A/N: sorry, meant to have this out a few days ago, but RL happened. Again. Hope it is worth the wait :'D

Chapter Twenty-Two: Need

They stood toe-to-toe, his hands on her shoulders, her hands on his cheek and his heart. Fenris stared into the eyes before him, the eyes of the woman he loved, the woman he needed. There was no guile there, no deceit, only honesty and openness. Yet he couldn't believe her. After all, he hadn't been exactly clear on what he had meant, when he said that he needed her.

"You don't mean…?"

"I do."

"You can't."

"Why not?"

Why not, he repeated to himself, as his mind sluggishly struggled to find a way out of this, unwilling or unable to accept her offer. "You're a virgin."

It was the flimsiest excuse she'd ever heard, and she rolled it aside with a roll of her eyes. "That's no reason not to have sex. I mean, if everyone thought that way, there'd never be any more babies, would there? And that would be the end of the human race—or any race, for that matter."

Was she serious or joking, he wondered to himself.

"Besides, it has to happen sooner or later, right?"

Not necessarily, he countered quietly in his head, still unable to voice his objection. Wait, why in the bloody Fade was he objecting?!

"Unless the problem isn't with me, but you," she archly challenged. "If you don't know what to do or how to handle this…"

Fasta vass, but he knew exactly what to do. Yet could he? Could he take this, this most precious gift of experience, from her? For her?

"It's simple," her hand left his cheek to take hold of one of his hands, "You take the sword," she pressed their hands up against his groin, "And slip it into the sheath," she pressed them up against her groin.

"No!" he yanked his hand away. The hurt in her eyes cut him to the bone, but he would only hurt her more if they continued down this path. "A moment ago, you were angry with me."

"I was then," she allowed, "And maybe I still am; anger has kind of been a hobby of ours these past few years. But truthfully, ever since I was on my way home this afternoon, I've been thinking of you. Of us. Of this. I've felt something between us for a few days now. You've felt it, too, right?"

He nodded, too dumb to speak, wondering if he could say what he should say. If he could do what he should do. Or if he would give in…

She moved even closer into his personal space. "Then," she nipped lightly at his lips, "If you want it," her hands moved to his hips, "And I want it," she pulled their bodies together, "What's stopping us?"

He could feel the heat of her body, had felt it when she pressed their hands down there, humid and sweltering like a sauna, like the jungles of Seheron. And just as enigmatic and unexplored. Maker, but she gave every sign of wanting this—of wanting him. And yet, he had to try, one last time, to make sure she wouldn't hate him for this afterwards. "It'll hurt…"

"I've heard the old wives' tales," she brushed this latest objection aside. "If there's pain or blood or whatever, then I'll deal with it. But I still want this." She held their faces so close together, he could feel the featherlight brush of her lips against his as she spoke, "I want you."

Fasta vass, was his last coherent objection.

One can dangle a juicy steak in front of a starving man for only so long before he devours it. Fenris fell on Hrodwynn like that starving man, his hunger for her overwhelming, the need to fill her—to fill himself with her—stronger than the tides. Now she staggered backwards beneath the force of his will, a gentle whimper slipping out with her breath as the backs of her knees hit the low couch. They moved together as one, slowly through a half-controlled free-fall, the leather of the couch creaking a welcome to their entwining bodies.

Her hands roamed over his flesh, her fingers tracing the contours of his arms, the swells and dips of muscles and tendons. Fire roared through his blood, heating him from within, searing his body and soul. Yet the pain of being touched was nothing like the pain he'd been enduring—the pain of denial, the pain of loneliness, the pain of his self-made prison. He savored the sting as he would savor the sauce, pressing hard against her, encouraging her exploration. Her fingers came around and up, squished between their torsos, as she fumbled at the fastenings to his tunic.

He lifted himself off of her to allow her easier access. With adequate space, her fingers were less clumsy, showing how truly dexterous she could be, the toggles popping out of their loops quickly and efficiently. He held himself there, hovering over her, bending his neck to reach her lips, arms flexed to hold his weight. At last the garment fell open, parting like a drape, enfolding her supine form. Her hands and arms slipped inside, her fingers greedily stroking his skin, oblivious to the lyrium marks or the sensations they caused.

Sweat broke out all over him, the strain of holding himself back, of keeping himself from crushing her with his passion, almost too much to bear. His arms began to shake, to tremble like an earthquake, threatening to topple his body onto hers like a building onto the earth. If she saw the signs, she didn't heed the warning, her hands moving further, spreading out beneath his tunic to furrow along his ribs, to stroke down his spine, to dip beneath the waistband of his leggings, to tug suggestively at the skintight leather.

"Venhedis," he gasped against her lips, her touch going too far, too fast. It wouldn't be long, another heartbeat or two, before he found himself ready to step across the threshold and rut into her like some mindless animal. Yet he couldn't do that—he wouldn't—not to Hrodwynn, not this first time…

That thought was barely enough to sober him, to pull him back from the edge of insanity, to stave off the hungry wolf within him. This was her first time. He shouldn't feel intimidated; it wasn't as if she had any other lovers to compare him against. But he wanted her to enjoy this, to look back on today without regrets, perhaps with fondness, even many years from now. With that daunting challenge looming over his neck like the headsman's axe, he found the strength to break off their kiss, to tilt his hips out of her grasp, to pull away to a safe distance.

Safety was a relative term. She tried to leverage herself up onto her elbows to follow him, her Agreggio Pavali lips pouting with confusion, her dark auburn brows bending with consternation. He placed a fingertip on those beautiful lips to keep her from speaking. She kissed it, warm and wet and oh so willing. He dropped his face down to hers, pressing their foreheads together and feeling another slight tingle from the lyrium, but gave in and kissed her back around his finger.

"Just a moment…" he tried to buy himself some time while he thought of a way to move them to the bed where she would be more comfortable. He glanced that way, judging the distance, thinking he could pick her up and carry her. His hand left her lips to slip beneath her, the other braced against the back of the couch, before he looked back towards her. She was also moving, however, thinking he was embracing her, wanting to return his gesture, pulling herself up by her hands gripping his shoulders.

"Wait…!" The unexpected weight threw him off balance. The bed fell from view as the room tipped, the couch rising above him, Hrodwynn never leaving the foreground. A curse 'oofed' out of him as he landed on the floor, her body landing on him a half-second after. He had no breath, but a grimace cracked the granite of his features.

"Fenris?" she whispered, a hand to either side of his face.

He blinked his eyes open to see her concerned face looming over him. "Oops."

She stared at him a moment before the giggle bubbled up inside her. "Oops," she agreed.

"Perhaps we should move somewhere safer for this type of activity?" he suggested, his hands on her hips adversely keeping her in place.

She glanced around them, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. They were on a clear patch of floor, to one side the couch, to the other the hearth and their half-finished lunch. "I like it here."

He hummed an agreeable sound, his hands stroking up her sides and making her squirm just a little. "The bed is softer."

She clamped her elbows to her ribs, trying to keep him from tickling her. "And all the way over there."

Undeterred, he started tugging her tunic out of her leggings. "It's larger than the couch; less likely that we'd fall off. Again."

She gave a slow gasp as his hands touched her skin, his fingers so warm, the callouses rough and just this side of scratching. "We won't fall at all, if we stay here."

He stroked her front, coming up beneath the two weight globes, thumbs pushing up between. She shuddered as he took her in his hands, her body hardening, completely at his mercy without any underclothes to protect her delicate skin. "Sounds reasonable," he agreed, barely able to keep his own focus. "But let me get a few things, first."

His hands fell away, leaving her feeling cold and exposed, though her tunic still draped around her. He sat up, shifting backwards and out from beneath her. Rebelliously she had the urge to lean forwards, to capture him, to pin him beneath her and… and… oh, she'd figure something out by then she was sure. But she let him go, trying to content herself with merely watching his long-limbed body moving lithe and fluid across the room. It wasn't satisfying at all.

He stopped beside his unmade bed and picked up a pillow. Half a smirk pulled at his mouth; the next moment, he turned towards her and tossed the feather-stuffed projectile at her face. She gave a cry of alarm, her arms crossing in front of her to protect her and knock away the pillow. A moment later, she picked it up and had to laugh at herself and her overreaction. She looked up just in time to see the second pillow headed her way; this one she managed to catch. With a pillow in each hand, she felt armed and ready to retaliate, but he didn't look like he wanted to continue the fight. Instead he gripped the thick duvet in one hand, bunched another pair of pillows in the other, and dragged them all back towards her.

She continued to watch him, fascinated and a little touched, as he made a soft nest for their first lovemaking. He spread out the comforter between the couch and the hearth, leaving it bunched a little so it would fit, and dropping the pillows haphazardly. She let go of her pillows, figuring they would find them and use them as they needed them. He knelt on the soft bedding, holding his hands towards her, inviting her and, waddling awkwardly on her knees, she came to him.

Without the full length of their legs, more importantly without the heels of her boots, Hrodwynn was a little disconcerted to discover he was slightly taller than her. She felt cheated somehow, or embarrassed, or just plain sore. But when he held her shoulders, when he gave her that starving look, when he leaned over to press his lips against hers…

…er, why was she mad?

Of their own volition, her hands came up, gripping the loose fabric at his shoulders, tugging it down and away. He let go of her first with one hand, then the other, to allow her to pull his tunic off. With his torso exposed, he had a fleeting feeling of anxiety, memories of Danarius still coming all to easily to mind—how he'd parade Fenris in front of others, showing him off like one would show a prize pedigree. Yet Hrodwynn didn't care about his lyrium markings; she didn't trace the lines or covet the time and effort and resources it had taken to produce such a specimen.

She coveted the man.

Her hands roved over his body, as light as a breath, overlooking the lyrium, concentrating instead on finding those little places that caused him such bliss. The palms of her hands over his chest. The light scrape of fingernails down his spine. The eager press of her thumbs into the sides of his groin. When the backs of her knuckles brushed along that faint trail of ebony hair, rising up towards his navel, the other hand cupping his hip, he decided she'd had enough exploring. It was his turn.

He gave her shoulders a suggestive push, not enough to force her onto her back, but enough to make her let him go. She tilted her head, wondering what he wanted but not asking, enjoying the anticipation and excitement and mystery. He didn't leave her in doubt for long, far too eager to continue their lovemaking to allow the moment to linger. He gripped her tunic, the bright emerald green now ripped and stained with several fights, and lifted it up.

Hrodwynn's body was perfect beneath it. Not to say she didn't have a scar or two, he could see the small slit where Jaxon's knife had penetrated her ribs, and his fingers could feel the marks of the lash still crisscrossing her back. Yet he didn't judge beauty by unmarred skin alone, no matter how creamy pale. Her body was toned though not muscular, her arms lean and her stomach flat. Her breasts were full, heavy and soft and just large enough to fit his hands. He was using his mouth right then, however, bending over to suck, feeling her body respond as he lapped it beneath his tongue. She gave an excited little gasp, her fingers burrowing into his hair as if to keep him there.

But he wouldn't have it. After only a moment or two, he left the one to turn his attention to the other, his hands spread widely across her back, supporting her as he bent further, sucked harder, and eased her backwards to the floor. She settled on the blanket with a sigh, the sound muffled by the rustling fabric, her eyes shining brightly against the backdrop. His attention remained focused on her front, on torturing the tiny buds with pleasure, nibbling them lightly with his teeth. He pulled back at last, leaving one slick with saliva, and blew gently across her skin.

Hrodwynn hissed and bucked, unable to control herself, never having felt such a sensation before. Quickly his hand covered her, his fingers moving over the slippery skin, his callouses sending shivers down her spine. He gently scraped up one side and over the top, and she found herself arching her back, pushing herself further into his grasp.

Fenris wanted to laugh softly at her wanton display, wanted to revel in his power over her body and soul. It was a heady sensation, this ability to manipulate another person, to make them do as you will. Yet he wasn't being cruel or domineering; if anything, he was doing everything to please her, to appease her will, to fulfill her desires. It was a strange mixture of subservience and dominance, of pleasing and taking pleasure, of give and take.

It was making love.

His hand traveled lower, tracing the curvature, rising and falling over each rib, dipping down towards her navel, slowing as he reached the waistband of her leggings. She immediately started wiggling her hips, as if she could shed her clothing like a snake sheds its skin. Again he felt pleased over his ability to give her so much pleasure, incite so much passion, inspire so much need. He could feel the heat and moisture through the fabric of her leggings, more than before, mounting ever higher. It wouldn't take much to make her ready, to give her that ultimate pleasure. Only then would he take that priceless gift she freely offered.

Deftly he found and undid the fastenings of her leggings, tugging them downwards, catching on her boots, fighting to pull fabric and leather off at the same time. She sat up, laughing softly, and began helping him. There was no inhibition, no hesitation, in regards to her nudity. There was only the desire, the need, that held itself suspended between them. Once her clothing was removed, she reached for his waist, her intent obvious. He obliged, shifting beneath her touch, allowing her to pull down the skintight, custom made leggings, allowing her to see—to know—how deeply he desired her.

Her quick eyes and quicker mind took in all of him at a glance, once more ignoring the lyrium in favor of the flesh. Instead she returned to holding his gaze as she leaned forward, one hand fisting the blanket, the other dropping down between his legs. He growled in warning as she kissed him, taking her wrist in a viselike grip, ceasing her teasing before she could get started. She pouted again, those wine-red lips full and desirable and so delicious.

He pecked them in consolation. "You're too eager. Give me a moment, before I make a mess of things."

She tilted her head, as if she didn't understand. The next moment her brows lifted, those lips forming a little "O," those jewel-like eyes flickering down to his swollen member. Amazingly he also felt no awkwardness over being laid bare beneath her scrutiny; he knew her, he trusted her, he loved her. He allowed her to be curious, to examine and trace and explore; he only wanted her to do so slowly and gently to keep himself from tipping over that precipice far too soon.

A fine film of sweat made his skin glisten. He reclined against a pillow, pulling her with him, stroking her spine, spreading her body over his. She molded herself to him, like putty in his hands, following his unspoken encouragement to do as she would with him. All the while he felt the tension building inside him, like the string of a bow, pulling tighter and tighter until it would either release or snap. His breath came out in pants as her hands cupped his hips. His teeth began to grind as her lips teased his skin—perhaps he shouldn't have showed her how to do that. His eyes screwed shut when her legs fell to either side of his.

Venhedis, but this was difficult. He wanted this time to be perfect for her, to be exactly what she always wanted, without any uncomfortableness, but how much could one man take? As her legs spread, he could feel her heat, hitting him in waves, spilling down across his thighs, making her far too tempting, too inviting, too necessary.

He had reached the end of his limits. He shifted, easily lifting her form though they were so close in size. She gave a protesting huff, probably because she wanted to torture him some more, but he would have none of it. This was her first. This was her turn. This was for her. He rolled her beneath his body, settling himself between her still open legs, and slid downwards. He heard her moan, a delicious sound, like the far away cry of a wolf for her mate. He answered, pressing his lips to the pulse on her neck, as if he would take her by the throat like his namesake. She gripped his hair again, holding him there, her body writhing against his.

He let go of her throat, not at all ashamed that he had left behind a mark, and slid even lower. Once again he reverently held her, one weighty mass in each hand, while his lips and teeth and tongue tormented her skin, tightening the little nubs until they were so hard they had to be painful. Her chest rose and fell before him with her panting breath, her passion—her lust—rising, building, growing. He gave one last nip—part playful, part predatory—before he moved even lower, tongue trailing below her cleavage, swirling twice around her navel, delving ever lower to that most intimate of places.

Despite all the stories Isabela liked to tell, Hrodwynn either hadn't paid attention or hadn't believed the lady pirate. She was completely unprepared for his onslaught, for his physical tongue-lashing. As he bent lower, as his mouth became buried in a triangular patch of dark red hair, she had gasped and bucked and nearly ripped his ears off. He would have laughed if his mouth hadn't been full, her response was so enthusiastic, so untouched, so pure, so reactive, so virginal.

Fasts vass, was he actually going to do this? Was he going to take her virginity? Was he going to be the first to impale her velvet softness with his hardened shaft? Was he going to be the first to feel her shudder around him, feel her body move mindlessly as she lost control, hear her cries of ecstasy? His tongue fought through the mass of curls and discovered that tiny hidden bud.

Hrodwynn gasped again, her legs flailing around his shoulders, seeking purchase, seeking leverage, though he couldn't tell if she was trying to push him away or hold him in place. Her fingers remained in his hair, however, tangling and snarling the unruly strands, and firmly holding him to her. He inhaled deeply, tasting her scent, the muskiness of sweat and womanhood, with a light touch of something floral that he couldn't place—probably her soap. He craned his neck to look up, to catch a glimpse of her face while his tongue continued.

Her eyes were slits, glazed and unseeing, lost within the moment, the sensations, the newness of it all, as if she were coming alive for the first time. He pulled one arm down there with him, knowing it wouldn't always be so wonderful, wanting to prepare her and yet wanting to keep it pleasurable for as long as possible. His fingertips stroked her, swollen and already slick, in long and deliberate movements. She moaned again, her hips tilting and wiggling, instinctively trying to get him inside, to get him to fill her, to get him to fulfill her. He was too careful, however, too cautious, too experienced. His long fingers barely penetrated, first one finger and then a second, letting her get used to the actual sensation of being spread open by another.

This all was so very different than any other partner he'd been with recently. Hawke had been male, of course, the feel was nothing like he felt now. And Isabela, though female, had been far too experienced, her control over herself practiced and almost too easy. But this was honest. This was visceral. This was Hrodwynn, young and fresh and willing and new. And his.

Oh, Maker, he prayed, if only she would say the words, just once, just to assure him that this was right, that this was what she truly wanted…

"…Fen…?" she panted, unable to voice his full name, her body beginning to quiver. "Fe-fe-fe-en!"

Wolf, she called him, and a wolf he was, devouring her innocence as he would devour her flesh.

He redoubled his efforts, feeling her legs wrap around him tighter, feeling her fingers pulling at his hair. His tongue flickered faster, circling its prey, chasing the little nub down into its rabbit hole. She gasped his name again, breathy and louder at the same time, right before it happened. Her breath stopped in her chest, her face screwed up in an expression so painful it was bliss, or so blissful it was pained. Her hips arched upwards, pressing into him, merging them together. Then time seemed to hesitate, suspended as she was, hanging from his shoulders. And he waited, only a heartbeat, but it seemed an eternity.

Hrodwynn moaned, soft and bleating like a lamb, like the cry of an infant being born, a shudder tearing through her entire being, body and soul. Then her hips began rocking mindlessly, her legs spasming, her hands fisting his hair. He rode her waves of pleasure, continuing his lingual ministrations, easing his pace to match her slowing convulsions. At long last she moaned another sigh, muscles turning to goo, fingers slipping away. One leg fell off his shoulder, and he caught it to lay it gently on the blanket. He gave one or two final licks before he moved away.

Dear Maker, but she was beautiful! She lay there, completely at ease, completely relaxed, her skin glowing in the light of the fire, sweaty and flushed and moist. He didn't touch her, didn't rouse her, but allowed her to feel, to revel in the euphoria, to keep her eyes closed and hold on to that climactic moment for as long as she wished. He watched as she took a deep breath, her breasts lifting temptingly, her lips parting invitingly, but he kept an iron will on his own person. Slowly at first, starting with a twitch and increasing to a flutter, her eyelashes parted and her lids lifted to reveal two very bright, very glazed emerald orbs.

"Fenris?"

"Avanna," he answered. He was lying next to her, propped up on an elbow so he could watch her reactions.

A cute little furrow appeared between her eyebrows. "…what?"

"Avanna," he repeated, "It means, 'Hello'."

She smiled, the confusing falling away, the blush deepening on her cheeks, and responded, "Avanna." A giggle escaped after the greeting, and she had to fight to keep it from continuing. "I, er, I mean, that was a, ah…"

"Yes," he agreed.

She giggled again, her chest bouncing. "I never, um, imagined, it would be, ah, so, ah," she giggled again, breathy and soft. Slightly in horror—slightly in surprise—over her lack of self control, she covered her offensive mouth with a hand. "Excuse me, I don't know why I'm acting so silly."

His long fingers snaked out to swipe a wisp of her hair away from the corner of one eye. "Because of how you feel. Don't be embarrassed. Enjoy it."

She dropped her hand. "You mean, you're not thinking that I'm laughing at you or something like that?"

He shook his head.

"What are you thinking?" The giggles were gone, but the smile remained, deep and powerful and true.

"Now, this is embarrassing," he admitted somewhat sheepishly, "But I'm thinking about how it was me that gave you such pleasure." In a flash his expression changed, turning feral and predatory.

She smirked, "Prideful, aren't you?"

"But deserving," he countered, his fingers straying downwards, dipping between her thighs, finding the moisture from before.

"Ah, yes," she moaned, closing her eyes. It lasted for only a moment, her gaze returning to his face. "But you didn't, um, you know."

He shook his head. "No, I didn't. This was all for you."

She tilted her head, batted her bright emerald eyes once, and asked, "So, it's your turn now, right?"

He hesitated, the doubt and fear and uncertainty and disbelief…

"Fen," she sighed, touching his cheek. "Fenris, I want this. All of it. All of you. Now is not the time to stop. Please."

He let go of his last reservation. He didn't speak, didn't know the words to say, but turned his head to press his lips into the palm of her hand. His own hand had remained lower, touching the sensitive skin, stroking to either side, callouses drawing slowly across her still swollen flesh. Very quickly she responded, very quickly she grew excited once more.

"Fen…" her tone held warning, as if she was fearful he might make her come again before allowing himself the pleasure. To compound her threat, one of her hands reached down to the apex of his legs, to find his swollen flesh, to stroke the length.

He hissed, not from pain but from pleasure, encouraging her actions. "Tighter," he whispered.

"I, er, wouldn't want to hurt you or anything," she said, a little apprehensively.

"You won't," he gave his head a quick shake, then lowered it to kiss her lips. "I'll let you know if you do, but you won't. I'm used to a certain level of pain."

"Doesn't it…" she stopped suddenly, biting her lip, but she had to ask, "Wouldn't that keep you from enjoying this? Pain, that is."

"Some pain, yes," he felt fresh sweat erupt from his pores, her hand so warm. "But some pain can feel like pleasure."

She stopped stroking him, her brow lifted with disbelief. "I don't see how…"

He didn't let her finish, not quite ready yet himself, not wanting her to stop or cease her movements. He bent over her chest and nipped his teeth lightly at her skin. She gave a surprised gasp, and instantly the bud hardened. "That's how," he panted.

She was still a little doubtful, but as the evidence was obvious to her, both in her own reaction and his, she tightened her fist, making an even smaller tunnel for him. He thrust, short and jerky movements, while his fingers continued their dance across her skin. She wanted to stroke him herself, up and down his full length, but damn it his fingers were distracting her too much.

Fenris watched her closely, intent on seeing those little signs that said she was aroused, planning to take her close to her edge before he took her. He wanted her to get as much enjoyment as possible, fearing what was to come, fearing the inevitable, and praying she would remain responsive and open afterwards.

She gave a tiny moan, her body shuddering, her hand spasming for a moment, and he knew there could be no more stalling. He pulled himself out of her grasp, eliciting a tiny whimper of protest from her. The next moment he parted her thighs with his knee, and she realized what was about to happen. Her breathing increased, whether from anticipation or fear or passion he couldn't tell. But she didn't protest, she didn't pull away, she didn't push, she didn't show any sign that she had changed her mind. His second knee joined the first, her legs parting willingly. He settled himself on top of her, lined up with her center, while the fingers of one hand reached down between them.

Hrodwynn bucked as soon as he touched her, not fully understanding what she wanted, but knowing instinctively that he could provide it, that he could fulfill the dearth that ate at her soul. She needed to feel whole, complete, and he held what was missing from her being. His fingers spread the wetness to either side, preparing for an easier passage, endeavoring until the last moment to make this as pleasurable for her as possible. At last she'd had enough, however, her body humming with lust, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.

Venhedis, he sighed to himself. The next moment he took his hand off her, lined himself up, and slowly and deliberately pushed.

She tensed a moment, arching her back, biting her lip, fingers gripping even harder. He didn't relent, not yet, not if she could handle this, not of she was still willing. He pushed in even further, feeling her muscles clench almost painfully. Then she shook her head, her face turning blotchy, her hands moving to shove at his chest.

"No."

"Do you want me to stop moving, or…?"

"Out," she panted, "Just pull out. Please. It's not… I don't… just… out!"

He was already moving, doing as commanded, shifting his whole body downwards before pushing up onto his hands and knees. His eyes never left her face, concern etched into his brow, as he tried to reason out what she was feeling and thinking. She continued to pant, not quite crying, but her hand covered her face, trying to hide her eyes just in case.

"Amatus?" he queried, worried and concerned. When she didn't answer right away, he took a moment to check, and there was perhaps a slight tint of pink, faint in the muted light, running his length.

"I'm alright," she said, her tone pouty and childish, and more than a little mad over her silly overreaction. "It just… was uncomfortable… just for a moment… it felt… not wrong, but not right… I can't explain it!"

"Then don't try," he said calmly, "There's no need."

She half moaned, half mumbled something incoherent beneath her breath—and beneath her hand. She thought she heard Fenris answer her with some sort of chuckle, but the next moment she felt his lips press against the hand covering her face. "I'll be right back," he assured her. She felt the heat from his body fade away, the duvet pull and tug, the faint vibrations of footsteps through the floorboards.

Curious, she lifted her hand to peek, but as suspected he was no longer by her side. She huffed a little, still pouting, and scolded herself for acting so silly. It wasn't as if it hurt, after all, not like other pain she'd felt. But it had been uncomfortable, and the further in he pushed the more uncomfortable it had become, and she'd panicked…

Hoping to distract herself from the embarrassing train of thought, she glanced around to see where he had gone. It took a moment, and in the end she'd had to duck to peek beneath the couch, but she finally found his feet across the room, standing somewhere near his dresser. He shifted them, lifting one up to balance on the ball of the foot before setting it back down. Then she heard the gentle drip of water, and the feet turned to come back to her.

Her expression was curious, and a little passive, as he came around the corner of the couch and back into her sight. He was holding a small towel, damp with fresh water, in one hand. Wordlessly he knelt beside her, taking his time, taking care, to tenderly wipe away any mess, mindful of any soreness or overstimulated areas. When he was finished he tossed the towel aside, out of sight, and smiled down at her. "How are you feeling?"

"More embarrassed than anything," she admitted. "I don't mean to act this way…"

"Sh," he stopped her babbling without a word. When he was sure she would be silent, he settled himself down next to her again, grabbing a pillow and bunching it up beneath his head. Then he took hold of her shoulders and pulled her towards him, draping her over his chest as he had done earlier. "You feel what you feel; there's nothing wrong with that," he explained, stroking the back of her arm.

"But I did the one thing I promised myself I wasn't going to do." Idly she traced her fingers across his skin, staying away from any markings, ignoring the fact that she lay on several of them already.

"Which was what, exactly?" he pressed. "Lose your virginity? Feel regret?"

"I don't regret it," she countered, a little spunkily.

"Good to hear," he sighed, his own fears fading. "So, what did you do that was so wrong? Feel a little pain? Bleed a little? There's nothing wrong with that; it's quite common, you know."

"I know, but I just…" she sighed, finding it difficult to put her thoughts into words, the day not quite turning out as she had hoped, "I suppose I always thought those were just stories, meant to scare girls into keeping themselves virginal until their wedding night or something. So I wasn't expecting anything to happen. And I sort of…" she shrugged her shoulder beneath his hand, "…sort of got a little scared maybe, because something did happen, even though it wasn't very much, but then… maybe I panicked a little… I don't know!"

He kissed her dark red hair, nuzzling into the thick strands, inhaling the scent of her soap and her sweat. She didn't have to continue to talk about it, not if she didn't want to, and he tried to move them past it, finish the topic, before they lost this opportunity. "It's over now."

"I know," she sighed wistfully.

He thought he heard sorrow in her voice, loss, perhaps even the regret over losing her virginity that she had denied. His arm tightened around her shoulders, his hand gently squeezing, trying to give her reassurance.

"But not for good, right?" she asked, almost sounding eager.

The sudden reversal took him by surprise. He hummed, trying to sound neutral, not quite sure what she meant.

She pulled back, leveraging herself onto her elbow, so she could see his face and not the rib-like markings under his chin. "It's over, that part of it is, but the rest isn't, not for good. We're still going to, um, continue, aren't we?"

She could feel his heartbeat beneath her hand, growing in strength and speed. "If you like," she felt his chest vibrate with his words, a little sympathetic tremble echoing through her own chest.

"I like," she agreed, before realizing how childish it sounded. "I mean, I'd like that, very much. I want it, Fen, I want this, the whole experience. Please, don't deny me."

It took half a moment, half a scary moment during which she leaned over him, unable to read his expression. "I won't," he promised.

Relief swept through her; she hadn't fucked things up after all. "So, um, do we just pick up where we left off, or…"

He chuckled again, and she discovered she loved the sound. His hand reached up to touch her cheek, to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, and a second time when it wouldn't stay. "We'll have to recapture the mood, first."

"Oh, right, and how do we do that?" Her fingernail made a circle on his chest, mindful of a curl of lyrium that came a little too close.

She watched an ebony brow lift onto his forehead. "Are you making fun?"

"Erm," she eloquently stalled for time while she examined her actions, her words, and decided he might have a point. She could feel the heat spreading lightly over her cheeks as she answered, "No, I didn't mean to." She leaned over him, the tip of her tongue flicking out to join her finger. "I guess I could do something like this."

She knew she was on the right track when she felt him twitch against her thigh. "That's… not bad," he agreed, his hands spreading out over her hips. The pressure of his fingers changed, and she followed his lead, allowing him to guide her up and across to straddle his lap.

"How's this?" she asked, leaning back, taking his hands in hers, entwining their fingers.

"Now you're showing off."

She laughed softly, twitching her hips, grinding herself lightly over him.

"Of course, in this position, I have the advantage," he stated.

"Advantage?" she questioned, not wanting to be shown up.

"Yes," he moved their hands across her bosom, brushing across the sensitive skin, inadvertently—or intentionally, it was hard to tell—making her touch herself. "I have free and clear access to your whole person, while I myself remain out of reach. Advantage, me."

She wasn't sure of his reasoning, thinking the person feeling the most pleasure should have the advantage, not the person giving the most pleasure. Yet she couldn't deny, he was able to move their hands into some interesting places, while most of him remained untouched. "Some advantage."

"You can't imagine," he agreed enigmatically.

She gave a strange noise, somewhere between a whimper and a grunt and a lustful moan, as one pair of their hands fell down to that patch of curly, dark red hair.

"You should see your face right now," he hummed, "Your expression… it's so beautiful."

She had no idea what he was saying, her focus gone before the touch of his hand, their hands, on that tiny bud that seemed to be directly linked to some secret inner part of her, perhaps her very soul. She trembled like a leaf in the wind, her chest hummed with distant thunder, her insides grew hot and moist and aching. That new feeling returned, that aching need, that dearth of soul. And she knew he could fill it, he had filled it, and this time he would complete it.

His cock was hardening by the moment, straightening itself only to find it was at the wrong angle. She could fix that, she could shift around and allow it to slip forwards, but where would be the fun in that? Instead she continued to swirl her hips over him, to let her moisture drip out and cover the light patch of soft ebony fur at the base. He tried to free his hands, to fix the awkward angle himself, but she held him fast.

"What is this?" he panted, sweat beading at his temples. "Are you some sort of desire demon sent here to torment me?"

"Not a demon, no," she tilted her head, continuing to slide and swirl, pleasing them both, "But I do like having you under my spell."

"In case you haven't noticed already," he was having trouble focusing, his breathing heavier, "I am completely at your whim. Everything I've done, has been at your pleasure."

She stopped short at that statement, amazed and a little in awe, because it was so true. He had made sure this actually was what she wanted before they even started. He had brought her to that pinnacle first. He had been as gentle and as caring as one could possibly be while entering her for the first time. And he had even cleaned up the small mess that had been made. "It has, hasn't it?" she agreed, but he wasn't paying attention to her.

"Venhedis…" he grimaced, his eyes closed, his teeth bared.

"Is something wrong?" she asked, suddenly thinking he might be in pain, the markings touched too hard or her hips pulling a sensitive patch of skin. She stopped, leaning forward, some of her weight on their hands, her face hovering over his.

"Amatus," he moaned, shaking his head and opening his eyes. "No, nothing's wrong, only hold still a moment or two."

She smirked, looking down on him, "No longer your advantage, is it? Not when I can do this…" She lifted herself off his lap, settled behind his cock, pushed it down onto his lap, and slid forwards.

"Fasta vass! Hold still, you minx!"

She laughed, unrepentantly, and kept moving.

Fenris let out a feral growl, teeth still barred. First time or no, he was going to have to teach her a lesson: don't tease an untamed animal. It was cheating, undoubtedly, but that had never stopped him before—he invoked the lyrium in his hands and phased out of her grip. She gave a small sound of consternation, her eyes flashing brightly in the muted light, hands falling to the floor on either side of him as she became forced to catch herself. In doing so, she tipped forwards, lifting her hips just enough. Suddenly she stopped, keeping herself very still, kneeling over him in a very open and vulnerable position. Advantage, Fenris. Again.

She could feel his member down there, just the tip of it, thick and hot and right on the edge. Oh, Maker, but she wanted him inside her. Yet she didn't move, she couldn't, hesitating without knowing why. This was what she wanted, emotionally, mentally, physically. And she was sure he loved her; his actions this afternoon alone proved it. So why did she hesitate? Why did he?

"Amatus," he moaned, his deep green eyes sweeping over her face, the firelight flickering inside them, making them seem alive and warm and content.

She didn't know the word, but somehow she knew the meaning. Hearing that new yet familiar word, watching his lips move with such love and life, feeling the sweat and heat of his body beneath her, seeing his eyes so full of color and light…

Slowly she moved, holding his gaze, loving how his lip curled into a satisfied snarl, loving how keenly she felt him fill her, fulfill her, satisfy that dearth of soul, ease her ache. She felt opened up, like a rose blossom spreading its petals for the first time. She didn't stop, didn't pause, her movement leisurely but consistent, until she had enveloped him.

Hrodwynn was sitting up by this point, having to lean backwards to get the best angle, their hands once more entwined, helping her to keep her balance. She held them together, their bodies still, simply enjoying the moment of feeling each other—touching each other—as never before.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, perhaps a little apprehension remaining from earlier.

She nodded her head, her emerald eyes alight, her Agreggio Pavali lips parted with her breath. "Yes, Fen, everything is alright. Better than alright."

"Keep calling me wolf, and you'll see how long that lasts."

"Wolf?" she tilted her head, not understanding. "I've been calling you 'Fen;' I thought it would be short for Fenris…"

"Fen means wolf," he clarified, "Fenris is the diminutive."

"What? That's what your name means? Little wolf?" She flashed him that spunky smile, wiggling her hips ever so slightly. "There's nothing little about you."

He growled, like his namesake, though a little playfully. "Keep calling me Fen, and I'll have to start calling you…"

"Not Wynnie," she said with finality.

"Definitely," he agreed, giving a small thrust with his hips, bouncing her slightly, just to let her know he could, and to turn her focus away from anything unpleasant. "Hrod sounds too masculine, however."

She giggled, "Quite. How about… what is that word you've been using… Ama—teur?"

"Amatus," he repeated, his voice a low growl, his muscles shaking beneath her. She felt him, twitching, eager to move, eager to finish. "It means… you are loved… by me…"

A flush of heat swept through her entire being, from her toenails to the ends of her hair, at the tender endearment. "I like it. Amatus." She shifted again, sliding up and down a little, enjoying the touch of him inside her.

A change came over him, thrilling her and exciting her and scaring her all at the same time. She gasped as he sat up, his arms snaking around her torso, holding her fast. "Fen?" her voice wobbled slightly, with passion or fear she didn't bother to determine.

"Put your legs behind me," he commanded. And she obeyed without question.

She should have questioned. The position was to his advantage yet again, she quickly realized. Without her legs beneath her, she had no leverage to control their union, no ability to set their pace. And the angle allowed him even deeper access; she was sure she felt him hit the back wall, run out of room, something. Thankfully it appeared he had no more length to bury, their bodies pressed so tightly together that their sweat and heat mingled. Still she tried to shift back, give herself some space, her hands on his shoulders. His hands around her, however, kept her firmly in place, kept him firmly in place. And when he rocked his hips, pulling out and pushing in the merest amount…

Oh, Blessed Sweet Andraste, this was heavenly. She couldn't remember why she was pushing him away, instead her hands gripping him to hold him fast. Her neck felt weak and her head felt heavy, lolling back and exposing her throat. Like a wolf he pounced on the exposed flesh, his maw covering a throbbing artery, teeth grazing her skin. She moaned—somehow that tiny bud was being rubbed against by their tightly pressed bodies, and even with only minimal movement, she was growing close once more.

The moment came, the moment when everything stopped, when there was no sound, no sight, no heartbeat, no passage of time—that one, perfect, infinite moment—that prelude to euphoric bliss—that delicious anticipation… Then it struck, hitting her like a lightning spell, convulsing her body, taking away her control, her thought, her breath. She spasmed in his embrace, her body jerking, writhing, all but slipping from his grasp.

Dimly, on some sub level of her brain, she was aware of him, of his actions. He was all but growling, rocking even harder against her, almost desperate. As she came down from those heavenly heights, he shot upwards, his lips curled into a feral snarl, his eyes glazed and distant, his breath coming in soft pants punctuated by his thrusts. She allowed him to savor his own moment, mostly because she was within the afterglow of her own moment.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed, only that time had once more resumed its unrelenting march towards the future. She felt the billowy softness of a pillow beneath her shoulders, the warm and smooth fabric of the comforter cradling her limbs. She heard the sizzle and pop of a log on the fire, the muted noise of traffic in the busy street below the windows. But the one thing she wanted most, the touch of the man who loved her, was absent.

"Fen?" she queried, even as she opened her eyes and leveraged herself onto her elbows. But he wasn't on the comforter beside her. For a moment she feared, her heart skipping a beat, wondering where he could have gotten to so quickly. Reaching out her hand, however, she felt the blankets were still warm from his body heat, so wherever he had gone it hadn't been that long ago. "Fen?" she called again, shifting around to her hands and knees, her vision exploring further into the murky room.

He wasn't that far away. A few feet beyond the corner of the couch he crouched down on one knee, a fist against the floorboards, his head bowed. He looked like he had tried to stand up, stand up and stagger away, only to have fallen to the floor.

"Fenris?" Her voice was softer than the muted daylight. Cautiously she approached him, one hand barely touching his shoulder. The flesh beneath her fingertips was heated. "Fenris?"

He turned his face to her, his eyes haunted, as if his vision was suffused with horrors stacked upon horrors. His muscles trembled at her touch, but he didn't pull away, only spoke a single word in a small, quiet voice, "…Leto…"

"What was that?" she asked, thinking he might have spoken something in Tevene.

He blinked, his eyes coming back into focus. He looked at her without recognition, however, his expression lost, in pain, confused. His lips fell apart but no words came out, only an anguished sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan of pain. He blinked again, squeezing his eyes as if trying to clear them, gulping down a lungful of air before he attempted speech.

"Let… go…"

So that was what he had said, she thought to herself. To her it had at first sounded as if he had spoken in Tevene, another word like avanna or amatus, and she was relieved to discover she had been mistaken. Yet the words were so choked, so desperate, so painful she instantly dropped her hand as if she'd been burned. "What is it?" she asked, growing even more concerned. "What's wrong? Tell me, please, let me help you."

"I…" he seemed to recognize her now, his face filling with longing and need. "I… can't…"

"You're scaring me," she whispered, no longer touching him, but remaining steadfastly by his side. "What happened? Please, Fenris, tell me, don't shut me out, not again, I'm here for you, remember?"

He continued to stare at her, panting through an open mouth, his eyes shifting back to those sights only he could see. "Remember… I… I remembered… I remembered it… flashes here and there… crashing into my head all at once and I couldn't stop it I couldn't understand it wouldn't stop!" His rant digressed into a growl of rage, his hand reaching out to grasp a nearby table by the base. His powerful legs bunched and stretched as he straightened up, pulling the table with him, lifting it off the floor. He slung the table across the room to land in a heap of firewood against the far wall.

It seemed all his rage had been spent in that single destructive act, but he was dealing with more than rage. He stood, shoulders heaving with his breath, fists clenched at his sides, toes gripping the ground.

"What are you saying?" Hrodwynn stood, slowly, warily, as if approaching a dangerous animal, a common state in dealing with Fenris. She walked around him towards his front, so she wouldn't approach him from his blind side, and asked, "What do you mean, 'remembered'?"

"I remembered," his voice was a soft moan, "My life from before."

"Your… your amnesia?" she struggled to suppress the stab of jealousy that tried to pry its way into her heart. "You've broken through it?"

"I did…"

She swallowed, trying to feel happy for him. "That's a good thing, isn't it?"

He shook his head. He had been refusing to look at her, though at least he didn't turn away. "It's gone again. I can remember that I remembered that I do have a sister, but I can't remember anything about her now. If that even makes any sense…"

She felt guilty and ashamed for the relief that swept through her. It wasn't fair—they had this in common, this lack of memory, of a family, of a past. If he got his back, but she remained cut off and alone… No, that wasn't fair, either. Not when she saw how deeply it affected him. She pushed away the last pang of jealousy and screwed up her courage. "It does, Fenris, it makes sense. And it's a good thing."

He finally looked at her, disbelievingly, yet wanting to hope.

"Think about it this way," she dared herself to touch him, setting herself directly in front of him and placing her hands lightly on his shoulders, "Your memory came back. Even if it was just for a minute or two, it did come back to you. That means it's not gone, not for good. Your memories are still in there," she reached up and brushed a lock of unruly white hair back from his forehead, absently noting three white dots of lyrium she hadn't noticed before, "Somewhere inside your head, and if they came back once, they might come back again."

"How?" he pleaded for an answer, for help, unable to think clearly for himself. "How did this happen? Why today? I don't understand."

"I don't know," she answered. "Maybe it was because of Hadriana, something she said or just seeing her again triggered this episode. Or maybe it was this sister Hadriana mentioned, thinking about her helped you to remember her, even if it was just for a moment or two. I don't know," she wrapped her arms around him, and was grateful he didn't pull away. "But it did happen. And if it happened once, it can happen again. Whatever has been keeping your memories at bay as been weakened. It will break. Eventually. It must."

She could feel the war inside him, the struggle for independence battling against his need to be with someone—with her. In the end he gave in to his need and returned her embrace, clinging to her, crushing her into his soul. "I don't know what to do," he admitted, his chin resting on her shoulder.

She pressed the side of her face into his hair, "We'll start with this sister of yours. We know Hadriana wasn't lying, trying to save her own neck. Your sister does exist, because you remembered her. Maybe, if we find her, if you were reunited with her, it might trigger more memories. Where did Hadriana say she was living?"

"Qarinus," he answered, "Working as a servant for a Magister Ahriman."

Hrodwynn pulled back, just far enough to see his face and flash him her spunkiest smile, "Then that's where we'll start."

"We?" he repeated.

"The two of us," she affirmed. "We're together now, you and me, no more shutting me out, remember?"

"That," he sighed, his hands cupping her face, feeling emboldened and empowered by her presence, "That is the one thing I could never forget." His lips descended to claim hers.

Something burst inside her. The gentle explosion didn't hurt or sting, not like a broken blister or a festering wound. Rather it was like the way a rainbow shot across the sky after a storm, or the way a seedling shoved aside the earth to reach the sunlight. It was bright and warm and new and full of promise. And though unable to fit description and mysterious in intention, she instinctively knew…

…this was love.