A/N: sorry for the length, but this is my first attempt at m/m, and I wanted to do my best. Hope you enjoy it—and I don't get kicked off the site ;D
Chapter Ten: …Deserves Another
Fenris stalked through the darkened halls of his purloined mansion, muttering to himself. Hawke and his business propositions… He had been on no less than ten of these little adventures with the damn mage over the past several months. His debt to Hawke had to be paid off by now, yet he could never bring it up, his pride preventing him from asking.
He fingered the pouch at his waist, the leather purse heavier after this latest outing. He supposed, if Hawke was giving him a fair share of the profits, that he no longer owed him anything. It was an inference, but one he was comfortable making—if uncomfortable voicing. Namely because it brought up an even more uncomfortable question: if he was no longer obliged to Hawke, why did he keep accepting his offers of employment? He ought to be free now, free to live his life however he chose, do whatever work appealed to him, even leave Kirkwall and… and…
He paused mid-step as he entered his bedchamber, his thoughts crashing to a halt as he realized the ugly truth. He didn't know what to do. He had no reason to stay, but he also had no reason to leave. Hawke's little quests, as annoying and somewhat life-threatening as they were, at least gave him something to look forward to, something to live for, a reason to stay.
Disgusted with himself for the lack of direction in his life, disguising it within his hatred for mages which happened to include Hawke by default, he tossed the coin purse harshly onto the lid of a chest. It landed with a satisfying thud, giving him an excuse to lift one corner of his mouth in a self-satisfied manner.
Cassia, however, was not pleased. She had been hiding behind the chest waiting for Fenris to return so she could pounce on him. After several hours and no sign of her fellow tenant—a cat would never have an owner—she had curled up to nap until he showed. The sound of the heavy purse hitting the nearly empty wooden chest was quite loud to her tender ears. She hissed and jumped straight up into the air, her wide eyes zeroing in on his tall form.
"Sorry, Cassia, I didn't see you there," he tried to placate her, feeling a little ashamed of himself. He bent down to give her an apology in the form of attention, but she was quite through with him—for the moment, at least. She hissed again and flicked her tail, narrowing her eyes and folding her ears back threateningly. His hand paused and, thinking it was his gauntlet that was scaring her—even though it never had before—he removed it. Reaching out again with a naked hand only elicited another hiss.
"Yes, well," he sighed, leaning back and giving her a respectable amount of space, "Perhaps I should let you cool down before I try apologizing again."
As if she understood him perfectly, she relaxed her own stance a bit, gave her tail one last flick, and quickly slipped past him for the door.
"Just like a woman," he stared after her, "Temperamental to the very core."
As he stood up, he heard a knock echoing through the empty mansion, emanating from the front door. "Damn," he muttered to himself, wondering who in the Void would come by at this time of night for a visit. The only person who had ever visited him so late had been Hrodwynn, but he doubted it was her. She had been enamored with Carver, the two of them sickeningly inseparable ever since her brush with death two months ago. Never mind that there had been four of them who rescued her, never mind that his own hand around the leader's heart had tipped the scales in their favor… No, Carver had been the only one she had seen, his arms catching her as she collapsed, and his face there when she finally woke from the nightmare.
Damn him.
The knock sounded again, and he reluctantly set aside his brooding to go answer it.
Whomever he had expected to come by, Hawke was the furthest person from his mind. Yet it was Hawke who stood there, a charming smile peeking out from beneath his perfectly trimmed beard, a small box tucked beneath one arm. "Good evening, Fenris."
"Hawke," he acknowledged, at a loss to know why the mage was standing on his stoop.
Hawke cleared his throat, but Fenris didn't take the hint, the tall elf simply standing and staring at him. He decided to try something a little more forthcoming. "Pleasant weather this evening, isn't it?"
Fenris blinked at him, wondering why he would come by just to talk about the weather. "Yes."
"Still, I wouldn't want to stand out here all night," he prompted.
Fenris finally collected his slow wits, gesturing a welcome with his hand as he stepped back and opened the door wider. "Excuse me, I wasn't expecting company tonight. Please, come in."
"Oh, thank you, but I'm not intruding, am I? You mentioned you weren't expecting anyone. I hope I didn't catch you in the middle of something…" Hawke had every intention of staying, despite his words, but manners dictated that he appear contrite for stopping by unannounced.
"No, not at all," he assured Hawke. "I only meant, I don't often have visitors. In fact, I… never have visitors."
"I'm your first," Hawke purred somewhat suggestively, "That's one for me."
"Ah," he didn't know how to respond to that, so he ignored it. "What's in the box?"
Hawke smiled again, wide and warm, and responded, "Dinner."
"Dinner?"
"Yes," he all but sighed, walking into the main hall and turning around, looking every which way as he elaborated. "You remember the bargain we made, a favor for a favor, I distract Hrodwynn from developing a crush on you, and you would in turn do something unspecified for me. Well, tonight's the night! Carver brought Hrodwynn over to meet mother, a perfectly normal and favorite-son-type-of-thing he would do." Hawke paused to make a disgusted noise. "Mother's been cooing and fussing over Hrodwynn non-stop. And even when she pauses to take a breath, Carver jumps in to expound upon yet another wonderful trait of the darling girl. Dear Uncle Gamlen lasted ten minutes before he had to escape. I suspect he fully intends to spend the entire night at the Blooming Rose. Where is your kitchen?"
"What?" Fenris was still off-balance at Hawke's unexpected arrival, and the sudden change in topic left him dumbstruck for several seconds. "Oh, ah, down the hall, last door on the left."
"Ah! Marvelous!" Hawke started that way, rummaging in the box while he continued to talk. "Where was I? Oh, yes, I decided to follow my uncle's—for once—sterling example and excuse myself for the evening. Wouldn't want to disgrace the family name by throwing up over all the sickening sweetness. Ugh!" He stopped suddenly, having just entered the kitchen. Fenris wasn't sure if he made the noise over the actions of his family, or over the sight of the disused room. "Have you ever used this room? Have you ever cleaned it? No, wait, don't answer that. Just tell me, where do you usually eat?"
"At the Hanged Man," he answered truthfully, if somewhat confused.
"Not tonight, however," Hawke wagged a finger at him. "I know for a fact you did not eat there, because today's mystery meat in the stew was fish, and you never eat fish. Of course, considering how they treat such a delicate meat, macerating it into a grey goo, I don't blame you. Still," he forced his voice into a more chipper tone, "I've brought a couple of tender slabs of beef to fry up, assuming you have a place to cook them." Hawke gave the disgusting kitchen one last glance before turning to face Fenris, an expectant look on his face.
Seeing as Hawke was finally quiet for a moment, Fenris seized his opportunity to clarify an important matter. "What—exactly—are you doing here?"
"Collecting on my favor," Hawke stated in a tone that told him it should have been obvious. "I need to spend the evening away from my home. And since said inconvenience is due to your favor, I decided you could repay me by letting me spend the evening here. To make it more pleasant, I even brought dinner. All I require is a place to cook it."
"Oh." If Fenris sounded surprised, it was because he was surprised. He had had no idea what Hawke might have asked in return for that favor, and after two months he had begun to foolishly believe Hawke might have forgotten all about it. Though having such an easy repayment left him a little wary, he quickly brushed the suspicion aside. An evening was only a few short hours, a limited amount of time that could pass quickly if the conditions were right. Hawke had brought food, and if he wasn't mistaken there was a bottle of wine tucked in a corner of the box. This could be quite an easy favor, all things considered. "I suppose the hearth in the master bedchamber would suffice. That is the only room I use."
"Excellent!" Hawke beamed at him, barely able to hide his elation. Truthfully, he still harbored hopes of bedding Fenris, despite the past two months of stagnation. He'd never so much as gotten any sort of indication if Fenris would be either interested or repulsed by the proposition. Tonight might be different, if he played his cards right, especially if the evening started in the bedroom. He fished out the bottle of wine and handed it to his unsuspecting host. "Lead the way."
It wasn't long before Fenris found himself enjoying the evening and Hawke's company. The mage proved to be an excellent and knowledgable cook, searing the steaks quickly to a tender and tasty rare while a couple of apple turnovers warmed off to the side. The wine was heady and fruity, strong enough not to be overpowered by the flavorful beef, while being just sweet enough to perfectly match the delicate apple pastry.
The conversation was just as enjoyable. Hawke commandeered most of it by telling stories about his childhood and young adult life, the trouble he and his siblings used to get into, and out of, on what seemed like a daily basis. They avoided the table and sat on the couch in front of the fire, the setting warm and friendly and open, just two men sharing a meal and a couple of drinks.
He finished his first glass with the last bite of turnover, and Hawke immediately refilled it. He had to smile, albeit privately, at the thought that Hawke might be trying to get him drunk—such an endeavor would be foolish. Fenris knew he had a high tolerance for alcohol. There had been that one night he got rather tight after drinking nearly an entire bottle of Agreggio Pavali, but he had been half-starved and exhausted after spending years on the run; naturally his weakened body couldn't efficiently process the potent drink. Tonight he was well-fed and well-rested, his body honed by months of effective, if somewhat near-death, exercise. There was no chance in the Void that he'd get inebriated on a glass or two of wine.
Hawke, however, seemed oblivious to this. He poured the last of the bottle into his own glass and lifted it in salute. "Cheers."
"Benefaris," he agreed, studying Hawke over the rim of the cup as he took a sip. He couldn't be sure in the flickering firelight, but Hawke's cheeks looked faintly pink beneath his beard. And his warm golden eyes were unsettled, moving from place to place, as if casting about for a topic of conversation, stalling for time while he tried to think of how to bring up what he truly wanted to say. All through dinner Hawke never once meet his gaze. He was nervous, and it had to be due to something more than Carver's bringing Hrodwynn home to meet their mother.
Yet Fenris was equally at a loss to know how to bring up the conversation, even if he knew what it was Hawke wanted to talk about.
He set the glass aside with the convoluted thought.
"Not thirsty?" Hawke asked, noticing the movement, "Or… have I overstayed my welcome?"
Was it just his imagination, or did Hawke sound severely despondent? "Not at all," he assured him. "This has been quite an enjoyable way to repay a favor."
"You are enjoying this?" Hawke's tone was suddenly hopeful, and for the first time since they sat down, he looked up. "Good." Just as quickly he looked away again, staring into the firelight that matched his eyes. "I was afraid I was talking too much, boring you, or giving you the impression that I'm self-centered."
"That's not the impression I have of you," he admitted.
"What is your impression of me," Hawke gave him another glance, "If I may be so bold as to ask?"
There was something there, in the air between them, that he couldn't quite make out or comprehend, a fact which made him uncomfortable. Feeling his way carefully through the conversation, he began, "You are a powerful mage, one who doesn't use Blood Magic… yet."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Hawke replied glibly. "What else?"
"Er… you love your brother dearly, though you continually hide it with sarcasm and goading. You are extremely loyal to your family and friends, often self-sacrificing despite protests to the contrary."
"Says the man who tried to save a girl from a dragon, a girl whom he was afraid already had a crush on him."
He did not appreciate being reminded of that day, how he had nearly kissed Hrodwynn even knowing he shouldn't do anything to encourage her to develop feelings towards him. Not that Hawke, or anyone, knew how close he had come to losing control. Feeling chagrin, his next comment came out a little too harsh. "You are overly concerned with your appearance, and homosexual."
"Stop right there!" Hawke threw up a hand, palm outwards, for emphasis. He blew out a harsh breath through his nose, changing his gesture to point a finger at him, "Not another word." He stood up, pacing as he accused, "How dare you? How dare you assume I'm homosexual, simply because I take a little pride in my clothing or my hair. Perhaps you think I should lisp, or, or, or flail my wrists when I walk! Perhaps you think I like wearing dresses when no one's around, or paint my face with rouge and my lips with wax…"
"I'm sorry, Hawke," he finally got Hawke to listen, after following him around the room and penning him in the corner near the bed. He wondered how he could have been wrong in his assumptions. He was sure Hawke preferred men, but Hawke's vehement reaction to being called such gave him cause to reconsider. "I didn't mean for those two statements to be taken as mutually dependent." He reached out a hand, not to touch Hawke, but to placate him.
"Well…" Hawke sighed, eying the faint markings on his hand, still miffed but willing to calm down, "Well, fine, then. Just so you realize, I'm not homosexual because I have proper grooming habits."
"Of course not," he quickly agreed.
"I'm homosexual because I prefer cock to pussy."
The noises of nighttime suddenly grew loud in his ears, crickets chirping and a neighbor's restless watchdog sounding as if they were in the room with them. Fenris stood still for a count of ten before he could speak. "Kaffas, Hawke, that's putting it… honestly."
They stood there a moment longer, before the corner of Hawke's mouth curled ever so slightly. Fenris unwittingly answered with his own timid attempt, which relieved Hawke enough to start laughing. His straight, white teeth were dazzling in the dim light. "I do prefer to be honest, when it comes to sex. I find it saves a lot of time and misunderstanding later. Don't you agree?"
"I… ah…" he suddenly felt uneasy, that troublesome and indefinable 'thing' coming up between them again.
Hawke tilted his head coyly, still light-hearted and teasing, "Oh, come on, you've had sex, haven't you? You're too good-looking to be a virgin."
Images flashed in his mind, long-buried and unwanted, of bodies and heat and sweat and…
"Fenris?"
…hands, hands that grabbed, hands that pulled, hands that hurt, hands that were reaching for him even now…
Hawke had intended to reassure him, his touch light on his shoulder, long fingers stroking with care. Fenris, however, did not welcome the comfort. He slapped Hawke's hand away, his expression darkening even further, a lip that had nearly curled into a smile now curling into a snarl. Hawke wasn't sure if Fenris could hear him, or if he was too lost within the sudden anger, but he had to try to make amends. "I'm sorry, Fenris, if I've said something to upset you."
It was too late; the wound had already been reopened. Instinctively Fenris invoked the lyrium within his body as he leaned forward, the rage swelling within his chest, building him up and giving him strength. "Why can't people leave my past alone?" he grabbed Hawke's shoulders and slammed him against the wall. "What do you want me to say?" he loomed until their noses were almost touching, his teeth bared like his namesake. "Do you need to hear every sordid detail?" Both hands, claw-like even without the gauntlets, released his shoulders to press against the wall on either side of his head. "Yes, I've had intercourse. But I had no choice. I was a slave. You have no idea… can't comprehend… what I felt… how I acted… the only way I could act… I never—Never!—had even the weakest impulse, much less the right to withhold my consent!"
Either silence met his outburst, or his ears were ringing too loudly for him to hear Hawke's panting breaths. The lack of protest—the lack of anything to fight against—was sufficient to bring him out of his rage. He blinked, and the face that came into focus before him wasn't a lustful and possessive Danarius, but a very confused and tense-looking Hawke. Immediately he felt surprised by his own actions. He pulled back, his expression losing its heat in the face of his shock over his outburst.
"… Hawke, I…"
The words stopped as suddenly as they had started. What could he say, how could he explain, why he had reacted that way? His eyebrows curved with shame and remorse, his lips parted but empty of words, his dull green eyes searching for acceptance or forgiveness.
"No, Fenris," Hawke started, paused to clear his throat, and tried again, "I should apologize. You are right. I had no idea. I only thought… you've been free for years now… I thought for sure you would have… with someone… at some point…"
Fenris shook his head, feeling it was hard to breathe, his words staggering. "No, no one. I've… never stayed in one place… long enough to… form an attachment… with anyone… until now…"
He watched Hawke watching him, those golden eyes flickering between his. Slowly Hawke's expression changed, the tiny crease between his brows softening, his eyes widening, lips sliding from awe to understanding. A hand came up, slowly, as if Hawke was afraid of startling a wild animal, and touched his cheek. It was warm, tender, a welcome sort of feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time, and even then it had been too infrequent an occurrence. Instinctively he leaned into it, wanting only to savor the feel of another person, the feel of a touch that didn't cause suffering.
"Fenris…" Hawke breathed. "I… do you mean…" he paused and licked his lips. "Oh, bollocks!"
The kiss was chaste, a simple meeting of lips, Hawke's warmth feeding his own. The act was so unexpected that he froze, shocked into stillness, completely adrift. Should he push Hawke away? Should he draw him closer? For the first time in his life, he was in this situation without direction, without any clue as to what his actions should be. That wasn't to say he had forgotten how to pleasure a man, but this time he had a choice. This time he had the right to withhold his consent. And that new option left him paralyzed.
Hawke was watching him again, waiting, expectant and longing. Fenris realized, however woefully long it had taken him to do so, that Hawke was interested in him. Hawke had come here, tonight, with the hope that something like this might happen. That was why the atmosphere between them was so heavy, electrified, as if on the verge of igniting.
Could he? Could he ignite that something between them? The simple answer was: yes, he knew what to do. But the harder question to answer was: did he want to? This was too new to him, too strange, like a skill he held no expertise in, or a region he had never scouted. For several heartbeats he stood there, lost, adrift, and Hawke refused to throw him a lifeline. It was up to him to act, to either accept or reject, to choose…
Leaning forwards once more, he pressed their lips together.
Hawke's hand returned to him, fingers burrowing through his hair. He tensed, fully expecting the grabbing and pulling to start, but Hawke only combed the short strands. He pulled away, and was amazed when Hawke let him. He stared, his lips parted and wet with their mixed saliva, his expression needy. Whether Hawke misunderstood his need, or he himself misunderstood it, didn't really matter. The end result was the same: Hawke took control.
He found Hawke's touch to be considerate, careful, wary of those things that hurt or cause discomfort, physical and emotional. Hawke started by slowly stepping away from the wall, one hand still in his hair while the other tried to undo the fastenings on his clothing. Hawke fumbled and cursed after a moment, before reluctantly using both hands to work open the closures. He stood and watched Hawke, curious and amazed, and possibly a little apprehensive over what would be the mage's reaction to his body. As if he could hear or taste his nervousness, Hawke stopped, pausing to look into his eyes, his brows curved questioningly, silently making the offer to stop if he wished it.
His answer was just as unspoken. He took over from Hawke, his fingers sure and firm as he undid the last closure and pulled his tunic from his torso. And there they were, the damnable markings, exposed to the mage's greedy eyes. The placement of the lyrium seemed to mimic the contours and flows of his body, bones and muscles and organs and veins, drawing the eye to key areas and holding the gaze there. Yet Hawke didn't stare covetously at them as others had, instead taking in the whole of him—not just the lyrium, but the shadows formed between his muscles and the light dusting of black hair falling from his navel. There was lust in his expression, yes, but it wasn't from a magical perspective.
The pads of Hawke's thumbs brushed across his chest, eliciting a nearly inaudible gasp and increasing the strain inside his leggings.
Seemingly encouraged by the subtle reaction, Hawke took hold of his shoulders—mindful of the markings—and spun his back to the wall. He pressed against Fenris, lining up their bodies, rubbing and allowing the fiction of their clothing to stimulate them both. At the same time Hawke kissed him, deeper this time, his tongue demanding an entrance which Fenris readily granted.
When Hawke pulled back, he seemed surprised to find his coat was halfway undone. He didn't stop the elf, however, allowing him to finish and toss the coat aside before starting on the tunic. When Hawke took over, impatient with his slower and out-of-practice movements, he slid down to his knees between him and the wall. Hawke took half a step backwards, either surprised by the action or giving him room, perhaps a little of both. He stopped moving when Fenris' hands came up to undo the belt buckle. He gripped the waist of Hawke's leggings and underpants and pulled down slowly. A moment later, after he was partially free of the fabric, Fenris moved closer and heard him sigh, "Maker!"
The musky smell of sweat and male filled his nostrils with each breath. This was familiar. This was known. This was something Fenris understood, something where he knew his role, what actions to take. Expertly he worked his mouth, pulling away and leaving behind glistening spit. He pressed his parted lips against the side and slid downwards, causing a moan to sound from the chest above. He continued, sliding up and down and all around it in a languid tunnel, the pressure firm enough to stimulate, the touch moist enough to move freely. After completing his circuit, he slid down even further, all the while his hands gripped the hips, steadying his movements against the involuntary bucking.
"…Fenris…" he heard the breathy plea, felt the keen twining of fingers in his hair, and sensed Hawke was getting close. He didn't stop right away, knowing it would be better if he took Hawke to the edge, if he held him there, teasing him for just a little longer.
"Fenris, I… Maker!"
He finally let go, with his mouth at least, his hands still full of hips. Then he blew, very gently, across the moistened skin, the light breeze caused by his breath cooling the saliva. Hawke gasped again and bucked almost violently, "Shit!"
Hawke had his fill of being teased. He tugged on Fenris' shoulders, encouraging him to stand out of the way so he could finish undressing, yanking down his leggings and underpants only to get tangled by his boots. He cursed, lost his balance, and flailed his arms for something to stop his fall. He found a handful of flesh and held on tight even as the room tipped around him.
Fenris felt the tight grip on his wrist and ignored the ache as his markings were touched, more concerned about their trajectory as Hawke pulled him along. He pushed with his legs, angling their descent, causing the two of them to land heavily on the bed. Hawke's breath escaped in a "Whoosh!" that left him gasping, and Fenris rolled himself beneath to ease the pressure on Hawke's torso.
The two of them lay there, Hawke struggling for breath, Fenris blocking out any sign of discomfort over having so many markings continually pressed. At last Hawke seemed to come back to himself, and smiled a little bashfully. "Oops." He angled himself up on his elbows, holding his body away from Fenris, easing some of the irritation.
Fenris didn't speak, not knowing what to say. He watched with the eyes of a predator as Hawke moved, crawling backwards to the edge of the bed. There he stood and finished removing his clothing, carefully this time, before he turned to fully face the bed. He stood still a moment, allowing Fenris the opportunity to study his body, completely at ease without a stitch of clothing on. And Fenris had to admit he admired Hawke's body. Most mages focused on their magic so much, they neglected their bodies, often becoming so soft and weak that they could be easily felled by a single blow. Not Hawke. It was true he wielded magic, but the mace on one end of his staff was not for show. The firm biceps, broad chest and well-defined abdominals gave testament to this fact.
Hawke hesitantly reached out to take hold of Fenris' lower leg, gripping one of those strange, sole-less boots—which were nothing more than overzealous shin guards and almost as tight as the matching leggings. When there was no sound or movement of protest, he pulled it off. Encouraged by Fenris' apparent acquiescence, Hawke quickly had the rest of his clothing removed, until there was nothing left between them but that electrically charged air. If he found Fenris' lack of underpants noteworthy he didn't comment, his only indication that he had noticed was a surprised parting of his lips. Hawke hesitated a moment, his eyes sweeping up and down the whole length of him. Fenris stared back, still with those watchful, wary, bottomless green eyes.
In a reversal of his earlier action, Hawke crawled onto the bed, back up to lean over Fenris, one leg pressing down between his thighs. Fenris felt the heat rolling off his body, but that was all. When Hawke's lips descended, the rest of him remained tented over him, overly cautious of the markings. In an effort to put Hawke at ease, he lifted his hands and took hold of his hips, pulling them together.
Where Hawke was obviously aroused, he was only partially hardened. His needs usually hadn't been met whenever he had engaged in this activity, so one could argue he had been trained not to expect satisfaction—which could explain why he remained under-inflated. Hawke must have noticed this, but he didn't comment. Instead he seemed to take it as a challenge, something Fenris definitely hadn't expected.
Hawke lowered his face to kiss him again, parting his lips and gaining entrance to his mouth with a swipe of his tongue. At the same time Hawke's hands sought his, pressing their palms together, sliding their fingers side-by-side, so they could hold hands without touching too many of the markings. It was a tender gesture, thoughtful, unlooked-for, and it had the desired outcome. The place where their bodies pressed together grew a little warmer, a little more crowded.
He sighed when Hawke broke off the kiss, sounding a little disappointed in his own ears, but no other protest was made. Not when Hawke's mouth descended to his chest, his tongue tracing between the lines, bending around the curls, circling the dots.
He arched his back, only slightly, but the reflexive property of the motion giving him pause. He was responding to Hawke.
He had thought he knew what he was doing; hadn't he done this enough times while a slave? He knew how to touch to cause the most excitement for his partner, either male or female. And he could act aroused and wanton, moaning when warranted and suppressing gasps of pain when necessary. But Hawke was changing the rules on him. Hawke was seeing to his needs, as much as his own. He was courteous and caring and attentive.
And Fenris was suffering the effects of such ministrations.
"Oil."
His brow scrunched mildly as he lifted his head to look at Hawke. "What?"
"Do you have any oil? Or ointment? Some kind of lubrication?"
Immediately he surmised that Hawke was ready. Would the mage simply use spit, since there was nothing else? He doubted Hawke would stop now, with both of them now getting close. He swallowed, never having felt so nervous before, and had to shake his head. "I… no… I haven't…"
Hawke drew a face as he thought for a moment. Suddenly his expression brightened and he pulled away. "I'll be right back."
Confused, Fenris pushed himself up onto his elbows to watch. Hawke left the bed to return to the fire, rummaging for a moment in the box he had brought. When he stood back up, a small vial of cooking oil was in his hand. He turned and smiled brightly when he saw Fenris staring at him, and gestured with the bottle, "Not ideal, but it'll work well enough."
Damn him, but he was too nice.
His breathing was elevated when Hawke returned to the bed, whether from excitement or arousal or need or confusion or…
Damn him.
Unable to look away, he saw Hawke tip the bottle, spreading a little of the oil over the fingers of one hand. Another nervous swallow choked his throat, his eyes following those glistening fingers until they fell out of sight.
He sucked in a short gasp. He continued to hold Hawke's gaze, disbelief warring with anticipation across his own features, as he was tenderly and intimately caressed. Hawke's free hand took his again, fingers side-by-side once more, before he pressed that one finger a little further.
It had been so long, so very long, since he'd been touched there by another person. He'd forgotten how it felt, how his emotions tightened up in the center of his chest, bursting with the brief worry that it might hurt too much and he'd be forced to hide it. He reminded himself that he was free now and not a slave; he could ask Hawke to stop and he would. He didn't think it would get to be too painful, however, not if Hawke continued to be so receptive of his hidden reactions and needs.
Again his body responded involuntarily, arching his back, pushing his hips downward.
The light laughter floating above him made his glazed eyes return to focus. Hawke was smiling, not quite smirking, but definitely enjoying himself. The pompous ass. Yet he couldn't berate him for it, writhing beneath him, his body dancing to Hawke's tune so mindlessly… Fasta vass, but Hawke had long fingers.
Feelings were swelling within him, alien and wrong and hot and exciting—like he was getting away with something, some sort of mischief, some little misadventure. It burned him, a lustful fire that seared through from his spine to his navel. Fenris panted, feeling his skin flush, feeling the sweat break out all over his body. He didn't dare move but lay there passively reactive like a bowl of jelly, trembling at the slightest twitch of that damnably long finger. Then Hawke began to withdraw, enticing a hungry moan from Fenris' chest.
The self-satisfied laughter sounded once more in his ears, but he couldn't be made to care. The next moment he gasped, his muscles tightening down, his hand squeezing Hawke's free hand as the markings began to glow.
"What is it?" Hawke asked, concerned.
Fenris had been so distracted by Hawke's initial solicitude, he hadn't been prepared for the second finger quite so soon, and he had unthinkingly let the pain show. He shook his head, tried to suppress the agony, deny the discomfort, but Hawke wouldn't have it. He pulled out, picked up the vial of oil and poured a little more on. Try though he might, he couldn't hide the catch in his breathing that belied his apprehension when Hawke leaned over him. Yet instead of trying once more, he stole another kiss.
Damn him again! Hawke was showing that consideration, that thoughtfulness and care over his feelings and comfort, and even though he knew what Hawke was doing… he fell for it. He let himself get involved in the kiss, get distracted by the tongue warring with his own, become focused on those heated lips as they pulled away to trail down his neck. By the time the close-clipped hairs of that perfectly shaped beard were teasing his chest, he was oblivious to whatever Hawke was doing down there.
All his attention focused on Hawke's mouth as it moved over his skin, on the warmth sliding up and down, tight and wet and oh-so-desirable. When the fingers pulled away, he hardly noticed it. When Hawke raised himself up, it didn't seem a cause for alarm.
But when that blunt dagger was held against him, his loosened insides betrayed him and tightened. Hawke didn't miss a beat, sensing the unease, holding himself back while he kissed Fenris. This time it didn't appear that a kiss would be enough to distract him from the anticipated ache, so Hawke used one finger like he had before. He knew what Hawke was trying to do. He'd done it himself a few times, mostly in conjunction with another act, his mouth working from the front while his fingers worked from the back. He'd never had anyone do it to him, however, and was taken completely by surprised, was completely unprepared for his reaction.
Immediately his body took over from his mind, acting of its own accord, working towards its own agenda. His muscles flexed, trying to draw it further inside, to keep it rubbing against the spot. A moan wheezed from his chest, hungry and full of desire. He half expected that self-satisfied laughter to sound again, but this time it didn't. Risking a glance, he found Hawke's expression to be serious, studying him and his responses, looking for some particular reaction.
Hawke must have approved of what he saw, because he switched appendages. Fenris was back in control of himself and focused on relaxing his body, on permitting a motion that was contrary to what usually occurred. There was some excitement returning to him, that feeling again that he was getting away with some mischief, that he was doing something forbidden. Yet how could it be forbidden, if the two of them wanted it so badly? It didn't affect anyone else; it didn't cause anyone any harm. And it created such indescribable, unparalleled pleasure…
Though Hawke tried to move slowly, tried to draw it out, it wasn't long before he heard Hawke's breath start to catch. Fenris reached up, took hold of that carefully mussed mane, and pulled Hawke down for a kiss, swallowing the gasps within his own. He felt Hawke's free hand slide between them, the fingers wrap around him, only managing small tugs in the tight space between their crushed bodies.
Fenris was first. There was a searing fire, similar to the lyrium that coursed within his body, striking like lightening running from his spine to his front. He arched his back and hissed with just a little pain, his lips drawing out of their kiss and his teeth clacking against Hawke's teeth. Almost immediately he felt Hawke join him, his rhythm broken and turning mindless in the face of primal instincts.
And just as quickly it was over. They lay there, their boneless bodies slick with sweat and oil, one pair of hands still entwined. Hawke's breath was hot and heavy on his chest, brushing across the hairless skin like a desert wind across the sands. Fenris' fingers were stroking gently through Hawke's hair, letting him know without words that he could continue to lay there, take his time recovering, there was no rush.
It wasn't long, however, before Hawke did come out of his sated stupor. He braced his forehead against Fenris' chest a moment, before pushing himself to his hands and knees, sliding away. Fenris keenly felt the looseness, the emptiness, the longing, but nothing showed on his features. He was intent on watching Hawke in the dimming firelight, wondering what would happen next.
Still no words were spoken. Hawke reluctantly let go of his hand, his expression tender, a sound thrumming against the back of his closed lips like an apology or an assurance. He crawled off the bed, leaving Fenris lying alone on the rumpled and warmed bedclothes. Hawke glanced around the room as he stood, hands on his hips and a determined expression making his lips press thin. He saw what he was looking for, the next moment walking purposefully over to the small dresser where Fenris kept a wash basin and some towels.
Fenris continued to watch him, but his main focus was inward, as per his habit, going over the past hour or so and evaluation his actions. He had just been intimate for the first time in, well, years. And he had enjoyed it; the evidence was cooling across his abdomen. Yet there was something amiss, something off-center, something like an itch one can't reach or the whine of an insect that kept one awake at night. He was so involved in tracking down this wayward impression that he barely registered when Hawke returned to the bed, damp towel in hand, and cleaned up the mess on his body.
He set aside his puzzlement and focused once more, out of curiosity, when Hawke laid back down on his side. Hawke's fingers reached out, brushing his sweat-matted, white locks away from his face, his touch full of that tenderness that was so alien and so desired. He rolled onto his side to face him fully, an un-worded question written on his parted lips.
Hawke's kiss was answer enough. He wasn't finished yet for the night, a fact which hardly surprised Fenris. On several occasions as a slave, he had been used multiple times during an evening, often by multiple persons. He knew he could easily take another round, even after years of celibacy. And Hawke was a far more generous partner than anyone he had yet encountered. He almost felt guilty comparing Hawke to Danarius and his magisterial peers, but he truly had no other experience to go by.
This time was different, however, a fact that made his irritation return. He didn't like not understanding what was happening or why, and Hawke's behavior was not as before. He didn't take charge this time; he didn't loom over Fenris in a dominating manner. Hawke did touch him, trailing his fingernails lightly between two parallel markings traveling from his hips to his front. Yet he didn't go any further. It was like he was waiting for something, or wanted something that Fenris was supposed to give him…
That was it—he wanted Fenris to take charge. A tiny gasp accompanied this revelation, his eyes flickering questioningly between Hawke's amber orbs, seeking confirmation. It was there in his moistened lips and timid posture. It was now Fenris' turn.
Did he dare? Did he dare fuck a mage? Fasta vass, it was a forbidden temptation, a dream he had never dared to imagine, an act that would have gotten him killed, tortured to death, used for some Blood Magic ritual. Even now, after all the time and distance between his current identity and that slave-Fenris he used to be, he still felt the apprehension.
And that was what tipped the scales for him. His desire for freedom, to set aside the slave he used to be, to become a free man and leave the shackles behind him forever… Fucking a mage would be proof, however private and personal, that he had indeed achieved his freedom. And, damn it, Hawke was willing, his gestures continuing to be submissive, inviting, desirous.
Fenris tried not to think any longer. He knew what he wanted to do. Though one final thought occurred to him to take Hawke roughly, to drive out the poison of slavery lingering within his veins with primal savagery, he pushed the urge aside. This wasn't Danarius, the man who had tormented him, this was Hawke, the man who called him a friend. For the sake of that friendship—however personal and base any of his other motives might be—he would do to Hawke all those things he knew granted the highest pleasure, all those things he wished someone would have done to him.
With this notion forefront in his mind, he shifted their bodies until he hovered over Hawke.
His touch was expert, well acquainted with the male body, with which areas needed only a feather-weight of breath to be stimulated, and which required a little more pressure, or could be brought to the edge of painful. Hawke was a willing and enthusiastic partner, greedily taking every sensation, shamelessly offering honest responses. When Fenris' lips lightly brushed the skin behind one ear, he sighed and shivered. When Fenris' teeth teased his chest, he moaned and grabbed a handful of hair. When Fenris' dropped his head, when he brought his mouth out of the carefully trimmed chest hair to range lower, picking up the trail again at the navel and following it down, Hawke arched his back and gasped.
The area was freshly cleaned and smelling of soap, still slightly damp from the water. Fenris paid the area due attention, trying to suppress his gag reflex. Hawke bucked his hips, the fingers of both hands entwining in his hair, desiring to hold him there but loose enough to let him escape if he needed. Fenris allowed him a few thrusts, until he felt one too many pushes against the back of his throat. Not wanting to tempt fate, he pulled away, Hawke's fingers reluctantly letting go with a selfish little whimper of protest. He smiled, enjoying the feeling of power and control, of making Hawke dance to his tune, and knowing Hawke was enjoying the dance just as much.
Ensuring Hawke remained lying on his back, Fenris rotated his stance, crouching over him on his hands and knees, but with his face to Hawke's groin, and dangling himself above Hawke's mouth. He returned to his teasing, and Hawke tried to mimic his actions, match him tease for tease. But Fenris was too good at distracting him, and Hawke was already far more aroused. He frequently had to break off to pant away his excess passion, not wanting to end too soon. Fenris kept careful track of his responses, letting him get close but not too close. At one point he stopped entirely and leaned up slightly, granting Hawke unrestricted access.
Whether it was Hawke's efforts, or the heady feeling of control, Fenris quickly grew excited. Sensing it was time, he moved away from Hawke's mouth, his insides echoing the mewl of protest that tore from Hawke's chest. Venhedis, but he would have loved to stay there, to taunt and tease and keep himself just out of reach of the mage's hungry mouth. But there were other things he wanted to do before they were done. He rotated around again, lining their bodies up, and reached for the vial.
One oil-slicked finger began to work its magic on the mage. Now he understood why Hawke had laughed softly, the wanton display pleasurable if somewhat superficial. He allowed Hawke to control the penetration, to guide him into that secret place. He moved slowly, carefully, as conscious of the pain he might be causing as Hawke had been to his. Though his fingers weren't as thick as Hawke's, they were long enough, the tip of his finger brushing that spot lightly at first before becoming firmer. When Hawke moaned and bucked, Fenris knew he had just the right amount of pressure.
He didn't let up his inward ministrations nor his outward ministrations, pressing his lips against his chest, mouthing his collarbone, holding his tongue against the pulse throbbing on his neck. All the while his finger continued relentlessly, massaging Hawke into a putty-like submission, keeping him dancing on that razor-thin edge of the precipice.
It wasn't long until Hawke was struggling to keep from reaching that pinnacle of sensation, his hands fisting the bedclothes and his eyes screwed up tight. Fenris relented, giving him a chance to catch his breath, before working him more open. He felt Hawke shudder beneath him, heard that catch in his chest that signaled it might have been a little too much, but not to the point where it detracted from the pleasure. Fenris found and rubbed that spot a few times, helping Hawke to accept the extra width, noting that his arousal did not flag. It was time.
Fenris leaned back, having left wet trails from his lips and tongue all over Hawke's torso. Hawke made to follow him or pull him back down, but he would have none of it. He put his free hand on Hawke's chest, keeping him lying down, while his other applied the oil. When he was satisfied with the amount of lubrication, he took one of Hawke's legs and lifted it up, cocking it over his shoulder.
He pushed in slowly, allowing only enough of himself inside to stretch him open. As expected Hawke tensed, though his expression held only a little pain, quickly drowned by the passion that had previously been building. He waited, giving him the chance to become used to the intrusion, the chance to relax his muscles. Then he pushed in a little at a time, taking care to make sure there would be enough lubrication to keep any lingering pains or aches to a minimum. Cautiously he increased his rhythm, angling upwards, until he brushed against that sweet, lust-filled spot. With every gentle rock of his hips, he stroked against it, going in and coming out, over and over and over…
Hawke suddenly gasped, shuddered, clutched at Fenris' arms, and let out a small cry. The next heartbeat he clamped down, not hard enough to hurt, but with that throbbing rhythm that told of heretofore unreached heights of pleasure. Fenris rode the waves of passion, allowed Hawke to set the pace, and quietly found his own release.
Hawke was sure he had died, had died and reached some perfect area of the Fade, a place untainted by man, a place where the Maker still walked. He was relaxed and sated with just that hint of an ache that told of a night well spent. He smiled, large enough that his beard moved with the gesture, and opened his eyes.
The room was darker than he remembered. He reasoned the fire must have died a bit more since he last paid attention. He meant to reach out and find Fenris, bring the wonderfully talented elf into his arms, hold that slim and toned body against his side—mindful of the sensitive markings.
But his hand found empty bedclothes, already cool to the touch.
Concerned, he lifted his head, looking around, but he was indeed alone on the bed. He looked down, but any mess had been cleaned up and his skin dry. He must have passed out, he reasoned, after that second round, and Fenris had not only left the bed, but taken care of the aftermath of their lovemaking. He wondered how long he had been out, how completely relaxed he must have been, that he hadn't noticed Fenris' actions.
His eyes searched further, scanning the room, until they settled on that lithe body. Fenris was standing in front of the fire and a little to the side, his hands on the mantle and one leg slightly bent, staring into the flames. He didn't seem to be aware that Hawke was awake, lost instead in one of his brown studies, his black brows drawn down and matching the corners of his mouth. The flickering light of the flames made the faint, bluish-white tattoos dance and waver across his skin.
Maker, but the man was an icon, his body perfectly formed and honed, with those long limbs and longer muscles. He stood naked before the fire, posed like a paragon, either at ease with his nudity or unaware he was being scrutinized. Briefly Hawke thought about asking Varric what it took to become a paragon, but reasoned there probably wasn't any chance for an elf to make it into the Dwarven religion.
"I didn't mean to pass out on you." Hawke had tried to speak quietly, but the suddenness of the words was harsh. Yet Fenris didn't seem to notice, neither giving a flicker of movement nor a twitch of an eyebrow.
"It… was a compliment," Hawke tried again, "Or it was meant to be, at least." He propped himself up on one elbow, tilting his head and staring at the statuesque elf. Fenris' continued silence disturbed him, and he had to ask, "Fenris, are you alright? I didn't… you're not hurt, or anything, are you? I know it can be uncomfortable, if you haven't done it for a while."
"What?" he finally seemed to notice Hawke was talking. He pulled his gaze from the fire to where Hawke was getting—cautiously—up from the bed. "Oh, no, Hawke… I'm… fine. You were fine. It was… fine…"
Hawke raised one eyebrow. "That bad, huh?"
"No, no," Fenris quickly tried to reassure him, perhaps too quickly, as he noticed Hawke's eyebrow remained aloft. "Venhedis," he sighed, "It's… it's hard to explain…"
"Just say it," Hawke advised, lowering his eyebrow finally as he started walking towards him. "I told you earlier, I prefer being honest when it comes to sex."
Fenris raised one shoulder in half a shrug, watching Hawke lean an elbow against the mantle, facing him. "If only I knew the words."
Hawke stared at him a moment, before his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. "Oh, Maker, you're straight, aren't you?"
If Fenris had ever felt like blushing, this would have been the time. He knew that he wasn't straight, that he enjoyed having sex with a man as much as with a woman; rather it was that he simply didn't have any sort of deeper feelings for Hawke, not in that way. Yet looking into those warm amber eyes, he thought perhaps the lie would be easier than the truth. "I didn't know, Hawke, I swear to you. I honestly… I'd never… Fasta vass!" As he feared, the hurt showed—however briefly—in Hawke's eyes, but he couldn't change his words now without sounding trite. He paced away, feeling his confusion and chagrin boil up inside him, and wanting to bleed off the energy before it turned violent. "I…" he came to a stop half a room away. It was easier, speaking to a chair than to Hawke's face, "I didn't want to hurt you. I consider you a… a friend… of a sort," he finished, hoping he wasn't being presumptuous. "I wanted this, but I had no idea that I would… that it would…"
Hawke had followed him on silent bare feet, so when his hand touched his shoulder Fenris spun around, startled. "It's alright, Fenris, I understand. You've been free now for, what, three years? Four? And tonight was the first time you've slept with someone."
Fenris nodded and offered a balm, daring to risk sharing a part of his past with this man—this mage. "I told you before, as a slave I never had the slightest control over my own person. I was used. There's no other word for it. By both men and women. I acted the way they told me to act, wanted what they told me to want. If that makes any sense." He tried to turn away, but Hawke's hand on his shoulder was too warm, too gentle, for him to simply toss aside. "But I did want this, tonight. Not just because you wanted it; I wanted it. I wanted to… wanted to know… for myself." He finally had the courage to look Hawke in the eye, and was amazed to find understanding there. Not pity, not anger, not betrayal, not deceit, not hurt, not a myriad of other emotions Hawke had every right to feel—but compassion and empathy. It gave him the strength to continue. "Don't get me wrong. I did enjoy myself tonight. But… it's not something I can put into words. It didn't feel…" his words trailed away again, and he made a disgusted noise at himself. "That's not quite right. It was more than a feeling of being either right or wrong. Something like this isn't right or wrong, it simply is or is not. And for me… it is not."
Hawke smiled. Not with happiness, but with familiarity. How many times while growing up had he tried to like girls, thinking he was supposed to, but every time it simply was not him? "Now that is something I can understand, believe me! And don't feel bad about tonight," he continued, letting go of Fenris' shoulder and stooping to pick up his clothing, "Whoever wins your heart someday, is going to be the luckiest woman in all of Thedas."
Fenris stared at him, watching him get dressed in an effort to distract himself from thinking about Hrodwynn and how he'd already given her up. "You're not upset?" he asked, fighting to stay on topic.
Hawke's smile deepened, flashing him those perfect white teeth, while he sat down to pull on his boots. "Not at all. You are one fantastic fuck! In fact," he pretended a frown, standing to stomp his feet into his boots, "You're too good. Normally, after a night like tonight, I'd expect to have a limp in the morning that would tell everyone just how thoroughly I'd been fucked. But you were so good, I hardly feel a twinge. A little disappointing. I do so love those questioning looks on people's faces, and the disgust on Carver's," he added with a little gleeful smirk, "As they try to figure out who fucked me. Not that I'd tell them, of course." He winked.
Fenris felt more confused, and reassured, than ever. "Hawke, I…"
"Don't mention it. Please, I'm serious, don't mention it."
"What do you mean?"
He frowned again, at a wrinkle on the back of his coat this time, as he explained. "What if word got out, that after a night spent with me, someone realized they were straight? Think of my reputation!"
Fenris was almost sure he was being teased—almost. Yet Hawke seemed serious as he shrugged into his coat. In thinking about it, he realized there were times when he'd seen Hawke with just that limp he'd described, and never once had he mentioned any of his other lovers. "So, are we friends?" He hated the hopeful tone of his voice, but he couldn't help it.
Hawke nodded, his eyes as warm as the fire. "Of course we are. Why wouldn't we be?"
"Well, er, because of this, and it not working out, and…" His words trailed away, drowned out by Hawke's laughter.
"Fenris, relax, everything's alright. You weren't my first one-night-stand, and Maker forbid you're my last!" He leaned over and planted a very chaste kiss on his cheek. "Yes, we're friends. And you have other friends, Carver and Varric for starters. I'm sure there are more if you look for them. Like Isabela, perhaps?" He paused to give a knowing sort of laugh. "You know, she's going to cut off your balls with one of those knives of hers when she finally figures out you don't wear underpants."
Fenris thought about the former pirate and their little game. Perhaps he would give her a try, just to see what she would do when she learned the truth. Her reaction would at the very least be invigorating, and quite possibly distracting enough to keep Hrodwynn out of his thoughts.
"You're still coming with us on our little expedition into the Deep Roads next week?"
"Wouldn't miss it," he replied, a little more in control now that things looked like they weren't messed up.
"Good. There's no one else I'd rather have watching my back." Hawke stopped at the doorway to look at him, his amber eyes holding more meaning than his words.
"Nor you, mine," he agreed, surprised that he could admit that he did trust a mage.
Hawke slapped the door frame, feeling the need to beat a hasty retreat before the angst over losing Fenris started to show. "Well, I should get going. Good night, Fenris. I'll let myself out."
Fenris didn't follow him, but did listen to his footsteps tapping down the stairs, his light-hearted whistling echoing through the main hall, and the finality of the main door closing behind him. Hawke was a very singular man.
Cassia took that moment to stalk into the room, her tail flickering with her anger from earlier that evening, her eyes reproachful. Fenris exchanged a look with her, "I suppose it's too much to hope that you're no longer mad at me?" He uncovered a plate on which he had saved some of his steak for her. He set it on one side of the couch while he sat on the other side. She raised her nose, acknowledging the smell of the savory meat. In a graceful, fluid movement she leaped from the floor to the couch, gave him one final twitch of her tail, and turned her attention onto the meat.
Fenris sighed.
A/N: hey, if you think this version is risky, you should see the other version :P
BTW, I know this chapter kind of skirted some sensitive issues. I should state that the opinions of the characters are their own, not mine. My opinions, should I ever wish to state them, will be shared here within these notes, not within the story by my characters. Got it? Cool.
