THANK YOU TO ALL MY LOYAL READERS, both seen and unseen. Special shout-outs to all of my reviewers, but most especially for TIM, yujacha, Sannenschein and toyvox.
SORRY this last chapter took so effing long. I was sad to end the story and because of that I didn't want to do it and my procrastination led to temporary writers' block (of this story, anyway). To those who haven't yet, check out Fearlessness, which is now in the M-rated smut section next door to this fellow.
Incidentally, it's really entertaining to write fluff for a couple that's not very fluffy. Like writing Wash and Zoe on Firefly, except more.
Warnings: smut and fluff (I know), language, violence, angst, endgame spoilers
Fenris wakes up alone.
He sits up with his heart racing when he stretches a languid, sleepy arm to pull Hawke against him as morning light creeps into the room and finds the bed empty. His clothes have been folded neatly on a chair beside the fireplace and his sword and armor rest against the same chair, all scrubbed clean of the blood from yesterday's battle. She is nowhere to be seen and he struggles out of the sheets to search through the bedroom as he pulls his tunic and leggings on haphazardly. He opens the door and charges out into the empty mansion, staring with growing panic at the great hall where her manservant usually stands watch over the house. But the dwarf and his simple son are gone as well, he realizes when he rushes down the stairs.
As he stands, feeling dizzy, he hears a steady thunking and a hissing noise. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. He follows the sound through the rooms of the estate's lower floor, down a corridor from the dining room and into the kitchen. Fenris stares around, confused. He's never been in the Hawke's kitchen and in fact only entered her dining room for the first time last night. Shelves of stored materials stretch along the length of the right wall, housing all of the dishes, pots and pans and assorted cooking utensils as well as dry goods ranging from flour and sugar and spices to oils and sauces, potatoes, wines, bread, beans, coffee, nuts and dried fruits. There is a large oven on the back wall and an ice box beside a simple wooden table on the left side. The room is divided in half by a free-standing counter that contains a stove with several burners.
The counter is strewn with cooking materials, from vegetables and fruits to a bowl of dough, with innumerable spoons and knives and miscellaneous utensils that he's unfamiliar with. The thunking rhythm ceases when he enters and he watches, entranced, as Hawke scrapes diced onion from the wooden board she chopped it on into a skillet full of eggs with a sharp knife. He notes, with dismay, that she's dressed in the leather leggings and jerkin she wears under her armor.
"About time you woke up," she says, glancing at him as she lowers the chopping board and the knife. She doesn't smile or offer him any other form of greeting, but he can smell bacon and biscuits cooking and the egg mixture looks compelling as he draws up behind her at the counter. He wraps an arm around her waist and presses his lips absently against her neck. Hawke lets her head fall back against his shoulder and her fingers lace through his on her stomach for a moment. Then she pries him loose and says, "Go get yourself a cup of coffee and stop distracting me or our breakfast will burn."
Fenris chuckles and pulls back, surprised at the faint chill that runs over him when he lets her go. But only for now, he thinks, turning toward the coffee pot she's set on the counter. "I did not know you could cook," he comments as he pours a mug of black liquid and sips it, watching her over the rim.
She sprinkles grated cheese from a nearby bowl over the eggs and folds it in with the onions using a spatula. "I'm very good at chopping things," she answers flatly. Her eyes catch his and he sees a twinkle of humor.
"It smells very good," he adds, drifting back toward her with his coffee mug pressed tight in between his palms. His gaze flicks down as she uses the spatula to flip several thick pieces of bacon over in a second pan. It sizzles and sends a wave of scent toward him and his stomach growls loudly. When Hawke lifts a brow at him he smirks and says, "I am eager to try it."
"I see that," she says, waving him back with the spatula when he tries to slip up behind her again. The flat, greasy part slaps his forearm. "Go. Sit at the table," she says, pointing with her kitchen-weapon. "We have a long day ahead."
"Where are your servants?" Fenris asks, raising his eyebrows. He slinks toward the table feeling irritated that she does not want him near.
Hawke sighs. "Orana is out running some errands. Bodahn and Sandal have the day off." She turns away for a second and whirls back with two plates in her hand, setting them side by side on the counter. He watches, fascinated at her efficient movements as she divides the eggs between the plates, heaping most onto one of them. Biscuits and bacon soon follow and she saunters around the counter to set his dish in front of him with a thump. "Eat up. We're going to the Bone Pit after this."
He burns his tongue on the eggs and shovels them down regardless, eyeing her over his food as she sits down across from him. "Have dragons eaten the miners again?" he mumbles, stuffing a few pieces of bacon in his mouth.
"Maker, Fenris, take your time. You eat like Carver did as a small boy," she snaps, but her eyes have a certain spark to them, that tenderness that lurks beneath the viciousness. She makes surgical cuts into her food, even things that do not require cutting, and eats small, controlled bites. But she pauses with her fork midway to her mouth to add, "Likely eaten. But it might be a cave-in. Hubert doesn't sully his hands with such things as scouts."
"Do we have to leave immediately?" he asks, pausing between bites to smirk at her. Her eyes flash over her responding smirk and he resumes eating at his previous pace.
When breakfast is done she takes the dishes to the sink and begins to clean them in warm, soapy water. Fenris follows, stepping up behind her and gripping her hips. He growls in her ear as he pulls her back against him and she gasps so quietly he can barely hear it. His mouth trails over her neck as his hands fumble her belt loose. She turns to kiss him, arching her neck so her back remains pressed against his chest and he grinds his hips against her backside, sliding her leggings to her knees. Once freed, he tilts her forward enough to find her slick center with his hands, then his length. Her soapy fingers trail back against his neck and then tangle in his hair as he presses inside of her.
They gasp against the sink. He can't decide where to place his hands and so they rove, gripping her hips and caressing her breasts, trailing down her stomach and touching that sensitive nub of flesh that makes her shiver. Were he inclined to playing music, she might feel like a finely-crafted instrument he's gaining mastery over. Fenris knows which touches on which places will draw which noises from her lips. A hitching gasp when his tongue trails the tendons of her neck, a tiny moan when his thumb flicks across her nipple, and the vicious half-scream half-shudder when he thrusts into her. His pace quickens and he can see one of her hands braced against the sink, his name a constant gasp on her mouth. She shivers over him and he feels the waves of her climax drawing him to his. He grips her hips hard enough to bruise as he seizures and empties himself inside of her.
"Marian," he moans, slumping against her back and kissing the side of her neck and face, wherever he can reach. Regretful, he pulls out again, but he turns her to face him, kissing her and wrapping her in his arms. He clings to her, to their kiss, until she draws back in his arms. Still he keeps a steely grip on her, afraid to lose hold of her again.
Hawke stares at him, her hair mussed and cheeks flushed, clothing askew and eyes at once fierce and gentle. "Is everything all right?" she asks, a faint frown crossing her brows.
Fenris reaches up to smooth her dark hair back into place and lets his fingers trail down her face. "Yes, Hawke. Everything is fine," he murmurs. "Better than fine," he smirks, pressing a final kiss to her swollen lips. She relaxes in his arms and kisses him back, clever fingers weaving into his hair and giving it a brief tug that makes him groan. He draws back and smirks at her before she can tempt him to drag her upstairs and announce their reconciliation by not leaving her bedroom for several days.
Instead, with a breath to calm himself and a step to separate their bodies, he says, "I believe we have an appointment to kill some dragons."
Three hours later he regrets saying this as he watches the massive dragon grip Aveline in its teeth and shake her steadily. As he dodges one of the massive claws he slashes his blade into the thick hide he sees the guard's shield wedged in between the teeth enough to prevent death, the arm holding it in place likely broken. The abomination shouts something behind him and suddenly lightning buzzes down from every angle. He sees Hawke dart behind the dragon, flipping over the massive tail and slashing bleeding bites into the thrashing appendage. Fenris activates his tattoos in time to avoid being slammed in the face by a massive wing, but the wind it brings sends him skidding back several feet, well within range of the claws. A magical shield springs around him just in time and he finds he can drive his sword through it, into the beast's massive foot until it protrudes from the other side.
Just as he stabs the dragon's foot, Aveline, in its jaws, manages to twist her sword arm up and into its eye with a horrible crack of metal as one fang digs through her plate armor and blood gushes from her shoulder. The beast drops the guard abruptly and she manages to keep hold of her weapon, widening the gouge she's made. Fenris clings to his own blade and is jerked forward when the dragon thrashes in pain and fury. He, too, tears it free and leaves the gash greater as Aveline is healed and takes the brunt of the ancient creature's fury. Where is Hawke? He sees a layer of ice form over the dragon's snout and then over his own weapon and hears the mage's harsh breathing somewhere behind him but he's more concerned with finding Hawke than with that mage's well-being.
Dragging his sword through the wing before it can beat down and gust him away again, Fenris attempts to circle around the dragon's flank. The tail snaps up into his chest and he hears a crack. As he flies through the air, managing to rip his sword through the wing again, cutting tendons, he glimpses Hawke using her daggers to climb up the dragon's back like a mountain. Then he slams to the dirt, coughing blood, and feels the burn of magic as the abomination heals him. He doesn't wait for the spell to end, already climbing to his feet and breathing heavily as he runs back in with a roar.
With flashes of lightning and ice and the clangs of metal, Fenris, Aveline, and the abomination keep this terrible dragon occupied for the next crucial seconds. Suddenly Hawke sits atop its head, her daggers slashing down viciously into its brain. She does not hesitate, gripping it's head in her knees as she stabs and slices, blood and gore flying all over the place. The dragon shrieks and snarls, whipping its head around. Fenris lunges forward and drives his sword into the chest scales, phasing the Blade of Mercy with his tattoos to ensure it can pierce the creature's armored scales. He sees Hawke flipping over to land without fail on the creature, both of them stabbing it until, with a final flail, she backflips away and lands in the dirt just as he leaps out of the way of the falling corpse.
"I'll talk to Hubert tomorrow," Hawke announces, examining the handsome red leather armor she's found among the dragon's stash. Her eyes meet his and he feels a wolfish grin beginning. He whirls away before any of the others can see it, falling in step beside her. They don't speak for the entirety of the walk back to Hightown, but he follows her directly into her house.
The moment her door closes they fall on one another with eager kisses and her palm presses against his groin, rubbing the hardness through the material of his pants before reaching to unfasten them, freeing his length. He strips off her leather armor and tosses her to the bed in her tunic, crawling over her as she reaches to take him in her hand. He gasps as her fingers run over him, barely seeing the ferocious glitter in her smirk as his eyes flutter. Before he can lean over and kiss her, she shifts down the bed so his knees are on the outsides of her shoulders and her breath plays over his hard, bare flesh.
Her gaze flicks up to his face and when she licks her lips, he feels the brush of her tongue against the slit at the tip to gather a drop of moisture. He shudders and moans, one hand moving to cup her cheek. "Marian," he whispers, relishing that when he says her name she sighs a bit and it whispers over his length, firing the nerves and making him twitch, jumping against her lips again. He grits his teeth and lies, "You don't have to..."
"Hmmm," she says, smirking up at him when he hisses at the sensation it produces. One of her hands grips the base of him and the other runs over his thigh. "What if I want to?" she asks him. Her tongue darts out now and licks very deliberately along the underside of his length, from base to tip.
Fenris groans, unable to contain himself. "Festis bei umo canavarum," he growls. He feels her chuckle as her lips close over the head, tongue swirling around it and the hand on her cheek moves to grip her hair as she draws him into her mouth in a slow, aching gulp. Breath hisses through his teeth and he suppresses his urge to close his eyes because the sight of her lips wrapped around his length is as exciting as the feeling her mouth causes.
Then Hawke pulls back, her cheeks and tongue and lips tightening around him and he moans at the pleasure. He braces his other hand on her headboard and his toes dig into her sheets as she brushes her tongue over that point just below the head that makes him gasp and tighten his hand in her hair. Her eyes glitter, stuck on his as she acquires a rhythm of wet heat and suction, brushes of her teeth and swirls from her tongue. Fenris watches her through all of it, his face and ears hot as she draws every moment out into agonizing ecstasy. He wants this sensation to last, wants to enjoy every tiny quiver of her lips, or the hum that vibrates over his length, wants to stare into her eyes and watch himself sliding into her mouth for years to come. But it overwhelms him too soon and he watches in torrid fascination as she swallows his seed, sucking every drop out and licking her lips afterward, like a cat with a canary.
Breathless, he collapses beside her on the bed, still in his armor with only his cock hanging free of his pants. He's too dizzy to remove it at the moment. Her tongue tastes of salt and musky and his arms clench around her possessively when she kisses him. Watching her face across the pillow as she pulls back from him, he whispers his only coherent word: "Why?"
"You stayed for breakfast," she answers.
Hawke is relieved that Fenris doesn't spend every night with her, but those nights he does spend (between both of their work, it happens a few times a week) he does not leave. Every morning that she wakes up to feel his warm body pressed against hers, Hawke feels dazed. She is dazed at his presence, at the lips that alternate between vicious nips and tender kisses, at the hard lust in his eyes that softens to something gentle and unnameable when he whispers her name, at the words that shift from fury when she helps mages (Anders in particular) to husky desire the moment their arguments break out in physical violence, which they often do.
"How can you think that idiot Orlesian boy will not be caught by Templars or blood mages or slavers?" he yells one night, blood dripping from the side of his mouth where she recently punched him. One of his hands rests at the base of her throat, squeezing just enough to remind her that he could.
She snarls, "At least his fate is his." Her neck arches into his hand, her breasts against his chest heaving as she struggles once more against the iron grip of his fingers on her wrists, pinning them above her head. Lacking any more effective way to harm him, she bites his neck until she tastes blood as he moans and presses his hips against hers.
Fenris growls and releases her wrists in his haste to remove as much of their clothing as possible. And then he grips her by the hair and they knock most of the potions and poisons and writing supplies and books from her desk and his gauntlets gouge the wood as they moan together.
They make their regular visits to the Hanged Man and sit side-by-side, his foot possessively hooked behind her ankle to rest between her boots. He never shows her any public affection, thank the Maker, and their friends give them smirking sidelong looks but make no comment. When Isabela or Anders or Varric asks either of them what's going on, both of them turn almost-identical sneers on whoever asks and they back off quickly. Merrill pesters Fenris about it, calling it 'puppy eyes' and Hawke disguises a snort of laughter as a cough when she overhears. He's furious at her for it, and that night they leave bruises on each other and don't sleep as they continue reaching for one another again and again.
"If you hadn't given her that tool, that thing to fix her evil Tevinter mirror, then the Keeper might be alive instead of that little witch," he screams two weeks later, flinging his bloodied weapon and armor into a corner and grabbing her biceps in a ferocious grip.
The trip to Sundermount took three days, during which time they had to sleep in separate bedrolls and attend the gruesome business of slaughtering the Keeper-turned-abomination and deal with the Dalish elves literally throwing them out at swordpoint. Things have been very tense, and Hawke hasn't missed all of the furious glares he's shot her throughout their trip to the mountain. She has no sympathy, because he was the one who insisted on going with her because he didn't want to hang around his mansion all day.
She has no answer to his accusation, though. When guilt slumps her shoulders and vicious tears bite her eyes his hands shift suddenly to embrace her, to pull her against his chest. "If I had known," she murmurs in his pointed ear, "I would have killed Merrill in her place." There's a vicious, furious bite to her words, a rage that her interference has led the clan to leaderless chaos, stagnating on Sundermount, all of it laced with guilt. It is her fault. But much as she hates Merrill at this moment, she cannot hate her forever. The sweet, bubbling elf-girl is too kind-hearted and naive to murder in cold blood. And Hawke's known her too long. She hesitates and admits, "I at least wouldn't have given her that damned thing. Arulin-whatever."
His hands tighten around her and he is surprisingly gentle that night, lifting her limbs in place around him, trailing kisses over her skin until she's moaning his name and gasping for air and then he slides inside of her and they cling together.
As Kirkwall's political situation grows more fragile, she takes more solace in his presence, in the lanky shadow looming forever at her side, diving into battle with flashing steel at their fingertips and blood spraying in every direction. But as tensions in the Gallows spread through the rest of the city, she feels a gnawing fear in her stomach that when the inevitable battle occurs, he will leave her again, this time for good.
So she enjoys the time she has. She enjoys their arguments and fistfights just as much as she enjoys how the punching and kicking turns into tearing at clothes and gripping skin, how snarling mouths turn to biting kisses and how, somewhere in the midst of a violent coupling, one of them turns tender and then they are making love instead of warring with their bodies. He strokes her hair as she reads at night, content to listen to her murmuring the passages of her innumerable books on strategy, war, and battle. Some mornings she wakes up before him and cooks breakfast, while other mornings he stops her from sitting up with a forceful arm and warm, sleepy kisses. Once he wakes up first and attempts to cook; fortunately Bodahn and Orana put out the fire hastily (later her servants admit they stood by with buckets of water when he began swearing at a sack of flour) and Fenris storms off in a fury to return an hour later with a bag of oven-fresh pastries from a Lowtown bakery. He throws the bag at her so hard that all of its contents are mushed into a mass of sugar, fruit, and dough, and the two of them eat it with spoons right out of the bag.
As aware as she is of impending disaster, when she goes to distract the Grand Cleric for Anders' fishy dealings, she thinks he is talking to some of his 'inside sources' from his mage underground. He's been particularly testy about her and Fenris and she gets testy right back, ending his questions with the words, "You're right. It's not your place," and her finest sneer. She catches her lover's smirk out of the corner of her eye.
She jitters impatiently as she talks to Elthina, wanting to get back to Fenris because she knows he'll be waiting for her at home. Still, she can't resist the opportunity to point out that the mages need immediate Chantry intervention or the Templars would take things too far, very soon. Bloody old bat, she thinks, lips tightening in irritation as the Grand Cleric answers that things have a way of working themselves out and the Maker has a plan and all of that evasive bullshit. By the time Anders shows, she's irritated and wondering just what the hell could take him so long. As they leave, she snarls and asks what he's doing and he gets just as evasive and she gives him a rough shove before marching back to her house.
Fenris is infinitely pleased to hear how irritated she is with Anders, and Hawke is infinitely pleased to see he's drawn her a bath. In only his leggings. "That abomination will cause more trouble than he's worth," he says, cutting off any reply she can make with a fierce, vicious kiss. He slides her clothes off one by one until she stand naked before him, her skin tightening and warming as his hands trail over it. He lifts her by her hips and she wraps her legs around his waist. As he carries her to the bathtub, his lips whispering over her shoulders and neck, he steps out of his pants. When he plunges into her, a second before the water splashes up around their sides, she arches and his mouth catches over the tip of her breast, vicious teeth dragging it to a point before his tender tongue soothes it.
He presses into her and her shoulders push against the wall of the tub, water sloshing over them to mix with their sweat, making their skin extra slick so that they cling and shudder all too soon. As their breath calms to a normal pace Fenris withdraws, scooping up a washcloth and a bar of soap. With his eyes on hers the entire time, he scrubs the day's grime from her skin, evoking tiny gasps when his fingers stray from time to time. Soon she's clean and he's just trailing the damp cloth over her skin, his hands wandering more and more, and she grabs his wrists to stall him, pulling the washcloth away.
"Your turn," she murmurs against his mouth, and sets to cleaning him with the same torturous, slow strokes of cloth and fingertips until he's hard and gasping for her. His hands dig into her waist as he kisses her and she presses him to the wall of the tub, impaling herself on his length with a hiss and fingernails digging into his back. Their mouths never separate as she rolls her hips against his and soon they moan into one another's mouths, clinging and shivering with the force of their climaxes.
They clamber from the tub when they are able to, making love on the cooling tiles of the floor and then staggering to her bedroom, where they remain in the throes of some strange, ethereal need to tangle together over and over again. By the time they fall asleep it's past midnight and half the furniture in her room is scattered, upended, the trinkets crushed and broken or fallen to the floor and left to lie in favor of other concerns. Hawke curls up against his side with a leg slung across one hips and trailing between his thighs so her toes brush his knee. His arm tightens around her shoulder as she drifts off, and she feels his hand pushing her short, sweaty hair from her face as he whispers, "Goodnight, Marian."
Neither one realizes it is their last night in Kirkwall.
As the horrific red glow tears the Chantry to pieces, Hawke whirls and her fist connects with Anders' face so hard he staggers back, cupping the injured jaw and spitting blood out. Sorrowful brown eyes meet hers and she feels a sick, sudden certainty that she wants to kill him. He lied. He deserves to die. He deserves to suffer. He got her to help him. Nauseated, she turns away from him as he slumps to sit on a crate, eyes flicking around at her group of companions.
Meredith's voice drones on and she does not have to listen to the exact words, using the moment to absorb the shock. And then the Knight-Commander turns toward her, brows raised, and says, "What say you, Champion?"
Hawke sneers at her. "Sod off, you crazy bitch," she says. "You've been looking for an excuse to kill all the mages for a long while and this-" she gives Anders a sharp kick in the ribs, unable to restrain her impulse to do harm to him "-this refuse gave you that excuse." All of her attention and fury resume to that narrow focus of Anders and she turns to face his back, to see he's hunched around the side she kicked and has made no effort to heal either of the minor injuries she's inflicted on him. "You blighted fool! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" she screams.
"You've doomed us all," Orsino adds, and Hawke turns a fierce, narrow-eyed glare at him. The First Enchanter shuts up with an audible snap of his jaw.
As Anders all but begs for death, Hawke stares at his back, her expression hardening to cold fury. She touches one of the knives strapped to her and then hesitates, glancing at her companions. "Opinions?" she asks in a detached tone.
It is Fenris who decides her. He says, "He wishes for death. Grant it to him." And he's right.
Anders does want to die. Anders would be free if she plunged the knife between his ribs. She delivers a final kick to the mage's back and tells him, in a cold tone, that he needs to leave. He slinks away and her world widens once more as she turns to her friends, realizing they will have to fight their way through the city. She does not expect any of them to follow her further, but they all do. Even Fenris.
"It is a mistake," he says, eyes hard as he stares at her. Then he glances down at the red fabric on his wrist, always clean now that he has access to her supply of Amell-crested handkerchiefs and napkins (and today he is, in fact, wearing the latter). "But I will not abandon you," he adds, and her heart resumes beating.
Suddenly it does not seem as hopeless. And he remains at her side as they slash their way through the burning city of Kirkwall, his greatsword felling Templars and demons alike. As they ride on the boat to the Gallows, he stares into her eyes and in the silence of sloshing water against the hull, she feels as if a thousand voices are cheering her on. All of his viciousness, his brilliance, his eloquence and unbridled fury are at her side, willing to remain there and defend mages even though he detests magic. The ferry ride is too short and they are running up to the mages' defense all too soon.
It hardly surprises her when Anders returns to help at the Gallows, and she sneers at him when he makes another attempt to apologize and promises to make it up. She spits in his face and whirls away, stalking toward Fenris.
"I never thought I'd be defending mages," he says, glaring at her. His gaze flicks to Anders, who stands with his head hung and spittle dripping down his cheek like tears, knowing he'll never be forgiven or accepted for what he's done. Then he looks back and Hawke and she looks back at him. "You lead me down strange roads, indeed."
She takes a breath. "Things will get even stranger if we live through this," she says.
"There will be unspeakable horrors," he murmurs, green eyes on hers. The flinty quality shifts into smoother stone and his voice, contrastingly, roughens. "Promise me you will not die. I cannot bear the thought of living without you."
Hawke stares at him. Her heart pounds and for a long moment she can't think of what to say. And then she gives him a vicious, confident grin, stepping forward to breathe in his scent. "We're both going to live through this, Fenris," she says, and realizes as she says it that this is the most fierce promise she's ever made. Even when she swore to her father to keep her family safe, she did not feel such a strength in the words of her oath.
Then he pulls her against his chest and kisses her, his arms wrapping around her in a fierce, protective grip and pressing their bodies together. She clings just as tight, her tongue tangling with his, her lips sealed to his mouth, her fingers in his hair and the fabric of his tunic. The kiss goes on far too long for it to be decent or socially acceptable and she does not care, holding onto him and kissing him with all of the desperate passion and viciousness and frenzied love she's felt for him all these years. Hawke kisses him hard and soft in alternating waves, just as their entire existence has been since meeting each other. Her mouth is bruised and her breathing ragged when they finally draw apart but she smirks at him and whispers, "Don't you dare die."
His hand runs down from her hair to cup her cheek and he presses a small, tender peck to her lower lip. As all of their companions stare in varying degrees of awe, amusement, embarrassment and curiosity, Hawke saunters up to the First Enchanter.
"Let's get this over with."
Epilogue, anyone? :D