A/N: HEY WHAT'S UP GUYS

That was pretty much the longest writer's block ever. I'd written basically nothing for six months. For any stories, period. But I knew I wanted to keep at this story, but not having ideas and life and oh god so exhausted all the time and work and life and EVERYTHING EVER got in the way. =/

But the support from you guys has been great~! I've been very happy and moved to get so many notes from people cheering me on, saying "writer's block and nagging internet people are huge downers, but you can do it! PUNCH EVERYTHING IN THE FACE!"

So that's what I did.

And here we have a new chapter. XD

One of you guys even sent me a note to say that she heard the Maroon 5 song "One More Night" and it makes her think of this story! I went and looked it up, and I can definitely see where the feeling might come from. Thanks for that, really!

This chapter's more about the emotional aspects of their relationship (smut warning this time! For serious), but next time is when we start to see her companions and the rest of Kirkwall come back into her life, with varying reactions and degrees of success.

Enjoy!

Day 55

There was no denying that autumn was comfortably settling itself into the Free Marches. As she sat, broadsword dully gleaming in her lap, Hawke felt an overly friendly breeze duck into her clothes and send a shiver down her spine.

She temporarily put down her handiwork to reach for a blanket she'd tucked into her satchel, wrapping it around her shoulders despite the half-horned Sten's look of mild disapproval.

"You know," she said a bit defensively as she picked up the polishing oil again, "I'm surprised the lot of you haven't started wearing cloaks yet. Don't you come from an abysmally hot jungle? You should be freezing."

The qunari kept his eyes on her hands as her cloth-wrapped fingers repeatedly traced the edge of his blade. "We have acclimated," he explained, "and possess thicker skin than your race's fragile protection."

"Don't forget that you're all stubborn as mabari," she added nonchalantly, scrubbing at a particularly scored patch near the hilt.

"The comparison to a war beast is accurate," he countered, "and complimentary."

"Should've known."

They sat on one of the long benches in front of the armaas, Hawke straddling the dense wood in order to gain better leverage over the enormous weapons in her charge. She'd sought out her friend that afternoon to ask after his twin broadswords, which she knew saw frequent use. Aban and Ebat ('sea' and 'sky,' respectively) were clearly designed to play to his strengths: massive weapons that could cleave through scrawnier creatures like butter, and magnified their owner's natural power. Carver had trained with such bulky swords, she recalled, but Mairead infinitely preferred the smaller daggers strapped to her back. Still, she could at least handle the massive things well enough, and cleaning them was relaxing. That wasn't even to mention the cultural significance of caring for another's weapons, which were symbolic extensions of their flesh-and-blood bodies.

The Sten watched appreciatively, sitting nearby to converse. "Your own blades are well cared for," he observed, noting the healthy sheen that glinted from each curve.

Her hands hesitated in their work, but only for the briefest moment, resuming as she spoke. "The Arishok would never let them be anything other than perfect."

For his part, her friend didn't seem surprised at all that the Arishok cared for her weapons. It was a normal thing between emotionally close qunari, despite their relationship being an odd one. And though it was a natural progression, his next question caught her off guard.

"And you maintain his?"

The look on her face must have been indicative of something, because he suddenly became acutely interested in her expression. She did her best to look absorbed in the second sword of the pair, scrubbing furiously, but it did nothing to lessen his intense scrutiny.

I want to take care of them, Hawke thought as she set her jaw, but getting him to hand them over is a different matter entirely.

She'd tried a few times, to no avail. It was always the same: a sudden swell of determination, an awkward conversation completely unrelated to his blades as she desperately waited for a good segue, and then... nothing. Complete defeat.

"You do not lack the skill," the half-horned sten said curiously, leaning in closer. "Nor are you unaware of our customs."

She raised her oil-stained palms to stop him right there. "It'll happen," she promised, hiding behind her hands. "Soon."

And she really did mean 'soon,' she swore to herself as she reached for the sandcloth. Every single time she saw him, she –

It was at that precise moment that a familiar pair of gold-banded horns appeared from behind a nearby corner, catching her eye and making her heart punch her lungs like an angry drunkard. The Arishok's long strides down the sand-dusted walkway threatened to take him out of sight, and Hawke's legs acted before her head could register. Scrambling to her feet, she firmly put down the sword she was working on and jogged up to the well-armed warlord.

"Arishok!"

He stopped, inclining his head to indicate that he had heard her. "Hawke."

She dragged one hand across her cheek, leaving a rust-colored smudge in its wake. He turned fully, then, inspecting her hands and crinkling his nose at the abrasive smell of polishing oil. "You work on your weapons."

"Oh, no. Not mine." She thumbed back over her shoulder. "The Sten's. Thought it was the least I could do."

He glanced in the direction of his still-seated subordinate, making a noise in his throat that roughly translated to "I see."

All right, Hawke thought to herself, this is your chance. Perfect lead-in. 'Hey, I was maintaining his weapons – want me to do yours too, while I'm at it?' 'I'm cleaning his, but I'd really like to take a look at yours.' 'Yeah, they're filthy. Speaking of, do your weapons need a quick once-over?'

As she ran through at least a dozen variations on that specific segue, she realized that she had fallen silent, and that the Arishok had stood in place while she lost herself in thought. His golden eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms expectantly.

She suddenly felt her nerves start to falter under his gaze, and she briefly wondered how awkward it would be if she just snatched his weapons without a word and made a run for it.

Pretty awkward, she realized somewhat sadly as the scenario played out disastrously in her head.

"You called," he rumbled, quickly growing impatient with her unexplained silence. "With what purpose?"

'I want to care for your blades as a proxy for you,' her brain offered desperately. 'Give me your blades so that I can show you some kind of affection you'll understand.' 'Hand over your weapons, and I'll have them so sharp and clean you could cut a feather lengthwise.'

Instead, what came out of her mouth was: "What kind of tea do you want tonight?"

Damn it.

At his frown, she rushed to add: "I'm going to see Fenlin later, and so I thought..."

After a moment, he unfolded his arms and raised his chin. "Majan," he instructed,"red."

"Right," she replied, her muscles gradually losing their tension. "I'll have it ready."

He grunted an affirmation and, as he continued on his way, Hawke sighed. Half of it was relief that she had passably covered for her ridiculous behavior, and the other half lamented yet another miserable failure.

Scratching her neck absently, she turned back to the half-horned Sten, whom she had left waiting with his unfinished blades.

He was still sitting on the bench, having watched the entire exchange with his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face.

Ah, that look said. I see. You're just an idiot.

Irritated, Hawke stormed back to her seat and picked up the sword, resuming her work angrily.

"Not a damn word from you," she growled.

"I'm doing something wrong."

Hawke slumped over Fenlin's work desk, petulantly plucking crisp leaves off of their stalks.

"Truer words," the healer said with a smirk, "were never spoken."

She was too exasperated to even glare at him for that one. She only sighed into the crook of the elbow that her arm was resting on, and stared off into the grain of the table wood. "I thought that studying the Qun would help me understand him. Instead, it seems to have done more harm than good."

Fenlin reached for her abandoned plant with long, delicate fingers. "How so?"

"I don't know." She shifted her shoulders, sliding her forearms a few inches forward. "If anything, he's only gotten more distant. And not even angry – I can deal with angry – but... apathetic."

"Since you began your studies?"

"Since he started taking me to bed, more like. Though–" She flapped her hand lifelessly. "–I can't complain about that change."

Something in that sentence gave the elf pause, and his ears twitched as he turned to regard her curiously. "How often are you the one to initiate?"

"What, sex?" Frowning at the unexpected question, Hawke lifted her chin. "Not at all, yet."

"There you go," he declared as he reached for another pinned stalk. "All of these desires you used to throw at him are suddenly gone. The more desirable your mate is, the more pride you take in them, the more demonstrative you are. He's doing all the work, and I'd lay any bet that it hasn't gone unnoticed."

As his meaning sank in, Hawke pushed herself upright, staring in disbelief. "He's insecure?" The Arishok, the man who had kept her lying awake at night, fueled her battle rage with pent-up sexual frustration, and could turn her knees to water with a single glance... thought that she didn't want him? "How can he–"

She was immediately hit with a fistful of pungent leaves in the face.

Sputtering and spitting out an errant few, she swatted them away. "What was that for?!"

Fenlin was glaring at her, leaning back with his slender arms folded across his chest. "Every day, what do you come in here to complain about?"

"The food?"

"That he doesn't tell you anything!" He waved a newly-bare stem at her menacingly. "So don't even pretend to be surprised when he can't magically read the contents of your bizarre human mind."

Rather abashed, Hawke ducked her head. He was completely right, as usual; she hadn't even thought of it like that. She'd been assuming far too much, something that was a recipe for misunderstanding. Which was exactly what she'd dug herself spectacularly into.

"I just thought– " She tapped an index finger to the tip of her nose. "– he can smell it on me, can't he?"

"Yes, but kossith bodies don't treat sex like humans' do. He knows this – he doesn't do anything without exhaustive research – and is probably wondering why you're not showing interest. Giving off a strong desire, but not acting on it?" He shot her a sidelong glance as his fingers stripped more medicinal greenery. "That could easily be interpreted as shame."

"That's completely untrue!" At Fenlin's narrowed eyes and raised fist, full of a fresh set of leaves to throw, Hawke instinctively shielded herself with her arms.

"He's never mated with a human before," the healer pointed out. "How in Thedas is he supposed to know anything about it? Besides, the Qun doesn't have answers for these kinds of things, and the Qun is all he knows." He lowered the impromptu chastising weapon. "This is why bas are so draining. Things would be different if you were qunari. But you aren't. And you knew that when you signed on for this. So." He emptied the contents of his threatening hand into a ceramic jar. "Make it abundantly clear for him."

"That's fair," she murmured, picking up a few stray leaves and adding them to their fellows. "But don't the qunari dislike females being the aggressors?"

"So if you take the lead and he refuses, what happens?"

"He throws me down and asserts dominance?"

Fenlin raised an eyebrow meaningfully, clanking the lid of the jar into place.

"Well." Mairead grinned, stretching. "I suppose I could live with that, too."

The elf chuckled.

"Try not to make each other bleed too much."

The slightly over-early chill had settled like a thick blanket across the compound by the time dusk fell. Every night, more and more tents were covered with wide leather panels that layered over the summer-weight canvas to better insulate against the growing cold, and while the Arishok's tent had been among the first, each time the door flap opened, a bit of Hawke's precious heat escaped.

She sat cross-legged on the floor by the low table, fingers wrapped eagerly against the hot ceramic of her teacup. Though her skin was close to blistering, she didn't care. She'd revel in every little damn bit of heat that she could get, save hugging the teapot itself to her chest and curling into a ball around it on the table like a cat.

That prospect was seeming less and less idiotic the longer she sat, and she might have come close to seriously considering it if the flapping of leather against canvas at the door hadn't snapped her out of it. Cold radiated off of the Arishok's skin as he ducked through the opening, his gaze quickly snapping to the tea a few paces away.

"I am back."

"Welcome back," she replied, leveraging her palms against the floor to stand and assist with his armor.

She started with his shoulder guards, stretching up on her toes to reach around his neck and undo the buckles that held them in place. One fell into her arms, and was hooked into place on the rack. The second followed, as did his waistpiece and heavy skirting. As she adjusted them on the wooden skeleton, the Arishok laid his weapons to rest in their stand and sank heavily into the cushions, reaching for his tea and exhaling audibly.

At the sound of the air leaving his lungs, Hawke knew that when she turned around, he'd have a book in his hand. Sure enough, he had emptied his teacup and held a heavy tome open in his lap, the leather fastening straps hanging loose and undone from the bindings. He was sprawled out lazily in his usual posture, chin resting in one hand as his eyes traveled the pages, wearing his typical scowl. Chuckling to herself as she took the sight of him in, Mairead silently wondered how someone so accomplished in precision warfare could have such rubbish posture.

Well, she mused as she knelt to replace her own cup on the table, at least he wasn't going anywhere for a long while.

The clack of ceramic on polished wood echoed in the quiet, but wasn't nearly loud enough to pique the qunari's interest, never mind pull him away from his book.

Hawke hoped she would fare better.

Dropping her shoulders, she moved from the rug to the cushions, slowly crawling the length of him on all fours. As she slid one knee across his calves, straddling his legs, she caught the brief, interested flick of golden-yellow eyes up at her over the top of his book. It was short-lived, however, and he turned his attention back to the writing with a skeptical noise in his throat and the faint huff of a snort.

Never one to give up easily, Hawke lifted one hand and hooked her index finger into the gutter crease of the book, dead center, tugging it down. The Arishok allowed it, watching carefully as she stretched over the obstruction to splay her fingers and teacup-warm palms over his abdomen. Her eyes locked onto his, her fingers tracing meaningful patterns lightly over his skin and raising heat where she touched. An appreciative rumble reverberated in his chest – her intent was clear – but he made no move to reach for her or shift position at all.

Glancing at the still-open book in his lap, she began to withdraw her hand. "No?"

He caught her wrist with the hand not supporting his head, his movements lightning-fast.

"I said nothing."

Smirking and more than satisfied, Hawke sat upright to gently close the book and pluck it from his lap, taking its place as she set it on the floor at his feet. As she settled her thighs on either side of his, she shrugged off her overcoat and tossed it behind her to fall Maker-knew-where. She leaned in to weave her hands into his hair, and felt the prick of his claws tracing up under her shirt and across the sensitive skin of her back. That earned him a contented murmur and the arch of her spine, pressing her breasts against his chest and exposing her throat from the curtain of hair that she had loosed in the hope that it would keep her even a bit warmer.

As she dug her nails into the base of his scalp, winding her fingers into a knotted fist of snow-white hair and gripping tightly, she felt an appreciative growl vibrating from his mouth where it lay on her neck. She wasn't ever surprised when rough was the right answer; her own preferences tended that way and the Arishok could withstand more than his share of pain without flinching.

Not that she didn't like to see him flinch.

As that thought crossed her mind, something occurred to Hawke, and she smirked absently while enjoying the warmth the giant beneath her was sharing. She would be loath to leave it, even for the few seconds it would take to fetch what she would need for her little stunt. Sliding her palms to his shoulders and pushing back, she was immediately colder.

"Hey," she said, "wait a bit."

The glare she was met with was absolutely priceless. Clearly very unaccustomed to and unhappy with being told 'wait' when already half-hard with a female on his lap, the Arishok looked anything but pleased. The hand on her back dug a little harder into her skin in irritation, and she fought the moan bubbling up from her chest. Instead, she planted a kiss on his nose and gave his crotch a squeeze as she extricated herself from his grasp.

"I'll be right back, I promise."

She ducked into the sleeping chamber for all of a moment, reappearing with her blades in her arms, which she laid beside her as she knelt between his knees. He hadn't shifted an inch, though his expression had gone from 'extremely displeased' to 'marginally inconvenienced and slightly curious.' An improvement, to be sure, and he watched with interest as she reached for and deftly undid the ties at his waist. A few tugs and an accommodating lift of his hips, and his pants were a crumpled pile on the floor.

She would never get tired of seeing him naked, Hawke swore as she shed everything above the waist, feeling warmer by the second. Her breasts brushed against his thighs as she slid forward, spreading her fingers out like fans from her palms and running her hands across his stomach and back down to the solid planes of his thighs. Nipping at the skin above his pelvic bones and feeling the rumble of his chest through her fingertips down to her toes, she sank her shoulders and collected her hands to the base of his erection. She would be nice first.

As she set her mouth on him, she felt the muscles on either side of her tighten sharply, as well as heard a low hiss escape his mouth. He'd finally lifted his head from his hand, she noted as she continued, and was watching her with an intensity that made her wish she'd remembered to take her pants off when she lost the rest of her clothes earlier. She'd done this for him once before, and Mairead was nothing if not a quick study. She was trained in spotting weaknesses; she knew how to get a rise out of her opponent and strike where it would do the most damage. As such, she'd developed a kind of eidetic memory for flesh in a... multitude of situations.

While her tongue wound purposeful patterns, she also noted that he was one of the most polite partners she'd ever had. Yes, he may have drawn more blood and tossed her around like a sack of grain, but he was, all things considered, rather chivalrous. Even now, there was no thrusting up into her throat or grabbing her head to force her deeper as others had done in the past, but instead a simple enjoyment of her mouth on his cock. Completely controlled and steady.

Hawke never could leave well enough alone. It was just in her nature.

She drew her head away, rocking back on her heels and feeling around for one of her daggers. The nude warlord reclining in front of her made no protest, but narrowed his eyes as she ran her thumb over one of the frost runes in the hilt, waking the blade and drawing it from its sheath.

"Magic," he glowered, but his disapproval went ignored.

"Just sit back and shut up."

Tendrils of icy vapor started to creep out from the steel, and Hawke rolled her tongue around in her mouth. She was glad she'd done this before, otherwise she ran the risk of having her tongue stick.

(Stupid lampposts in winter. Stupid Carver and his stupid dares.) When she was satisfied that she'd be safe, she pressed the width of her tongue flat against the widest part of the blade, wrapping her lips carefully around the edge it lined up with. It was only a few seconds before her mouth was almost painfully cold, and she was all too happy to share.

She couldn't help but grin as the muscles beneath his skin fluttered and pulsed as she dragged her tongue up from his hip, along his ribs, over a nipple, and bit with ice-cold teeth just above his collar. His exhale was slow, long, and deliberate, and he was even harder now. Thoroughly pleased with herself, Mairead trailed her fingertips over the chilly, still-wet gooseflesh that her tongue had raised, then ducked back for a frosty touch-up and dove right back, her freshly-cold mouth attacking every inch of skin she could get to.

The Arishok very obviously knew where she was going with this, so when she settled back down between his knees and met his eyes over the edge of the blade between her lips, she gave him that half-moment to brace himself. Out of warrior's respect, she supposed, or lovers' courtesy. Either way, he had about three seconds before she brought winter two months early.

She had the distinct pleasure of watching his pupils constrict to pinpricks as she wrapped her mouth around him, however shortlived. He arched his neck back at an angle that had to be uncomfortable, snapping his hips up just enough that Hawke knew she'd hit upon something. She could hear seams popping on either side of them as his claws tore into the cushions, and she wondered how irritated he would be later at having to replace them. He clearly couldn't care less at the moment, though, his entire body tense and desperately wrangling for control. She could see his fists clench and unclench almost in time with his haggard breathing, the mangled stuffing between his fingers a poor substitute for whatever it was he very much wanted to have in his grasp.

The deep, rumbling groans from his chest were encouraging, and her tongue's exploration was punctuated by a few quick visits to her blades to cool back down. Each time, the bucking was just as strong, and though it didn't do much, she braced her hands on his hips. The effort it took to keep himself in check was taking a toll on the Arishok; Hawke watched his body shake and tremble, watched his muscles flutter as sweat rolled off of his copper-hued skin. She was also fairly certain that there were noises he was making beyond her human hearing, though the stuttered moans she elicited with well-timed squeezes and the dragging of her canines were more than enough to make her one enormous nerve ending, shuddering warmly even from the way the rug ground against her toes.

Never mind him, she thought as she reached for the still-steaming cup of tea on the table, she wouldn't be able to last much longer. As she rolled the hot, rich liquid around her tongue and teeth, all traces of the cold were erased and her breath was warm against the skin of her arm as she shakily dragged the back of her hand across her lips. Another sip, and her wet, hot mouth took the place it had just abandoned to the cold air.

She felt him pulse in her mouth at first contact, and heard his strangled half-roar as she was only vaguely aware of being hauled upwards. She fell forward, grabbing at his horns for support as she was yanked to his chest, his rough palms seeking out her thighs and hiking them up over his waist.

Pushing herself upright, Hawke offered a lopsided smirk. He'd been close; she learned early on that he insisted on finishing in her, and that alone. A part of the Qun, she supposed, which probably led to a lot of sad endings to vigorous blowjobs.

"Done with that, then?"

He growled, rolling his hips up into hers and hooking a claw into the waist of her pants. "Disrobe."

"I thought you'd never ask."

He watched intently as she undid the ties and wriggled out of them, smalls and all, one leg at at time. As she was shaking them loose onto the floor, she felt one knuckle reach up and run along the junction of her thighs, coming back just as slick as she'd known it would.

"You require nothing further."

Before she could reply, his hands were at her hips, tugging her downward.

Hint.

She laid her palms on his chest, sliding herself down and briefly reaching back to guide things along. Not that she needed to – her body had long since decided to memorize every inch of this painted giant – and as she sank down onto him fully, she let out a long breath and rolled herself back to sitting, spreading her knees and squeezing.

His claws tightened into the flesh of her hips, though what had his attention wasn't the intersection of their bodies. Rather, as they began their slow rhythm, his intense focus was on her chest and abdomen. Curious, Hawke looked down...

...and immediately understood.

When she had pressed her chest to him moments before, the sweat on his skin had dampened the red dye artfully decorating his skin. His warpaint had, albeit choppily, been transferred to her, and was a stark blood red against her much paler skin.

His gaze was pinned to it, a mixture of appreciation and hunger, and as his thrusts upward became more frantic, more fierce, Hawke became keenly aware of just how seeing his markings on his mate affected the Arishok.

Her thoughts hazy to anything other than how fucking great this felt, she thought nothing of it when he pulled her down to grip the back of her neck. She was grinding her hips down to meet him just as enthusiastically as she could manage with her knees so spread and limbs refusing to obey any rational thought. He pressed his forehead to hers and she grasped at his horns, gasping as his grip tightened and he took over the pace.

She wasn't capable of thinking too deeply about anything at that point. And though she knew that qunari didn't kiss, exactly – though they knew what it was – there was a moment where she forgot that she was viddathari, and he was the Arishok. And in that moment, she tilted her head just enough to claim his mouth with hers, sliding her hands to his ears and neck and fiercely invading as though on his tongue was the answer to every question that had ever gone unanswered.

And somewhere between one bizarre day the previous year and that one night in the arena and this exact moment in time, the Arishok had apparently decided that he would tolerate this gesture.

Hawke didn't even notice.

Still completely nude except for the smears of crimson dye, Hawke cheerfully sat nestled in the cushions (sans the two that had been sliced to ribbons, thankfully) with a polishing cloth in one hand and the Arishok's waraxe in the other. The rest of her tools were on the table, arranged artfully in their order of use. As she poured more oil onto the rag, she stretched her legs, humming brightly to herself.

She was scouring a particularly stubborn groove when a warm weight fell across her shoulders and the pillows beside her sank to accommodate a certain warlord. The blanket he had dropped on her was appreciated, and she was about to thank him for his consideration for her frail human form. When she tilted her head back to look at him, however, she smirked.

"I thought Qunari were tough."

He glared at her out of the corner of his eye, the blanket he had wrapped around himself sliding as he reached for his book.

"The temperature your kind is weak against does not affect the qunari." He paused, frowning. "Yet I am cold."

"Magic cold," she explained, craning her neck back and nearly looking at him upside-down. "Has a kick, hovers around." With a grin, she added: "Worth it though, right?"

He said nothing, but she saw his cock twitch fractionally at the memory.

Smirking, she turned back to her work. "Then shut up and be grateful."

That earned her an affectionate bite on the shoulder, and she chuckled.

"Hey," she observed playfully, "neither of us is bleeding!"