Fills written for prompts during Fenris Porn Week on Tumblr. Not all of which are smutty, but a fair number of them are, so be warned :)
Not taking prompts this week as my brain needs a berak from them after four weeks in a row of them, so you can expect to see updates to some of my longer fics that I've been neglecting over the last month.
Fenris/Zevran – Set Me Free
Normally he could see in the dark quite clearly, or at least as good or better than average. Well enough to have no fears in being chased across darkened rooftops on a moonless night, even the faint starlight usually providing enough light for him to pick out a safe route, even when it was not rooftops that he was already well acquainted with in both daylight and at night, in all conditions. But throw in a darkly overcast night, make it rooftops he had no previous acquaintance with, in a city whose architecture he was not familiar with, throw in a single broken and dilapidated rooftop in a row of otherwise immaculately maintained rooftops... and yes, he might discover that the patch he thought was no more than deeper shadow was, in fact, a gaping hole in the roof, large enough for him to fall through before he realized he had misstepped.
Though not, thankfully, quite as badly as the person following him, who not only made the same mistake but missed the small tiled landing at the head of the stairs, where Zevran was sprawled in what he would have to admit was a daze, and instead fell the full two stories from roof to the unyielding floor of the entrance hall, landing badly and breaking his neck. One less pursuer, anyhow, and as there'd only been the one still behind him when he'd last risked a look back, he'd have to believe he was at least momentarily safe.
For a given value of safe, he corrected, hearing movement in the darkness behind him.
"Do not move," a voice said, a very deep voice, a very calm and self-assured voice. He might have moved anyway, but he felt the lightest of pressures against the back of his neck, and something about that pressure said blade to him, and given how far away the voice had been, there was either a second person or it was a very long blade. He remained still, and cleared his throat, perhaps a touch nervously. But then he'd never liked having people at his back, particularly people with sharp things in their hands.
"I beg your pardon," he said, striving for a light tone of voice. "My mistake... I did not mean to drop in on you like this, only I was rather pressed for time and misstepped."
A very faint snort, which he chose to believe was amused. "Stay there," the voice rumbled. There was silence, afterwards; whomever this was, he moved as quietly as a cat. Zevran considered moving, the touch to his neck having withdrawn as well, but he was tired, and sore, and had a sneaking suspicion that he was not currently up to moving at any real speed. And as quickly as that blade had been at his throat after his fall, he suspected even at his best form it might be a trick to evade whomever that had been.
Zevran actually managed to pick out the faint sound of bare flesh on hard tiles when the person with the delicious voice returned. "Cross your hands behind your back," he was ordered. He hesitated, and felt the touch of the blade again. "Now."
He sighed, and complied, and found himself being hogtied with a speed and effectiveness that spoke of someone quite well-acquainted with ropes and their use in restraining others. A skill he had no real objections to finding in people, though perhaps in a rather different situation than the one he currently found himself in. He rolled over on his side once the person was finished, and got his first glimpse of his captor. Another elf, tall as a human, lean and muscular, wearing a rather fetching outfit of skin-tight leathers. He had a shock of white hair and fine olive skin, marked with a dramatic array of curving blue-white lines. And was holding a very large blade indeed, one almost as long as he was tall, yet held negligently in one hand as if it weighed nothing, as the elf leaned over the rail to look down at the body sprawled on the floor below.
"I believe he is dead," Zevran said calmly. "I head a cracking sound when he hit the floor."
"I believe you are right," the elf said, but was still all caution as he went slowly and silently down the stairs, his bare feet making no sound as he picked his way downwards and over to examine the man. He crouched, going out of Zevran's line of sight for a moment, then rose again, an expression of distaste on his face as he returned his sword to the harness on his back. "Dead, indeed," the elf said, then bent down, caught hold of some part of the body – clothing or arm, Zevran couldn't see at first – and dragged it away out of sight, without fuss. Someone used to sudden death, then.
Zevran hurriedly tested his bindings while the elf was out of sight, hoping that he had not been careful enough in applying them. No such luck; he was quite firmly restrained.
The expression of distaste was still on the elf's face when he returned, taking the stairs two at a time – and still as spookily silent as even – before coming to a stop, standing and looking down at Zevran. It gave Zevran the most delicious feeling of deja vu. "You know, this is not the first time I have found myself tied up and helpless at the feet of a devastatingly handsome elf," he said, smiling and running his eyes appreciatively over the warrior. "Might I ask your name? I am Zevran Arainai, late of Ferelden and even later of the Antivan Crows."
"An assassin?" the elf asked, scowling.
"Yes, though no longer a Crow. I only kill on a more private and personal scale these days. For special friends and the like."
Another snort, then the warrior bent down, caught hold of the ropes binding him, and dragged him away, through a doorway and into a room that, on examination, Zevran decided could only be described as a lair. Most of it in darkness save for a small fire flickering in an ash-filled fireplace, smelling of wine and old food and a certain musky maleness that must be the elf's own scent, along with a noticeable smell of unwashed clothes, stale bedding, and mildew. Part of the ceiling reflected back the faint firelight, while a good-sized chunk of it over beyond the bed was an opening into darkness; another gaping hole.
"Interesting decor," Zevran said once the elf stopped dragging him, leaving him on the floor a few feet from the fire; too far away for him to make any easy attempt to roll over and burn through his ropes, even if he's been willing to risk injury to escape. "You still have not told me your name."
"Fenris," the elf said, walking away again, this time going over to a nearby table. He picked up a plate and a bottle of wine and walked over, dropping onto a nearby bench and studying Zevran as he set down the plate beside himself, then drank heavily from the opened bottle.
"Fenris. An intriguing name. Do you know, it means..."
"...little wolf," the elf said, scowling. "Yes, I know. My master made a point of telling me so, many times."
"Ah, my apologies," Zevran said, and fell silent a moment, thinking. Master? He studied the other elf again, taking in many things; his posture, the way his eyes did not quite meet Zevran's, even though he was the one that was clearly in control. The sense of suppressed anger about him. A slave, he decided. Or possibly an ex-slave, given that slavery was at least technically illegal here in Kirkwall. Ex-slave, he decided, watching the man swallow more of the wine, then pick at the food on the plate... bread and cheese and fresh figs, he thought, by the faint smell of it, and found himself licking his lips, given how long it had been since he'd last eaten.
The elf noticed, and a wry smile momentarily twisted his lips. "Hungry?" he asked.
"Starving. I have not eaten since morning, and even that was no more than a roll and a handful of water," he confessed.
"Hmmm," the elf grunted, and ate another bite, watching him closely. "Why were you being chased? For killing someone?"
Zevran smiled. "No. Technically, it is for not killing someone. I failed a target some years back, and the Crows take a very dim view of failure. That I not only did not die in my failure, but went on to ally with my target... well, they are rather unforgiving. Especially since I have a deplorable habit of killing the Crows they keep sending to kill me."
Fenris gave him a curious look. "Too incompetent to kill a target, but competent enough to kill other Crows? That sounds... unlikely."
Zevran grinned. "I will admit I had some help against some of the Crows. And I will also admit I was not trying my best against the target; I was rather hoping he'd kill me, you see. Only he didn't."
The elf smiled, faintly. "And you found yourself bound at his feet, instead?"
Zevran's grin widened. "Yes. And he decided there were better uses for a handsome and highly skilled elf such as myself than merely killing me. Perhaps you might consider reaching the same decision? I should point out that in addition to killing unwanted parties of adventurers I am also quite skilled at cards, massage, bantering conversation, and bed games."
"I have no use for a whore." Fenris snapped, scowling.
"Who said anything about whoring? Certainly not I. I sleep with people for only two reasons; because I need to get close enough to kill them, or because I find them attractive. And I certainly have no pressing reason to wish a handsome elf such as yourself dead."
Fenris flushed, then scowled. "That is twice you have called me handsome. Do not do so any further," he snapped.
"If you prefer me not to, than I will not do so. Though not saying it does not make it any less true," he said, and gave the elf a look that he knew was generally considered both smouldering and suggestive. He was fascinated to see the other elf blush and look away, then steal a glance back at him. Not entirely uninterested, he judged, more like... frightened. Uncertain. "I have no reason to kill you," he repeated, keeping his voice gentle and low. "Nor you to kill me. Why not free me? And then... well, I will leave, if you want. Or I could stay, and prove my words to you. The choice is yours."
The warrior put down his bottle of wine with a loud thump, and rose to his feet, pacing back and forth across the room for a moment, clearly uncertain about what to do. Zevran remained silent, watching him. He wondered if the other elf was even aware of how sexy he looked, pacing back and forth like that, the faint firelight casting moving shadows over his lithe form, highlighting those odd lines that scored his flesh. He moved like a dancer... no, not a dancer. Something more dangerous. Not a wolf, as his name suggested, but one of the big cats that could be found in the north, all grace and danger, merciless killers when they wished to be.
The elf stopped pacing. He once again drew the great-sword from his back, making Zevran's mouth go dry with fear and his cock twitch with lust, being tied up and in danger answering to a number of his darker fancies. The sword tip lowered, twisted slightly, moved away again, the rope that had bound him falling loose. He carefully moved to sit up, rubbing at his wrists, watching Fenris closely. "Shall I stay?" he asked, voice low and gentle, undemanding.
"Stay or go, I care not," Fenris said, voice a little rough, then turned his back.
Zevran rose to his feet. It would, he knew, make the most sense to just turn and walk out, to go away and leave this strange, dangerous elf alone. But when had he ever paid much attention to what made the most sense? Or cared overly much about danger?
The elf tensed at the sound of Zevran's approaching feet, turned warily as he drew close. Zevran had to look up to meet that suspicious look. He smiled. "Since you won't let me use the other word... let me say that I look forward to proving to you just how beautiful I find you," he said, then slowly, very slowly, reached out to touch fingertips to warm cheek, noting how Fenris momentarily leaned into the touch. Hungry for touch, he thought. For gentleness. He closed the last bit of distance between them, leaning against Fenris' armoured chestplate – an annoyance he planned to remove as soon as he could, along with the rest of the elf's outfit – and drew him down into a kiss.
The warrior remained stiff at first, eyes open and wary as Zevran's lips touched his, lips pursed and hard with distrust. Zevran took his time, pressing himself against the other man, letting him feel the pressure of his growing hardness, letting his own eyes close, showing no fear of the other. Around the second or third kiss Fenris relaxed, just a little, leaning against Zevran rather than trying to hold himself apart, his lips relaxing as his mouth slowly eased open. Only then did Zevran bring his second hand into play, lifting it up to twine into silky white hair and pull Fenris closer, deepening the kiss.
Fenris moaned as Zevran edged one of his legs between the other man's, pleased to feel an answering hardness there. He pressed his thigh firmly against it, then drew back slightly, smiling against Fenris' lips as he felt the elf's hips move slightly, chasing after the receding pressure.
He ended the kiss, drew back a little. "Bed?" he asked.
Fenris' eyes were darkly blown. He nodded jerkily. "Yes, bed," he agreed, glancing that way nervously. Zevran nodded, and led him over, noticing how the sheets and cushions were heaped in a nest-like ring in the middle of the sagging mattress. He could easily picture how the warrior must sleep there, all curled up tight in a ball, like a frightened child. Yes. Definitely a slave, once, and perhaps still one, in his heart of hearts. He said nothing, only began to remove armour; his own, the warrior's, piece by piece and alternated with heated kisses and soothing touches.
There would be no fear, he was determined, already reading the language of the other man's body, the subtle little signals that said yes to some things, and no to others. There would only be a building heat, and a careful sharing of pleasure, without fear or pain or shame. And maybe, perhaps, if they were both lucky, the start of a friendship from this one unexpected night.
Fenris/Aveline
Aveline knocked at the door. There was no answer; she knocked again, frowning in annoyance. A third time; still no answer. She tried the handle, and was somehow unsurprised when it opened easily, not even locked. The elf never did seem to pay enough attention to his own safety, not until slavers were popping out of the woodwork and attempting to recapture him anyway. She bit her lip, wondering whether or not to just push the door in and enter. It might look bad, her being a city guard and this not being a building she technically had any right to enter... but then she thought again of the look on Fenris' face when he'd stormed out of the Hanged Man earlier, and opened the door, quickly stepping inside before closing it quietly behind her.
"Fenris?" she called out. "It's me. Aveline."
Silence.
She picked her way across the rubble-strewn floor, wrinkling her nose at the corpses and broken tiles, the mildewed, damp-spoiled walls and the mushrooms growing out of what had, at some time in the past, been fabric or paper, but was now slowly composting debris. "Fenris?" she called again, when she reached the foot of the steps.
Still no answer, or at least none in words, but she thought she heard the sound of movement upstairs, from within the darkened doorway that led to the single room that the elf made use of. She sighed, and muttered a curse, then slowly climbed the stairs, staying close to the wall where she hoped the steps might still be sound, wincing at the chorus of creaks that accompanied her upwards. She'd seen Hawke thunder up them in full armour as if certain that the rotten wood would never dare crumble under her feet; she was not so certain, and preferred caution.
"Fenris?" she called yet again as she reached the door to the darkened room, lit only at the farthest end by the last of the fading sunlight still making its way in the broken ceiling, not a candle or even coals in the fireplace to otherwise light it.
"Go away," Fenris rumbled, from somewhere in the darkness. Near the fireplace, she guessed.
"No," she said, and walked forward into the room, slowly, feeling her way with her feet, waiting for her eyes to adjust to what little light there was inside. She could hear the elf make an exasperated sound, then the scape of leather against wood and faint jingle of the metal parts of his harness moving as he rose to the feet. She stopped.
"Foolish woman," he said.
"No more foolish than you," she said, as mildly as she could. "I know you're unhappy about Hawke and..."
"You know nothing!"he spat out, interrupting her. Sounds of metal being draw, of hurried footsteps; she felt her arm being grabbed and yanked, and refrained from countering his attack. She found herself being flung against a nearby wall, felt the elf moving closer to stand before her, his sword pressed to her neck, above her bandana. She could just make out the whiteness of his hair, the pale oval of his face. Could smell the drink on his breath. And yet, she was not frightened; she could feel the tremor of his hands, in the sharpened edge of metal pressed to her throat. And – perhaps most tellingly – his lines had remained dark. If he was truly angry, had actually meant her any harm, she was convinced that she'd be seeing more than just his vague shape, there in the darkness.
They stood that way for a long moment, neither speaking. Then Fenris sagged, took the sword away from her throat and moved off a step of two, turning away from her. "Sorry," he said, his voice low and husky.
She touched her throat to check for blood, was relieved to feel nothing but smooth, unmarked skin. As sharp as he kept that monstrous blade, it wouldn't have taken much for him to injure her. "You'd better be," she said calmly. "That was a damned stupid thing for you to do."
He moved another step away, head lowering further, back and shoulders hunching in that posture she so hated, the one that made him seem shorter than his true height, that diminished him. Were he a guard she was training, she'd have been constantly barking at him to straighten up and stand proud. A pity he was an elf; she'd have recruited him without a second thought, had the city guard accepted elves.
"Why are you even here?" he asked, sounding tired now, more than anything else. Tired and empty.
"I was worried," she said softly. "I saw your face, before you left the Hanged Man."
A long silence. "So?" he asked at last.
"So I've seen that expression before, on my own face, after Wesley died. I know what I was feeling that made me... that..." she stopped, her voice cracking for a moment, then drew a deep breath. "Anyway, it made me worry about you."
Another long silence; Fenris was standing motionless, his back to her. She could make him out now, more than just the darkness of his leathers and the paleness of his hair, as her eyes adjusted to the dark.
"Thank you," he finally said, very softly, the merest whisper of sound. "For being concerned."
She pushed away from the wall, and took a step toward him. "I'll leave if you'd rather be alone," she told him. "But I'd prefer to stay, since I'm going to keep worrying about you until I'm sure you're not... not thinking of doing anything stupid."
He laughed at that, a short dry chuckle. "Stupider than drinking myself into oblivion in a darkened mansion, you mean?"
"Yes," she said, calmly. "Because I know what some of the foolish things I considered doing on the really bad days were. And I'd rather not be back here in a few days time, writing up a report about the body of a squatter having been found in an abandoned Hightown mansion."
He fell silent again, head lowering further, shoulders slumping a little. "All right," he said tiredly. "Stay."
He walked back over to the bench where he must have been seated when she first walked in; there was a bottle resting on it, which he picked up and drank a long swallow from, then turned to her. "I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners," he said, strangely formal. Perhaps another attempt at humour, she supposed. "Would you care to join me in a drink?"
"Mind if I light a fire first?" she asked. "It's dark as the sewers in here, and getting cold."
Fenris snorted. "Shouldn't I be the one noticing the cold?" he asked, and drank another slug of wine. "I come from tropical Tevinter, after all, while you are the one from frozen Ferelden. But yes, go ahead and light a fire if you wish. There should be some wood to the right of the fireplace. If not, I can always go smash apart another cupboard or cabinet or something."
She smiled, just slightly, noticing how carefully he was enunciating his words; more than a little drunk and trying not to show it. There was wood where he said it would be, which by the feel of it, the combination of polished smoothness on some sides and roughly broken surfaces on others, said to her searching hands that it was indeed broken-up pieces of furniture. She crouched down, and piled a few smaller pieces in the fireplace.
"The tinderbox is on the mantle, a little to your left," Fenris said quietly.
She reached up, felt along the mantlepiece, and found it. She opened it and felt inside, quickly locating the steel and flint in the smallest compartment. The box was well-supplied with bits of fluff and scraps of fabric, doubtless some of it sourced from the same furniture as the firewood. She placed a large pinch of some sort of fluffy lint on the hearthstone before her, put the tinderbox off to one side, then struck steel and flint together. It took two tries until a spark landed in the lint. Some careful blowing to bring it into a real flame, a hasty use of a spill, and she had the tinder set alight, and began to carefully add larger pieces of wood, only stopping once she had a proper fire burning. She restored the flint and steel to the tinderbox, then returned it to where she'd found it, before she finally rose and turned to look at Fenris.
He'd been watching her, she thought, judging by the hasty turning away of his head and the slight flush on his cheeks. Though the flush might have just been the wine. As she stepped toward him, he turned his head back toward her, though still not looking directly at her, and held up the bottle. She took it – more to keep it out of his hands for at least a little while than anything else – and took a careful sip.
The wine was... she didn't have words. She'd never known, never imagined, that wine could taste so good. Rich and heady, and so many flavours in just that one small sip. She held it in her mouth for a second or two, feeling moderately stunned, then carefully swallowed. "That's... very good wine," she managed to say after a moment, still enjoying the aftertaste of it on her tongue.
"It's an Aggregio Pavali," Fenris said. "Very expensive and very hard to come by, even in Tevinter. My master stocked the cellar here with a king's ransom of it merely because he could. It was his favourite, he always claimed."
"But not yours?" she asked, as she sat down beside him.
He shrugged. "Wine is wine. Some of it better than others. The aggregio is very good, but my enjoyment of wine right now mostly derives from drinking up my master's cellar and knowing how infuriated he would be to see me guzzling it like water."
"The same way you enjoy hacking apart his furniture for firewood," she said slowly.
"Yes. And letting his house go to ruin around me. Sleeping in the bed that I once slept on the floor at the foot of, a chained and collared slave, a thing rather than a person."
Aveline nodded, then took another sip of the wine. "I can understand your reasoning, I suppose, though I have to regret that you treat a fine wine so poorly."
"It's wine, it doesn't haven't feelings. It doesn't care how it's treated. Unlike people. Unlike me."
Aveline remained silent, just took another sip of the wine, then finally handed the bottle back to Fenris.
He took another drink from it, though only a small sip this time, then just sat there quietly, turning the bottle around and around in his hands, head lowered. "Thank you for coming by," he said. "I fear you're right that I might have been tempted to do... something foolish. Something more foolish than usual. I know I hurt Hawke after I... when I left her. I never realized how much more it would hurt to see her leave me, as well, especially when it meant her taking up with the mage in my place." He paused for a while, then sighed. "I regret my decision now... my cowardice. But it is a choice I will have to live with; there is no going back and changing things."
"I wish there was," Aveline said, and sighed, feeling more than a touch melancholy herself. "If there was, I would go back and protect Wesley properly, so that he didn't die."
"Could he not protect himself, this Wesley of yours?" Fenris asked, curiously. "Was he not a templar?"
"Yes. But we weren't together on the field at Ostagar, he was with the templars, I was with King Cailan's guard... things went to the Black City pretty early on. I thought of seeking out Wesley then, but I stayed. Until King Cailan fell. When I finally found Wesley, he was already injured... had I left when I'd first thought of it, first seen that we could not win, I might have reached him in time to prevent the injury. He might not have been tainted."
"And you would have spent the remainder of your life feeling that you'd failed your King. That if you'd remained on the field, that perhaps you might have done something to change the outcome of the battle."
She tried to laugh. The noise she made was ugly. "Yes, I suppose you're right," she said, and then started to cry. "Damn. I thought I was past regretting everything about Ostagar... running all the 'if onlys' though my head. Regretting what a coward I was..."
Fenris put his hand on her shoulder, rather to her surprise, and passed her the bottle. "You are no coward, Aveline," he said. "You are one of the bravest people I know. A coward would have run long before your King died; a coward would have cared for no one but herself, would have abandoned the field without first searching for their husband. You are one of the most honourable people I know; it's your honour that makes you regret that you couldn't save everyone, not any cowardice."
She cried harder then, not because she believed his words, but because she could hear in his voice how deeply he believed what he was saying. It touched her, as no praise from anyone had since Ostagar. He patted her shoulder, awkwardly, then hesitantly put his arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her as she cried.
"Thank you," she said hoarsely, once she managed to get herself back under control.
"You're welcome," he said softly. He touched her cheek with his other hand, turning her to face him, studying her face with the oddest expression she'd ever seen. Very gently he rubbed his thumb across the tear tracks on her cheek, then slowly leaned closer, stopping with his face just a couple of inches from hers, his head tilted just slightly to one side, a questioningly look in his eyes.
Had he continued the movement, she might have dodged it. Might have repulsed him, rose, left... but he didn't. He stayed absolutely still, both of them motionless for a very long moment, studying each other's faces, gauging the look in each other's eyes. It was she that moved first, not away, but toward him, as slowly as he'd first leaned toward her, giving him a chance to change his mind, to back off... he didn't.
It was far from the best kiss she'd ever had in her life. They were both too hesitant, too self-aware and, yes, even a little frightened. But it was a nice kiss... a sweet kiss, friendly and a little too dry. When it ended Fenris turned his head a little away and slightly down, looking at her sideways through his bangs, an slightly amused little smirk on his lips. She felt a smile twisting at her own. And then they both laughed, and suddenly everything was all right again, the sadness gone. She took the bottle from his hand, and chugged it back in the same way he had been, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth afterwards, and grinning at him. "So. Do you have another bottle of this handy?" she asked. "I think we're going to need a second one."
His smile deepened, and he rose to his feet. "Of course," he said, and walked over to a table against the far wall, picking up a bottle from a cluster of them and then turning to walk back toward her. The lines on his hand flared, lighting up his face against the darkness for just a moment with the reflected light, and then he tossed aside the cork, effortlessly removed, and the glow disappeared. He resumed his seat, and they tapped their bottles lightly together before taking another drink.
There would, Aveline was sure, be more kisses, after they'd had more wine. And possibly – probably – a use of the bed, once they were both relaxed enough. Not out of some idea of love between them, but out of friendship, and foolishness.
The right kind of foolishness, this time.
Fenris/f!Hawke – Reunion
Too long, since they'd last seen each other; too long since they'd last been together, in any sense of the word. At least she'd thought to have their meeting away from the others, not in the travelling encampment of rebels, mages, formari, and ex-templars that Hawke was the titular leader of, but in an abandoned farmhouse some miles away from it. Dangerous for her, if any templars should think to investigate the place for any signs of life, but it was a calculated risk, unlikely to happen, and he was there and could protect her if necessary.
Not that Hawke generally needed protection, being rather like a force of nature when it came to her ability to destroy things. People she'd taken a dislike to had a tendency to develop a sudden case of dead. Or fled, if they were at least halfway intelligent and managed to run away while she was busy dealing with some other member of their party. And didn't have Varric on hand to pepper them full of arrows, or one of the mages handy to prevent their abrupt departure from the scene.
All such thoughts left his head when the door banged open and Hawke stepped inside, sweaty and reeking of horse, dressed in her usual well-worn leathers with the hilts of her twin swords sticking up over her shoulders. A wide smile crossed her face, and she leaped across the room toward him in one of those arms-wide enthusiastic hugs of hers that never failed to make him tense for a moment. He'd seen her make a similar move all too often, only with a sword in each hand and a blood-thristy grin on her face, to be entirely sanguine about being the target of one of her lunges.
Though he did rather like the part where she hugged him tightly and kissed him breathless, before whirling away again to slam the door shut. She turned back to him, leaning back against the door and looking intently at him. "I have missed you," she said, and grinned at him again. The grin that always gave him a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, even more-so than her hugs did. She hugged a lot of people, most of them enthusiastically. She even grinned at a lot of them too, for that matter. But this was his grin, the one she only made for him, with the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth as if biting back all the words she wanted to say.
"And I you," he said, quietly. He was always the quiet one; she the loud enthusiasm. The one in the spotlight making big showy moves, everyone's eyes on her, while he just quietly went about the business of killing anyone who tried to get close enough to harm her. A curious reversal of roles; with he the warrior and she the rogue he though most people would expect them to be the opposite. But they weren't. And it worked for them.
As now, when she abruptly straightened and began to prowl toward him, her hands already busy unfastening the latches and buckles that held her armour on. "You're wearing too many clothes," she pointed out. "Take them off."
He did, piling them neatly on the rough wooden crate by the wood-framed pile of hay that was all the bed the place boasted. Though at least it was clean, sweet-smelling hay, as he'd arrived early enough to turn out the old, dusty, mouse-smelling contents of the low frame and fill it with fresh dry grasses from the wild meadow outside, spreading his bedroll over top of the fragrant pile to protect their skins from any hard stems or sharp prickles the grasses might contain.
Hawke's clothing ended up in a trail from the door to the bed, where she put her arms around his neck and pressed herself up against him, and gave him a very thorough kissing. After which he gave her an equally thorough kissing in return, before picking her up and dropping her onto the middle of the bed, drawing a delighted squeal from her.
In bed their dynamic reversed; there she took the passive role, smilingly accepting of whatever he wished them to do. A necessary reversal, for him; not being the one in control raised too many ugly old memories. A relaxation, for her, allowing someone else, someone she trusted, to take the lead for once. She lay there, happily sprawled on her back, while he touched her, gently at first, light caresses to her breasts, her sides, her thighs, carefully nudging them further apart. Then firmer touches, and kisses, kisses everywhere, on lips and chin and throat, along shoulders and on the dark tips of each breast, down across the plane of her stomach and lower yet, to soft warm folds of moist flesh.
Her hands twined into his hair, making massaging movements in alternation, like one of those blighted cats the abomination adored kneading its paws. A good feeling, actually; enough to make him wish he could purr, especially when her fingers moved to caress at the edges of his ears. He moaned against her flesh, drawing a moan from her in turn, then abruptly moved back upwards, kissing her hungrily even as their hands co-operated in holding her spread wide for him to enter, in guiding him into her.
Wet and moist and hot and delightfully tight. He growled in her ear as he sank into her, knowing she liked that, and felt it throughout his entire body when it made her laugh. Her arms closed about him, a brief tight hug before falling free again, leaving him unrestrained. He showed no restraint, either, his hunger for her after so long apart needing to be expressed in more than words, which he was bad at anyway. There would be time for gentleness later; for now, their passion ruled. He clung to her, tight enough to leave bruises later, as he pounded into her, but judging by the way her legs rose to wrap tightly around him, the unashamedly loud cries she was making, he did not think she would mind. Chide him a little later, maybe, as she liked to do sometimes, but nothing seriously meant.
He felt her start to come, and lowered his head to kiss and nip at her collarbones, the smooth curve of her shoulders, the arched column of her throat; not hard enough to mark her, but hard enough to be felt, drawing more cries from her. He felt her crest, and quiet, and then crest a second time, muscles tightening hard around him as she came again. Somehow he managed to control his own reaction, until her arms closed around him again, almost painfully hard, her heels drumming against his buttocks as she crested a third time. Then he finally had his own release, crying out even louder than she before collapsing on top of her, at least temporarily exhausted, both of them sated.
She cuddled him then, hands stroking gentle reassurance along his skin, pressing butterfly-light little kisses to his mouth and cheeks, petting his sweat-soaked hair. He sighed, content, and they curled up together, resting for now, knowing they had all night before they must return to the reality outside the long-deserted farmhouse.
Fenris/Anders – In Case Of Emergency
"Mage," Fenris called out, banging his fist on the door. "Open up."
He heard the scuffing of footsteps from inside, sensed the nearness of the mage, a tingling in his lyrium lines as they responded to Anders' approach.
"It's the middle of the night, you know," Anders said, even as he unbarred and opened the door, scowling at him, eyes squinted against the light of the torch the elf was carrying. Then his eyes widened, as he took in the blood soaking the left shoulder of the warrior's armour, running down his limp arm to drip off his fingertips and spatter against the floor of the passageway. "Maker! What happened!" he exclaimed, even as he reached for Fenris' shoulder.
Fenris flinched away from his touch, stepping past him into the clinic and looking around sharply before turning back to Anders. "Close that first; I might be being pursued still," he said, and waited while Anders hurriedly closed and barred the door, only relaxing once that was done. He looked around, then wedged the lower end of his torch into an empty holder on one wall. "I was ambushed, on my way home from the Hanged Man," he said tiredly. "Bounty hunters, again. I killed or wounded several of them, then one managed to get behind me and stabbed me in the shoulder. I managed to kill him as well, thought it cost me my sword, and after that I had to run. I lost most of them after I entered Darktown – safer for me here than for them."
Anders nodded as he carefully examined Fenris' shoulder, frowning at what he could make out of the injury. "Better take off the armour," he said. "I can't take a proper look at it this way. Can you move your left arm at all?"
"No," Fenris said, and undid his armour one-handed. Anders had to help him peel off the jacket once his breastplate had been removed. The mage hissed through his teeth as he took in the damage to Fenris' shoulder. "Bad?" Fenris asked.
"Bad enough. It's a good thing you came straight here; this needs real healing. Sit down, I need some supplies," Anders said, waving in the general direction of the cots lined up along the wall, then hurried over to the shelves – a collection of stacked crates, really – that held most of his supplies. He brought over clean rags, an elfroot poultice, a roll of bandages, then disappeared into his bedroom for a couple of minutes, returning with a small potion bottle carefully cradled in both hands.
Fenris knew it must be worse than he'd thought, if the mage thought he'd need a lyrium potion in the course of healing it. He sat still while Anders carefully cleaned the wound, then placed his hands over it. "Ready?" Anders asked.
Fenris nodded sharply, and was surprised by the dizziness and touch of nausea that followed the movement. He must have lost more blood than he'd thought. "Just do it," he grated out, bracing himself for the touch of healing magic.
He never knew just how his lines would react to Anders' magic. Usually some level of discomfort, from an annoying itch right through to gut-wrenching pain. Once, it had felt like he was being tickled all over; a few times, it had been what he considered a worse sensation than any pain; involuntary arousal, leaving him aching and needy and embarrassingly erect. Today, he was relieved to find, it was just warmth, on the edge of feeling too hot but not quite there, and a brief flare of pain that shot right down his arm from shoulder to fingertips, making the arm jerk and him growl a curse.
"That's actually a good sign," Anders said quietly, a touch nervously, before removing his hands from Fenris' shoulder long enough to pick up the lyrium potion and drink it. "I was able to heal the worst of the damage in time; you'll retain use of your arm."
That made Fenris shiver; the thought of being unable to wield his sword, of being helpless if slavers attacked him again, was not one he enjoyed. Anders, meanwhile, set his hands back where they'd been, and continued his healing, brow wrinkled in concentration as he worked. The feeling of heat returned, then slowly changed, cooling, becoming a feeling of intense cold before the mage finally lifted his hands with a sigh. Fenris shivered and rolled his shoulders back, glad to feel the sensations in his lines return to normal.
"That's as much as I can do for now," Anders said, and covered the remainder of the wound with the poultice before carefully bandaging it.
"Thank you," Fenris said quietly when he was done.
Anders smiled slightly, his fingers toying with the hairs at the nape of Fenris' neck. "You know I'm always here if you need me," he said softly, one eyebrow just barely arching, a ghost of a smile lifting his lips.
Fenris snorted, and then smiled, looking away. "I don't know that I'm up to very much at the moment," he said, voice carefully neutral, though his head rolled backwards in enjoyment as Anders' long fingers moved from toying with his hair to massaging at the back of his neck.
Anders nodded. "You lost a lot of blood," he agreed, leaning closer, both hands working gently on Fenris' back and shoulders now, avoiding the injured area but finding and removing tension everywhere else. "You'd better stay overnight so I can keep an eye on you," he whispered, breath tickling the back of Fenris' neck as the mage leaned close to him. "Just in case. And then I can give you a thorough checkup in the morning."
Fenris ducked his head, hiding an even wider smile. "That sounds acceptable," he agreed, and allowed the mage to lead him off to bed.
Fenris/Isabela – On Board
It was strange to see Kirkwall from out at sea, a sight he had never actually seen before. When he'd first visited the city long ago with Danarius, he'd been below-decks until they'd docked, and again when they departed. When he'd fled here, it had been as a stowaway, finding down in the hold until after dark and then sneaking ashore. And now... now he was leaving, perhaps never to return.
Isabela stopped and leaned on the railing beside him for a moment, watching the city recede behind them. "Do you think you'll miss it?" she asked.
"Kirkwall?" he said, and thought for only a moment before answering. "No."
"Good," she said, and smiled as she straightened up again. Her fingers brushed lightly up his arm and across his back as she walked past him. "You're in my cabin, unless you'd rather not be."
He smiled, a very small, slightly crooked smirk. "That sounds acceptable," he told her, and went back to watching until Kirkwall disappeared out of sight behind the foreboding cliffs that lined this section of coast. Only then did he finally turn and make his way to the stern of the ship, ducking down the staircase into the area of cabins. There were just a couple of very small cabins, Isabela's ship being designed more for the carrying of cargo than of passengers. Hawke and Anders were crammed into one; Merrill and Bethany were sharing the other. Isabela of course had the largest cabin, at the stern, the only one with a proper bed instead of hammocks.
She was already there, leaning on the chart table with a thoughtful look on her face as she studied her maps. She looked up as he entered, and smiled warmly. "Two days to Amaranthine; we'll lose Bethany there, possibly Anders and Hawke as well. I've promised Merrill to take her all the way to Gwaren. After which I plan to head back north, to the Rialto Bay between Antiva and Rivain," she told him, lightly tracing out their route with one slim finger, then flicked him a look from under lowered eyelieds. "You're welcome to stay aboard as long as you wish. Or disembark at any time."
Fenris nodded. "I would be pleased to stay, as long as you can find a use for me," he said, and smiled at the grin that immediately crossed her face. "Not just in your bed," he told her. "I won't be a useless hanger-on."
She nodded, all seriousness for a moment. "Of course. I'm sure we can find a use for a man who is good with a blade; I'm a privateer, not a merchant, and that means we'll be seeing battle eventually. Learn the ropes to work as crew and you'll earn the same wage as anyone. Though I don't expect you'd remain crew very long. You're not exactly the happy-just-following-orders type."
Fenris smiled. "No, I'm not," he agreed.
"Good. Well, if you do become crew, there's one rule you need to accept right off; I don't fraternize with crew when we're at sea. You'll be bunked in with the rest of them, same accommodations, same food, same treatment. If that doesn't suit you, well..." she shrugged. "Then my offer to put you ashore anywhere you wish still holds."
Fenris nodded slowly. He could see the sense in the rule. "And when we're not at sea?" he asked softly.
Isabela smiled slowly. "Then whom I chose to fraternize with is my business. Though I won't promise that it will necessarily be you; I won't be held down by any single person."
Fenris nodded again, then took a step closer to her. "And am I crew now?" he asked.
Isabela grinned again. "No. Nor would I sign you on as one until I'm sure you can handle life at sea."
Fenris smiled. "Good. Then perhaps we should take the opportunity to fraternize while we may," he suggested, and closed the distance between them.
"An excellent idea," Isabela said, and moved into his embrace, fingers already reaching for the clasps of his armour.
Fenris/Anders – Here We Go Again
As soon as the door had closed behind them, Fenris was on Anders, shoving him against the wall and pinning him there, pressed together chest-to-chest. The mage made a startled noise of protest and lifted his hands as if to push Fenris way, but the elf grabbed the mage's wrists and pulled them up over Anders' head, pressing them to the wall in gauntleted hands. "Do not provoke me further," he snarled.
"Provoke you..." Anders started to say, confused, then broke off with a look of enlightenment briefly crossed his face. "Talking to Hawke, you mean?"
Fenris growled, and leaned against the mage all the harder, wine-laden breath gusting warm against the mage's cheek. "He was flirting with you again."
"He's Hawke. He flirts with everyone," Anders said, looking amused. "Varric told me he tried flirting with Meredith when he was in her office last week. And then with Orsino, out in the hallway right outside her still-open door. He's like an importunate dog, always has his eye open for something shaggable."
"That is not the point," Fenris said, scowling.
Anders' amused smile only grew wider. "No, the point is that you're jealous. Can I be jealous too? He flirted with you as well."
"And I shut him down as soon as he did. You did not," Fenris pointed out, lowering his head and glaring out from under his brows at the mage. "And I do not like you being amused by this."
Anders' smile faded away. "You're angry," he said after a moment.
"Yes," Fenris snapped.
A long silence fell, the two just staring at each other, Fenris still scowling. Anders looked worried for a while, then his expression smoothed out, becoming... intrigued. He wiggled around, then arched his back and legs a little, enough to press himself more tightly to the elf. "Let me make it up to you," he said, sounding oddly breathless.
Fenris blinked, head flinching back slightly. "What do you mean..." he began to say, only to have further words cut off by the mage suddenly dipping his head, mashing their lips together in a bruising kiss. Fenris froze. He was the one in control, what did the mage think he was even doing...
Anders ground his groin against the elf again, then drew back his head. "Let me make it up to you," he repeated, voice husky.
Fenris stared up at him, then his hands slowly loosened. "Show me how you'll do that," he said, his own voice even lower and rumblier than normal.
Anders smiled – no, smirked – and carefully tugged his hands free from Fenris' grasp. "You'll like this," he said, then slid down the wall, coming to a stop sitting with his back against it, his legs outstretched between Fenris' feet. "Stay there," he said quietly, his fingers already reach for the belt that looped around Fenris' waist, just above Anders' head. Fenris frowned, bracing his hands against the wall and leaning forward slightly to look down and see what the mage was up to.
Anders quickly undid the belt and the clasps holding the lower portion of Fenris' jacket closed. He undid the lacing of the elf's leggings, tugging and folding the leather far enough down and to either side to reveal the elf's cock, moving his hands to bracket it but not yet touch. He stopped, then, looking up at the elf leaning over him. "May I?" he asked.
Fenris shivered, his cock stirring partially erect. "Yes," he growled.
Anders started with just his hands, gently exploring the long shaft, stroking his fingertips over the elf's balls, covered in skin with just the faintest velvety fuzz of fine, short hairs. He cupped them in one hand, long fingertips massaging at the sensitive skin in back of them, his other hand closing around the base of Fenris' cock and then running lightly up to the tip, smooth skin sliding easily through his loose fist. Fenris sucked in air and shifted his weight uneasily, then edged his feet a little further apart, lowering himself slightly. Anders repeated the light stroking motion a couple more times, watching as the tip of Fenris' cock edged slowly out its sheath. After a while be began a firmer stroke, finger wrapped over the top curve of Fenris' increasing erection with the ball of his thumb sliding firmly along the underside, drawing another faint sound from the elf.
He leaned forward, with just the slightest pause to glance upward and meet Fenris' eyes before his tongue reached out to lick at the moistened, reddening tip, a fast light lick up along the groove there, and then a second, longer lick that travelled around the edge of the glans, his hands still busily working at the rest of Fenris' shaft and balls. After a few more licks he closed his lips around the tip, then sucked, taking in a little more of the shaft as he did so.
Fenris groaned, then shifted position, bracing one forearm against the wall and his head against that, before reaching down with his free hand to touch Anders' cheek. Anders tilted his head back slightly to meet the elf's eyes again, rubbing his cheek lightly against the hand for a moment. Then he took in even more of Fenris' erection, as much as he could comfortably have in his mouth, while at the same time the hand that had been fondling Fenris' balls moved further back, rubbing between Fenris' legs. The sound it drew from the elf...
Anders smiled, as much as he could around the obstruction in his mouth, then slowly drew his head back, keeping his lips locked firmly around the flesh that filled his mouth, working his tongue against the underside. He closed his teeth gently around the shaft, just back of the swell of the head, and peeled back his lips enough to inhale sharply, feeling the elf shiver at the sensation of sharp teeth and cool air against saliva-moistened skin. Again he took in Fenris' cock, a bit at a time, his fingers meanwhile moving away from between Fenris' legs and instead reaching around him to stroke against the puckered flesh further back. Fenris' hips jerked away from his first questing touch, forcing a little more of his length into Anders' mouth. The mage froze for a second, then Fenris relaxed and moved back again, pressing slightly against his questing fingertips.
Anders made an approving humming sound deep in his throat, keeping his mouth and fingers working against the elf. Fenris' hand had moved away from Anders' face when he'd flinched; now it returned, petting hesitantly at Anders' hair, smoothing it back from his face. Anders closed his eyes, concentrating on what he was doing. He took an extra-long breath in through his nose, then swallowed the elf in as deeply as he could take him.
Fenris cried out in surprised pleasure, tensing at the sensation at first. Anders had moved the hand that had been on the base of Fenris' shaft to rest on his thigh instead; he could feel the leather-clad muscles under his hand quivering with tension, then slowly relax. He ran his hand up and down the thigh a few inches, soothingly, as one of his fingers pressed gently against the elf's rear, wiggling slightly and then sliding inward, drawing another cry and renewed tension. He went still, waiting for the elf to relax again, feeling his head beginning to swim slightly with the lack of air. After a long moment he pressed lightly against Fenris' thigh with his hand, at the same time drawing his head back slowly. The elf's erection slid free of his throat, allowing him to resume breathing through his nose. He waited a moment, carefully working his finger in a little deeper, then drew another deep breath, and swallowed Fenris down again.
The sound the elf made this time, as Anders' mouth and throat enveloped him, finger probing deep inside of him, was closer to a sob that a gasp. It was followed in short order by an even more strangled sound as Anders' finger finally reached its destination, sliding over just the right spot inside.
"Anders," Fenris cried out as Anders swallowed again, throat muscles flexing around the elf's length, finger rubbing back and forth deep within the elf, Fenris' hand tightening almost painfully around a fistful of the mage's hair.
Anders champed his jaws just slightly, letting Fenris feel his teeth again – not hard enough to be painful, just enough to draw another groan from the warrior, then slowly drew back his head again, mouth and throat and lips and finger all working at the elf. Fenris made another sobbing sound as Anders' free hand moved to grasp and massage his sack again, thumb and fingers gently manipulating the harder nodules of flesh within. He waited until he had only the last few inches of the elf's erection in his mouth, then summoned the tiniest spark of magic to the fingertips of both hands. Fenris came with a shout, lyrium lines briefly flaring, casting blue-white light on Anders' closed lids as he continued to suck and mouth at the elf's cock as shock after shock drew the elf's orgasm out and out.
The elf went limp as it finally ended, legs giving out under him.. Anders managed to catch him, preventing him from falling and instead guiding him down to sit heavily in Anders' lap, still straddling the mage's legs. Anders wrapped his arms around the smaller man, drawing him close, cradling him against his chest. Fenris sighed and was satisfied to cuddle against him for a moment, head pillowed on one of the mage's feather-clad shoulder.
"Apology accepted?" Anders asked softly, one hand stroking soothingly up and down the elf's back.
Fenris snorted, then wiggled closer against the mage. "Yes. For now," he said, rough voice muffled from having his face tucked in against the side of the mage's neck.
Anders smiled, all-too-aware of the aching hardness beneath his own robes, and certain that once Fenris had recovered a little they'd find something to do about that, as well.
Fenris/Bethany – Prey
Bethany smiled at her brother's guests, making polite small talk, working her way slowly across the room in the direction of her prey. Not directly towards him, of course, that would be far too obvious, but the seemingly random meanderings of her path as she exchanged pleasantries and courtesies with one person after another moved her gradually, almost imperceptibly in his direction.
He was aware of her, she knew, she could see it in the way he carefully avoided looking at her, and the brief amusement that had shown the one time their gaze had accidentally met. He was talking to Varric now, leaning at his ease against the wall, arms folded neatly across his narrow chest, while the dwarf stood before him, feet spread and one hand making expansive gestures as he talked, thankfully not with the one holding a tankard of ale.
She turned to smile at and exchange a few brief words with another of Garrett's guests, smile widening when Lady Elegant suddenly showed up at her shoulder, on the arm of her husband – a bent and wizened old man with a snowy white beard that reached to his waist in front, as if making up for the baldness of his head that rose from a fluffy fringe of hair like a too-large egg in a too-small nest. A nice man, and kind, one of the few nobles here that Bethany genuinely enjoyed seeing and speaking to. She could understand what Elegant saw in him, and knew it had nothing to do with the man's wealth (he had almost none) or social standing (the same) and everything to do with the courteous gallantry and fondness he displayed toward his much-younger wife.
It was some minutes of warm conversation later before she finally turned away from the pair, moving a few steps closer to her target before being intercepted by her escort for the evening, a young templar who seemed both surprised and elated to be the object of interest of several young guests of the female persuasion. They exchanged only a few words before moving on again, her at an angle that moved her somewhat closer to Fenris, he off to attempt dancing with one of the girls who'd been batting her eyes all evening. Bethany had to hide a smile; Keran was a very sweet young man, but she knew from prior experience that he was two left feet when it came to dancing. At least he was dressed informally tonight, so the girls wouldn't have steel-shod feet stepping on their slipper-clad toes.
She chanced a glance that passed over Fenris. He was alone again, sipping from a wine glass held cradled in one hand, watching Garrett and Anders where the two were holding court over near the fireplace. Garrett was leaning on the mantle and holding forth to a circle of admirers, Anders slouched in the shadows nearby, a very faint smile on his lips as he watched Garrett, neither of them paying any attention to either her or Fenris.
Her brother would not approve of her interest in the elf, she knew. Not that she cared; Garrett rarely approved of anything that went against his idea of her as a young, sweet innocent girl in need of his protection. Never mind that she was an adult, and perfectly capable of making her own decisions.
She had decided to join the chantry, ending the need for her family to hide her, ending the risk of them being injured or even killed by templars for sheltering her; her decision, not Garrett's. She had mastered her fears and passed her harrowing without difficulty, her father's training having been at as high a standard, if not higher, than what was taught in the Circle. She had become a well-respected member of the Circle of Kirkwall, trusted enough to be allowed to leave the Gallows on occasion with only minimal templar escort, as she had tonight.
But to Garrett, she knew, she would forever be the innocent baby sister he was supposed to protect. She'd been far from innocent, even before entering the Circle; she'd killed with her magic, when it was needed to protect her brother and his companions. It had been her reaction to that, more than anything else – the feeling of how wrong it was for her to use her power to end another's life – that had in large part contributed to her decision to turn herself in to the chantry.
Garrett didn't understand that choice; couldn't understand it, when he made a regular practise of killing people with his blades, for money. Nor was he likely to understand her relationship with Fenris, or approve of her plans for this evening if he ever became aware of them. He saw the mage-hating elf as a danger to her, plain and simple.
But nothing was ever plain and simple. Not the ethics of using her magic, nor her life in or out of the chantry, and certainly not what it was she felt for the prickly, stand-off-ish elf who distrusted mages but had once told Anders, just within her hearing, that she was "not weak", in an approving tone of voice. Their courtship had been a long, slow process, of tiny steps and occasional glances and very rare touches, a thing of silences and shadows. And tonight... well, with help from a friend, her escort was going to be rather thoroughly diverted for a precious hour or two.
There was a door not far from Fenris. She stopped, near it but not too near it, and scanned the room again. Garrett and Anders were talking with Varric, neither looking her way. Isabela had replaced the unfortunate girl who'd been having her feet stepped on, and was giving Keran a lesson in dancing. The pirate looked up and gave Bethany the slightest of winks, winning a smile from Bethany before she slipped out the door, into a darkened hallway. It was only a very short wait before the door opened and closed a second time.
Fenris' lines started to glow, just the faintest degree, liming him in blue-white light. "Bethany," he said, voice as dryly formal as always.
"Fenris," she said, and moved the little distance between them, into his arms. The kiss they exchanged was anything but dryly formal, making her tingle from head to toes and wakening a warmth deep in her belly.
"This way," he whispered, and led her off by the hand, through the back passages of the mansion and out to a narrow alley in back of it. She lifted the skirts of her robe in one hand, fighting back a giggle as the two of them hurriedly picked their way along the passageway between buildings, around a corner and up a dilapidated set of stairs, then in through the back gate of another mansion; Fenris' mansion, dark and silent, though the music and hum of conversation from Hawke's mansion could still be faintly heard on the still night air.
Bethany released a relieved sigh even as she released her handful of robe, and stepped closer to Fenris. He drew her into his arms, lowering his head to kiss her, a much longer and far more heated kiss than they'd exchanged back in the hallway.
"We don't have very long," Fenris reminded her, quietly.
She nodded, and followed him into his mansion, and upstairs to his room. There was the embers of a fire still smouldering in the grate, and he quickly lit a spill from them, then moved around the room, lighting the candles that stood in clusters here and there. He'd changed the bedding, she could see, smooth clean sheets replacing the usual rumpled nest of them.
When he was finished with the candles, filling the room with a soft golden glow, he came and stood behind her, his arms closing around her waist and coming to rest on the fastenings of her belt. He kissed the nape of her neck lightly. "May I?" he asked, voice as formal as always.
"Yes," she said, answer barely louder than a breath, and stood quietly as he undressed her, a piece at a time – belt and mantle, over-robe and under-robe, breastband and stockings and smalls, carefully folding and putting aside each item as he removed it, until she stood naked before him. He touched her, then, delicate, almost hesitant touches, fingertips and lips ghosting along her skin, leaving heat and goosebumps in their wake. He moved around to in back of her again after a while, pressing himself up against her, one hand pressed lightly on her belly, pulling her snugly enough against him to feel his excitement through the tight leathers he wore, his other hand sliding down between her legs, long fingers parting her folds to rub delicately at the moist inner tissues.
She gasped, then moaned, legs shaking with the effort of remaining standing as he massaged at her. "Please...!" she finally gasped out. He stopped, then, turning her around to kiss her again, before finally allowing her to help him to undress as well. They moved to the bed after that, and while things were not exactly rushed, Fenris handled her with dispatch, knowing just where and how she most liked to be touched, to be kissed, even nipped – though never enough to leave hard-to-explain marks – and well before their hour was up she came, as he did, shuddering and crying out, sound muffled against a pillow, his deeper cry a hoarse sound he tried to contain but couldn't quite.
She wished she could linger, that they might cuddle for a while, just enjoying each other's company, but that was not something they had time for. They washed, instead, a matter of damp clothes and a shallow basin of water, then redressed. She quickly neatened her hair with a broken-toothed comb from among the detritus on the mantle, then he took her back to her brother's home, along the same narrow alleyway. They kissed one last time in the hallway, then he headed back to his own place while she slipped back into the room, no words of affection or promises of next time exchanged; neither of them knew how long this relationship might last, or even if it would last.
They enjoyed what moments together they could steal; it was all they could do, right now.
Zevran/f!Warden – Meeting Again in Kirkwall
"My warden," a familiar voice said from the shadows overhead, too quiet to be heard by anyone but her. "I am surprised to see you here."
Katy managed not to smile, merely crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, watching the Hightown marketplace – still busy despite the late hour – from where she stood at the railing of a raised patio area overlooking it. "Zevran. You took your time."
"My apologies, my dear, I thought I would catch up with you much sooner than this. Did you miss me?"
"A little," she admitted.
"Where are you staying tonight? At the Hanged Man with Isabela, or...?"
She did smile, at that. "No. I haven't told her I'm here. She has too many local entanglements at the moment. I've rented rooms near the docks," she said, and quickly described their location.
"Ah. I will meet you there later then," Zevran said.
She heard no sounds from overhead at all, caught no sign of movement, but knew he was gone. She remained where she was, watching the market and waiting for the person she was actually there to contact. Only much later, after her business was done, did she head to the small house near the waterfront, making her way around to the back and up a rickety staircase – rickety enough to warn her of any approach – and let herself into the tiny apartment there.
There was already a small fire lit in the grate, a kettle warming over it. Sounds of splashing came from the adjacent bathing chamber, and the air was scented with the spicy-smelling soap that the elf favoured. She changed out of her armour into a comfortable robe, added tea leaves to a pair of mugs, and was just pouring steaming water into them as the elf came into the room, nude apart from one small towel wrapped around his hips. He was carrying a second towel in one hand, and trails of water droplets were running down his chest and arms from his long loose hair.
"You're dripping all over my carpet," she told him, pointedly ignoring the visual effect he presented, and Zevran grinned, then dried himself off hastily with the extra towel. Only once he'd shrugged into his own robe did she hand him his mug of tea, and exchange an affectionate kiss with him before they each took a seat near the fire.
Zevran sighed in contentment, and smiled warmly at her. "You look well, my Warden," he said.
"As do you," she said, then tilted her head to one side, eyes narrowing. "Though that is a new scar on the back of your hand," she said. "What happened?"
Zevran shrugged. "Nothing much. A minor difference of opinion with a pickpocket in Wycome."
She lifted an eyebrow. "He tried to pick your pocket?" she asked.
Zevran grinned. "No. He caught me picking his. I was foolish and rushed, and missed spotting one of his accomplices. So naturally she was looking just the right way at the wrong time to see me dip into his pocket. A thoroughly nasty little scene, but I escaped with nothing worse than this," he said, lifting the hand, then spread his fingers and studied the scar. "It will remind me to be more careful in future," he said decisively.
"Be sure it does, I'd be hard-put to replace you if you managed to go and get yourself killed," she said dryly.
His grin widened. "Ah, you do care for me then, my dear. I am touched!"
"But not in the way you'd wish to be?" she asked, amused.
"You know me too well," Zevran said, giving her a particularly overdone smouldering look. "In many senses of the word."
Katy laughed, then rose to her feet. "It's late, I'm tired... enough verbal fencing... are you coming to bed, or do you plan to lounge around drinking tea and looking decorative the rest of the night?"
"Hrmm, of the options offered, I do believe coming is the most attractive one," he said, and followed her off.
Fenris/Shale/Oghren
"No, not that way," Oghren said. "Blighted elf. You need a gentler touch."
Fenris lifted an eyebrow, but stepped aside.
"Watch closely," Oghren said.
Shale sighed in pleasure as the dwarf carefully rearranged her crystals. "Much better," she said.
Fenris/Merrill – Coping
Normally he would not have cared at all about the witch; she had made a deal with a demon, and as he had predicted would eventually happen, others had suffered for it.
But he had seen her expression as they made their way back to Kirkwall afterwards, the blankness there, the elf too far gone in shock and misery for her face to even reflect the devastation she felt. Not gloating, or enjoyment, as he'd seen in the faces of the magisters. And he felt the least, the tiniest, stirrings of pity for her. But he did his best to ignore it; her demon was dead now, and she would just have to learn to cope with the horror that she had caused.
When three days had passed without any sign of her, he grew... concerned. A little apprehensive. He tried to convince himself that his fear was for the others, those who counted themselves her friends – Varric, Isabela, Hawke... but as a fourth day dragged by without him seeing and sign of her about, hearing word of her, hearing any mention of her, he knew it was she herself that he was truly worried for.
And so he found himself standing on foot before her door that evening, rubbing the top of his other foot against his calf, uncertain whether to knock, or to go away again and rethink this. Finally he raised a hand, knocked hesitantly at the door.
There was a very long silence.
He was about to give up and go away when the door creaked open a crack, Merrill peering out at him around the edge of it, her eyes reddened from crying. "Oh. It's you. Come in," she said, voice hoarse, and stepped back a little, holding the door wider. "I was hoping you might come by."
He stared at her in surprise, even as he stepped inside. "Hoping I might... Why?"
"To kill me, of course," she said calmly, and stood there before him, arms at her side, back stiffly upright, chin lifted. "It's what I deserve. Best to get it over with quickly," she said, her lower lip trembling just the slightest bit.
"No, Merrill... I'm not here to kill you," he told her, gently, the last shreds of his old hatred for her melting away. How could he hate her, when she so clearly hated herself far more than he ever could?
"Then... what are you here for?" she asked, looking frightened again.
He took her hand, and held it gently. "I've come to help you," he said, as reassuringly as he could. And she would need a lot of help, he was sure, if she was not to fall victim to another demon in her despair. And held her, when she began to cry.
Fenris/Anders – You're Stuck With Me
He seemed to have acquired an elf. He still wasn't sure just how, or why, only that he'd woken this morning to a heavy weight draped over him and found that it was the person he'd have rated least likely to spontaneously appear in his bed. Okay, second least, Meredith having a firm grip on first place. Okay, possibly rather lower than second place, there being any number of templars, blood mages and random citizens of Kirkwall that were arguably even less likely than the quick-to-anger, mage-hating elf to be here, in his cot, on top of him.
At least the elf was still fully clothed, which ruled out one particularly disturbing possibility for why he was even there. Though it did mean he was in danger from the hardened leather feather-shaped spikes that decorated the shoulders of Fenris' armour. And what was the point of those, anyway? Feathers were supposed to be soft, not something that might poke your eye out if you turned your head too suddenly. It's not like they even served any real purpose apart from decoration; if they were metal there'd at least be the chance they might foul a blade that would otherwise take off one's arm (or head), but leather? Even hardened leather wouldn't stand up to a good hard whack from a decently sharp sword.
He moved his head a little – being careful not to poke his eye out on the false feathers – and was rewarded with an almost blinding wave of pain, a hangover to end all hangovers. He groaned, fighting back nausea and wondering just what he'd managed to do the night before to earn it. Vague memories surfaced of a night at the Hanged Man, Justice quiet for once and making no protest while he drank. Of insisting – loudly – that he had to go back home. And someone else protesting equally loudly that he was a fool to chance Darktown after nightfall on his own while drunk. And then... what next... oh, yes – walking. Walking with two people helping him to stay more-or-less upright, neither of them any more sober than he was.
Fenris. Fenris had been one of them. As drunk as Anders was, if not more so, both of them leaning on each other and... Maker, and singing while they stumbled down the narrow poorly-lit corridors of Darktown, some drinking song that prick Sebastian had taught everyone earlier that evening. You were supposed to sing it while passing around a bottle, and drink from the bottle any time a certain line came around, and they sang for what felt like hours.
Someone else had been walking with them and singing along, too, while waving a very large sword around. And breaking off singing at least once to tell someone just where they'd insert said sword if that someone did not back off. Hawke. She'd seen them both safely to the clinic, as drunk as a noble – well, she was one after all – and then insisted on putting Anders to bed before leaving. Or had she left? He couldn't remember, just Hawke helping him onto one of the cots and ordering Fenris to help her.
The elf shifted position and moaned. Anders winced, as the shift put an uncomfortable amount of weight on his too-full bladder and brought back the nausea which had only just subsided. Fenris moaned again, a pained sound that made Anders suspect the elf had just as nasty of a hangover as he himself did. And then snuggled up against him, like a cat seeking comfort. Anders yelped as the pressure on his bladder and certain other very sensitive bits increased. Fenris froze, then abruptly levitated backwards off of the cot, crashing into the nearby wall and sliding down it land in a heap of gangly limbs and too-wide, frightened eyes at the foot of it.
Laughter rose from nearby; Hawke, sprawled out on the floor. She smiled drunkenly at both of them. "Now kiss," she carolled.