On me," he instructed. "And prepare yourself."
He watched, silently, as the mage carefully spread some of the salve over him. He didn't try to avoid the fine lines of lyrium on the elf's foreskin, but did at least keep his touch light. Even so, the latent magic in his touch from his magic-use earlier that day was enough to start a glow in the lines of lyrium there, a flush of dim blue-white light that spread swiftly outward from that central point, brightening as it spread. Fenris gasped softly in reaction, his own eyes drifting closed for a time as he enjoyed Hawke's gentle touch. This was something he always liked, because it was so different than anything in his past; Hawke's gentleness, how attentive and careful he was.
He knew the moment when Hawke began preparing himself as well, heard it in the sharp hitch of Hawke's otherwise steady breathing, felt it in how the hand still stroking Fenris paused momentarily and tightened fractionally. He felt himself smile, and made a pleased sound before cracking open his eyes to watch Hawke. Big, clumsy Hawke, who when concentrating in battle or preoccupied in a task or making love somehow lost his clumsiness. The man was too self-conscious, Varric had told Fenris once as they'd watch Hawke bumbling his way around the Lowtown market. Conscious of his height, of his size, of his scarred and tanned exterior and shaggy, unkempt appearance that made him seem far more ferocious than he actually was. Conscious of the wary or even openly frightened looks his menacing appearance often earned him. Fenris thought the dwarf was probably right.
He smiled again, admiring the taut curve of Hawke's stomach as he arched backwards, one hand busy out of sight behind himself, the other still stroking Fenris. He watched, briefly, then growled and pushed Hawke's hand away, rising to his knees. He took another drink from the wine bottle, then offered it to the mage. Hawke shook his head, and Fenris put it aside on the beside table, then moved close to the mage, rising up on his knees so that he could kiss him, one of his hands tangling in Hawke's hair, the other stroking down the man's front. Hawke moaned into Fenris' mouth as the elf's hand sought out and teased first one nipple, then the other, before drifting lower yet, sliding down the mage's stomach, stroking along the thickening trail of dark hair there before he lightly grasped Hawke's erection and began to stroke it. He abandoned kissing Hawke's lips and worked his way lower, nuzzling in to lick at the warm, salty-tasting skin hidden under Hawke's beard, then lower yet, so his mouth and tongue could toy with the nipples his hand had abandoned.
Hawke gasped and wavered unsteadily, caught between the sensations of what he was doing to himself and what Fenris was doing to him. Fenris slid his free hand down the mage's side, then around to the back, gently pushing Hawke's hand away. He guided Hawke down onto his back, mouth and hand still busy, only stopping at last to move to a position between the mage's legs. Hawke obediently spread his legs and pulling his knees up towards his chest at a tap of Fenris' fingers on the inside flesh of his leg, just above the knee. Fenris drew a deep breath, running an appreciative eye over the mage as he did so.
He smiled warmly at the man, stroking his hands down the inside of Hawke's thighs in a soothing movement, knowing that Hawke likely felt as nervous as he did. Every time they slept together was different, a fresh negotiation of the traps and pitfalls that lay between them, of the reactions a single incautious word or unwanted touch might bring. They knew where most of the dangerous areas lay, were adept at avoiding them; hence it being Fenris who largely decided what they would do during any particular encounter, Hawke happy to be told for a while instead of having to make all the decisions himself. Fenris shifted position, aligned himself, keeping his eyes locked with Hawke's as he slowly leaned forward and in.
Hawke hissed softly, a brief pained expression crossing his face at first, slowly easing as the elf slid into place, pressed deep inside him. Fenris held still, waiting for the tight clench of Hawke's muscles to relax. Hawke took a deep, slightly shaky breath, releasing his hold on his legs and letting them wrap loosely around the elf, one of his hands rising to touch the side of Fenris' face, smooth back his hair, toy with his ear. He stroked his thumb lightly over the markings on Fenris' chin, smiling as they glowed at his touch. Fenris growled and twisted his head, catching the thumb between his teeth, then closing his lips over it, sucking and licking at it. The action drew a groan from the mage, and his back arched just slightly, tight muscles finally relaxing. Fenris slowly rolled his hips, pulling out then pushing back in again, giving a low-voiced moan of his own around the thumb in his mouth at the sensation.
Hawke's other hand drifted up, touched lightly to one of the lines that curved down Fenris' chest. One fingertip traced along it, then he stilled his hand, and looked questioningly at the elf. Fenris hesitated, then nodded, once, eyes half-closing as he continued rolling his hips, reaching up to capture Hawke's other hand with his, turning it so he could draw a second finger in to suck at and tongue.
The faintest hint of magical power warmed Hawke's hand, drawing a low cry from Fenris as his marks flared in response, and a matching soft cry from Hawke as the lyrium and his magic interacted. Things changed between them, as it always did when magic was in the equation, Fenris' pace becoming more frantic, Hawke pulling his hand free from Fenris' grip so that both hands were free to touch, to trace, to tease, to trickle more little surges of magic into the glowing lines. Fenris reached between them, taking Hawke in hand and stroking him. Light built, reflected in Hawke's wide eyes, tinting their skin and the sheets with blue glow. Lust built, too, the two of them moving together, gasping and moaning or making small outcries of pleasure as flesh slid against flesh and the sensations from touch, magic and lyrium all interacting sang through them.
Hawke came first, hands tightening with almost bruising force on either side of Fenris' waist as he called out hoarsely, his seed spurting out to spatter onto their stomachs. He lost control of the magic then, a final strong surge of it enveloping his hands momentarily before he managed to break it off. Fenris shouted, his lyrium markings flaring even brighter, almost phasing for a moment as his entire body arched and shook with the force of his orgasm before he passed out entirely, overwhelmed.
He re-awoke a few minutes later, to find himself already cleaned up and draped over Hawke's chest, the other man's arms wrapped around him, one hand rubbing gently at the back of his neck while the other stroked soothingly down his back. Hawke paused when Fenris stirred, then resumed when the elf did nothing more than slip his own arms around Hawke's neck, hugging him tightly, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position on top of him. Fenris closed his eyes, sighing contentedly, happy just to lie there and be touched.
And smiled again, as he felt Hawke's lips press against the top of his head in a tender kiss, and silently mouth three words.