Desk
Hawke considered the bottles in front of her. Different amber hues, different labels, different countries. Since she didn't quite know what to expect, she took the first bottle and sniffed it. It was too smoky for her current mood, so she closed the cap again and grabbed the second bottle.
She glanced over her shoulder, to where the Seneschal still stood behind his desk. She wondered if he was aware of how dishevelled his hair had become. It probably happened when that shelf collapsed. It was strange to see him like this, more ruffled, human, like he wasn't always perfectly composed.
"You said you didn't quite like balls," Hawke said to break the silence. "What do you like, then, for fun? Other than collect fancy whiskey."
He looked up, likely judging her as she just dismissed something undoubtedly high-priced and hard to obtain. For a moment, she thought he wasn't going to answer.
But then he opened his mouth.
"I play chess, as you know." He paused. "Read, when I have the time. And… I used to play the violin."
The third bottle smelled good, slightly more subtle and more to her current mood. She set it aside as optional when she tested the next one. "Oh, yeah..." she mused as a memory stirred of the disastrous evening of her first-ever ball. "I've seen the violin in your library."
She almost wished she hadn't said it. Perhaps it was too personal of a detail to drag up now.
He didn't say anything.
Hawke looked at him and could almost picture it. His hands on the violin, letting the fiddlestick dance over the strings, hardly producing a false note. He just seemed like the type to be good at anything he put his mind to, because he would dismiss anything else as not worth his time.
But he said used to.
"Well... I used to knit," she offered as she selected a Nevarran bottle with a skull. It smelled promising. "I was shit at it, though. But my sister still wore whatever I made for her."
Bethany wore her last project when they fled Ferelden. A red scarf, tied around her neck. She hadn't cared that it was wonky, and had even complimented it on its nice colour. Reds and a little bit of purple.
Balls. It was probably somewhere in a chest in the Gallows.
Or perhaps the templars had thrown it away.
A familiar lump settled in her throat. The same old questions, haunting her as they did on sleepless nights. What if she'd taken Bethany along to the Deep Roads? What if she had never gone in the first? What if they'd been quicker to escape? What if she had spent less time rolling around in the dark with Anders?
Maybe, just maybe, then she wouldn't have lost –
"My apologies," the Seneschal offered, pulling her out of her thoughts.
She twitched, blinking back into the present. Right. She was still here. In his office. Pouring whiskey.
"For what?" she asked, feigning lightness. "My abysmal knitting skills?"
"For the fate of your sister," he replied, his tone softer now.
"Ah." She set the bottle back on the shelf. "Yeah."
It wasn't something she wanted to think about, and she shouldn't have mentioned it. Too many things were tangled together, knotted in a chaotic web of misery. Their escape from the Deep Roads. Bethany being dragged off. Her fight with Anders.
Almost two years ago now.
She exhaled sharply and grabbed both glasses, handing one to the Seneschal.
What in the world were they supposed to toast to? Health? That seemed meaningless. Glory? Neither of them cared for it.
For a moment, she considered something bitter. To everything we lost. But that was too much.
So instead, she lifted her glass. "To Kirkwall," she said.
The Seneschal inclined his head slightly. "To Kirkwall."
She lifted the whiskey to her lips. The spicy aroma that made her pick the bottle hit her nose first. She took an eager sip. It was sharp, a little burning, spreading warmth from her throat down to her stomach.
The second sip dulled her nerves.
And for once, she didn't mind the silence that followed.
Comfortable for perhaps the first time this evening, she swirled the whiskey in her glass, watching the lamplight catch in the liquid's deep, reddish glow. Such a rich, seductive colour. Intrigued, she held her hand still and watched as the swirling motion settled.
Behind it, something else caught her eyes.
Something with the same deep, warm hue.
The Seneschal.
She hadn't thought about it before, but his hair was the exact shade of the whiskey in her glass. Deep auburn. Rich in the lamplight, a faint golden sheen at the edges.
Her gaze lingered, the glass forgotten in her hand.
Seductive.
The word slipped into her mind, uninvited. She frowned. Where did it come from? It wasn't... Well. No. Perhaps it was. Such a warm, inviting colour. Objectively appealing, right?
She blinked. What a strange thought to have.
I wonder if his hair down there is just as red as on his head.
Isabela's words from earlier that night rang through her mind, as clearly as if she were whispering them right into her ear.
Hawke stiffened. And now she couldn't look away.
At least the Seneschal hadn't noticed. Or if he had, he wasn't acknowledging it.
Her eyes traced the stubble along his jaw. Good shape. Same reddish colour. The hair on his chest then too, probably. And…
Another image formed, more unbidden than Isabela's words.
Heat spread through her body, more than whiskey could ever instil.
The Seneschal, bare chested. No, naked, on his back. Stretched out on a quilt patterned with an apple tree. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow over his skin. It only made his hair all the more seductive.
His fingers gripped her hips.
Hawke swallowed, wondering why her heart was racing.
The quilt was soft against her knees. Her naked knees. Her fingers buried in a sparse mass of auburn chest hair, the same shade as his head. His breath was rough, uneven.
A moan. Hers? His?
Her breath was just as rough, and she rolled her hips, finding a rhythm. Sparks surged through her core, warm, electric, delicious. She looked down, to where their bodies met…
"…What?"
She gasped, nearly forgetting to breathe.
The Seneschal's voice shattered the illusion. He frowned at her, his expression unreadable but almost bored. And, Maker take her, he was fully clothed. No firelit skin, no panting, no rocking back and forth beneath her.
Oh, fuck.
"What, what?" she deflected, tearing her thoughts away.
The Seneschal's frown remained. "You're staring."
Maker's balls, she was, wasn't she?
His voice remained cool, detached. "If you have a comment to make, Hawke, I suggest you make it."
A comment. Right. Words. She should say something. She was good at that, wasn't she? But her mouth refused to cooperate, and her mind wasn't far behind. It was still caught on lingering flashes of bare skin, low, unsteady breaths, and the connection of their bodies.
Shit.
She forced herself to focus. But even now, her mind refused to give in.
Because, if she really thought about it, there was something undeniably captivating about the Seneschal, wasn't there? That wasn't just her own foolish mind. It was an objective fact. His hair, his build, his profile. The way he carried himself, controlled, deliberate, always composed. Wouldn't it be something, to see him lose that control?
Or direct it to her.
Heat crept up her neck. With his dishevelled hair, she could imagine that they had just –
No.
His frown twitched. It was subtle, but sure. He'd noticed her staring, interpreted her thoughts, seen the flush on her cheeks. He was intelligent enough to add it together.
Hawke tore her gaze away. She needed to say something, anything dismissive, to end this moment before she lost her mind.
But all that came out was a half-hearted bugger off.
The Seneschal's voice dropped. "I will let you know that I turned forty this year."
Her eyes snapped back to him. "Congratulations," she scowled.
His face remained impassive. "That is twelve years older than you."
She scoffed. "I knew you must be good with numbers, Seneschal, but thanks for displaying your skill."
Even now, he didn't move. His gaze lingered, perhaps a fraction too long. Balls, perhaps he thought she had displayed her leg on purpose. Why was she always so careless?
"Are you drunk, Hawke?" he asked.
"No."
The answer was out before she could stop it. Too quickly, too forcefully.
She scoffed, hating herself for denying her the perfect excuse. He had given her an easy way out, and she hadn't taken it.
But that could be fixed.
She threw back a large gulp of whiskey, hoping the burn would sear away her thoughts. "Balls. Not nearly enough," she muttered, before taking another large gulp. "Perhaps I am drunk."
The Seneschal's eyes hadn't left her. "From half a glass of whiskey?" he questioned. "I know you detest punch."
"Then why ask!" she snapped, turning sharply to him. Perhaps she could act like the burn on her cheeks was due to the drink.
He wouldn't believe it.
"Because I am wondering why you are here," he continued.
She rolled her eyes. "I told you. I thought you were a thief."
"That is not what I meant." His tone didn't change. "Why were you around in the first place? Where is your friend? Maker's breath, why didn't you leave with those Orlesians?"
Those Orlesians…? Hawke gaped at him. "Did you see them?"
He gave her a look as if to say obviously. "Hawke. You were standing in the middle of a room filled with people. If you didn't want to be seen, you should have chosen a different location to practise your persuasive diplomacy."
Heat rushed back to her cheeks. If she wasn't already feeling mortified, then she certainly did so now, knowing he had seen her attempt at flirting.
He was right, however. If she didn't want to be seen, she shouldn't have flirted in a public place. But she'd intended to leave with them. And if she had really wanted to, she would have. They were perfectly suited. Here for two weeks, then gone forever.
And yet she hadn't.
Because the moment they leaned in with all their charm and flattery, trailing fingers suggestively along the inside of her wrist, her skin had crawled.
How was she supposed to explain that?
It was something she should have wanted, deeply enough for public flirting. But then for that touch to feel distant and wrong? How had she gone through all the motions, the banter, the teasing, waiting for something to spark, for that thrill to come back, only for it to leave her cold?
Playing along hadn't helped after all. Only in making a fool of herself.
So, she'd bade Isabela goodbye, told her to have fun. That she would sit this one out. Isabela had pouted of course, but she had understood enough that she hadn't pressed her.
And if Hawke couldn't even explain it to Isabela, then how could she explain it to him?
She couldn't. She hardly understood it herself. What was wrong with her?
The Seneschal would never understand it anyway. Not when he stood there, with his perfect posture and his perfect clothes. Despite his tousled hair, he still looked in control. Of himself, the situation. He'd never land himself in whatever Hawke always ended up in.
Perhaps she could respect it, envy it.
But Maker, she hated it more.
And yet…
The damn image returned, flooding back like a riptide.
A bed, warm and firelit.
His body beneath hers, the heat that bound them. The slow, steady rhythm of their movement. His hands on her. One slowly, teasingly, made its way towards a breast.
And the thought didn't make her skin crawl. It burned. Not in pain, but pleasure.
And the ache she felt in her lower belly wasn't dread, but something worse. Something real.
What in the world was happening to her? She hadn't felt this way in two years. Not since –
No.
"Fuck," she cursed, slamming her glass onto the desk with more force than she intended. The whiskey inside splashed angrily, threatening to spill over. She ignored it, turning sharply away as if only distance could cool her. "I shouldn't have come here."
He didn't say anything. No snide remark, no reprimand, nothing. Not even the rustle of clothing or sound of his breath. Just silence.
Halfway to the door, Hawke hesitated. Her fingers curled into a ball, her nails digging into her palm. The ache didn't change her mind. Against her better judgment, she turned back.
He hadn't moved. He stood exactly as she'd left him, his expression unreadable.
"Why are you still here?" she accused, sharper than intended. "In this job, I mean?"
The question hung in the air, met only by mutual silence. Hawke wasn't sure why she had asked it, or why she hadn't left this office as soon as she could. She certainly never expected an answer. But then, why did she remain here?
For a moment, he studied her. And against her expectations, he opened his mouth to speak. "Because I realised early in life that my skills lay outside of weaponry and combat. I had a knack for numbers, excelled at the academies, and possessed a great talent for keeping a level head. I was offered a job. There are worse fates for someone of not quite noble birth, certainly."
"But you hate your job," Hawke said bluntly.
The Seneschal released a slow, bitter laugh. "I don't hate my job," he argued. He paused, for a chuckle or a sigh, she wasn't sure. "Or perhaps I don't hate it enough."
There was something unguarded in his words, something weary, almost defeat. It surprised her more than his answer.
"Then, why stay in this mess?" she pressed. "Why not go somewhere else, where you're appreciated more? Less stress, and more free time? Play your violin again?"
For what felt like the first time, he broke his gaze on her. His posture relaxed, as if he no longer cared to hold himself to perfection. He ran a hand through his hair, straightening some of its twists. And with some of the tension out of his shoulders, he looked less like the Seneschal, and more like...
"Same reason you stay, I presume," he said at last. "Because I care too much about this mess."
She said nothing, and he continued.
"This has been my home for sixteen years," he elaborated. "I've served under the rule of two Viscounts, through years of prosperity and years of strife. The current Viscount has a lot on his plate, and maybe..." He paused, and the small chuckle he released sounded almost self-deprecating. "Perhaps I take pride in considering myself the lone factor of holding this chaos together."
Hawke gaped at him. She hadn't expected him to be so honest. "I would have assigned that role to Aveline," she said half-heartedly.
He let out another short, bitter laugh. "And who suggested her for that position, do you think? The Viscount was hesitant to entrust the position to a Ferelden refugee, but I assured him that she was the best for the job."
"Well… I suppose you were right," Hawke begrudgingly agreed.
He shook his head, almost to himself. "No one really appreciates what I do. No one notices when things run smoothly, only when they don't. I don't require appreciation. And yet, I'm still here, hoping my thankless job will restore this city to order. I am, apparently, something of an optimist."
And for almost the first time, Hawke sympathised with him. She had never thought of him as being optimistic, but his story rang true. Carefully, she moved an inch closer. "Some would call it being stubborn," she offered.
"Undoubtedly." The ghost of a smile lingered on his lips, bitter and genuine at the same time. "And you, Hawke? You are a paradox. Both the cause and the solution to half of the city's problems. I'm not sure if Kirkwall would be better off with or without your particular brand of mayhem."
She tilted her head to the side, observing his smile. "I can't help it that trouble clings to me like a magnet. Trust me, I wish it didn't."
He sighed, somewhere between a scoff and contentment. "You are a maelstrom, Hawke. My sense of order considers you a pain to deal with."
The heat in her blood hadn't faded. If anything, it settled deeper. Her heart still beat heavy, slow beats. Fuelled by his appraising glance and her own desire, she grabbed her glass from the desk and downed what was left in one long swallow.
"Then you are a masochist," she declared, holding his gaze.
And for the first time, he wavered, searching for words.
That was new.
"Hawke," he said at last. "Whatever is going on in that head of yours... I am certain I am not the answer. I do not do..." He raised his hand, gesturing uncertainly before letting it fall. "I do not do attachments."
She felt nothing at the words, no shame or embarrassment. Just her heart beating in her throat, and an echoing beat between her legs. "I am not proposing attachments."
The Seneschal shook his head. His frown returned. "Hawke. You armour yourself in sharp words and even when you wear this, you remain entirely unreachable. You had the opportunity to leave with an interested party, and you declined it. Besides... Don't you have that friend of yours? Anders?"
Hawke blinked, not expecting that. "Anders? What does he have to do with anything?"
He blinked back. "It seemed to me like you were sleeping together."
She could hardly believe her ears. "Balls, that was two years ago."
The Seneschal frowned. "He still looks willing."
Surprised, she opened her mouth to speak, but closed it again. Anders was the last person she wanted to think about. He was too close to –
"I don't want him," she replied after a quick gasp.
The Seneschal rested his hands on the desk and leaned forward. "Then what do you want, Hawke?"
The heat in her body pulsed under her skin, and she took a step forward. She was next to the desk now. "I don't want anything. Just to feel something."
He took a step backwards again. "Then do I what I do and visit the Blooming Rose," he said, his voice almost forced. "Do you prefer men? I can make recommendations. You have the coin, I know you do."
And for some reason, Hawke couldn't look him in the eyes anymore. She lowered her gaze to the buttons of his coat. They had a nice geometric pattern carved into them, reminiscent of the carvings around the city. "Blooming Rose," she said slowly, stressing that last word. Why did everything always circle back to her name?
She glanced up again, wondering what it would be like if the Seneschal called her by her name again. "I don't want to feel anything from a stranger."
His posture stiffened. "If you visit enough times, they won't stay strangers."
Something about that made her throat tighten. She wasn't sure why. Perhaps because it felt wrong. Because it was practical and logical, and she wanted neither of those things.
She was acutely aware of just how little space was left between them. She could almost feel his warmth radiating on her exposed skin. And without thinking, she placed her palm against her chest.
The fabric of his coat was soft and smooth, with slightly rough edges from raised goldwork. And better, it was warm, from his heat. She spread her fingers, as if testing the physicality of it. Of him.
"You're no stranger," she said, almost in a whisper.
But for several moments, neither of them moved. She stared at her hand, feeling almost detached from herself. She didn't know how long it was since she really wanted anything the way she wanted him. Feel his skin. Be close. Let herself go.
The silence stretched. She was aware of the passage of time, made all the stranger by the realisation that the Seneschal had been holding his breath. Her hand hadn't moved back and forth once.
That changed when he exhaled.
"Hawke…" he muttered. "I…"
He faltered. His voice had lost some of its sharpness. It was softer now, uncertain.
And suddenly, as if the weight of the world crashed down on her shoulders, Hawke realised what she was doing. She withdrew her hand, fast.
"Fuck," she cursed under her breath. What in the Fade had gotten into her?
She turned to leave. Needed to leave. Now.
But before she could take a step, a hand enclosed around her wrist.
Sharp. Unyielding.
A pull. Too sudden, too strong.
Her breath hitched as she stumbled back, and before she could regain her footing, the back of her thighs met the desk, wood groaning under de force. Her balance wavered. She might have fallen if it weren't for him.
His grip slid from her wrist to her shoulders, fingers digging into her bare skin, pinning her in place. His body pressed against hers, too close, heat burning even through their clothing.
She forgot to breathe. Forgot that breathing even existed.
The edge of the desk pressed against the back of her thighs, but she hardly registered the discomfort. He was solid, unmovable, pressing into every nerve. The heat of his breath dispersed over her lips, less than an inch away. Whiskey and a woody musk filled her senses. It was intoxicating, making it impossible to think. Impossible to move.
Her hands shot back to brace against the desk. She wasn't sure why. Pinned like this, it wasn't as if she could fall. Perhaps it was simply to ground herself. To brace herself against the overwhelming everything. Her knuckles turned white.
She couldn't tell who was breathing faster. Couldn't tell if it was his heartbeat she felt pounding against her ribs or her own.
A kiss lingered a twitch away.
This is what she wanted, wasn't it? Feel him against her. Her body pulsed with unfulfilled need and a growing anticipation.
But he didn't kiss her.
Instead, he moved his head. Lips brushed her cheek, slow, deliberate. He knew what he was doing, and the effect it had on her. The lips stopped at her ear.
"So..." he whispered. His voice was low, and almost a little annoyed. "What is it you want to feel?"
A tremor of pleasure shot through her body, betraying her. He must have felt it, he must have, because he exhaled softly against her skin.
She took a breath, attempting the impossible task of thinking. His body pressed against her, stealing it away.
And then she felt it. He was pressed so close against her, but it wasn't just his thigh. It was something more.
Her next inhale hitched. He wanted this just as much as she, or at least his body did. Since when...?
She didn't think she could manage to speak much, but what little she could muster, she gave him.
"You," she breathed. "Inside of me."
And just to make sure he understood, she moved her leg against him, rubbing against the stiffness she felt.
He exhaled something between a moan and a curse, but it was all the encouragement he seemed to need.
"Me," he repeated, a little too confidently. She might have been annoyed, if only she had been capable of thinking. And she would have forgotten anyway when he moved one of his hands to cradle her neck, and the other hitched up her skirt.
Perhaps there was something to wearing one after all.
His fingers glided along her bare thigh, up from her knee, slow, torturous in their teasing. She wanted it to end now, needed it to end, yet at the same time wished he'd never stop. The anticipation was unbearable, the moment she longed for close now. She arched into the sensation, drinking it in, savouring it, until –
His fingers stopped.
It took her a second to understand why. The straps of her toolkit around her thigh were so familiar that she hardly noticed them.
But he had.
Maker's balls. She could curse herself for always needing the damn thing. Why, why had she ever felt the need to take it to a ball?
She could have taken her knife and cut through the straps, if only she could trust herself with a weapon now.
But she didn't.
She didn't even think she could manage unbuckling them. No, the Seneschal would have to do it for her.
Hawke bit her lip, and leaned forward. "There are two–"
"I know." His voice was low, rough. Almost a growl.
Oh.
Yeah. She supposed she had exposed herself, earlier. "I hadn't meant to show you," she tried.
His eyes snapped back to hers, sharp, burning.
"That much was clear."
His glance was short before he looked back again, but it stole the breath from her lungs. He went back to her thigh, back to the straps. His fingers danced over her skin, slow, deliberate. So close, so agonisingly close, staying away from where she needed him the most. He found the buckles, unfastening them one by one.
No hurry. No fumbling. Just certainty.
He set the toolkit on the desk. It barely made a sound.
"Any more surprises under there?" he asked.
His hands were on her thighs again, moving higher.
She gasped. "Just my underclothes."
Lifting her hips, she let him pull them down. Anticipation curled low in her stomach. She was close now, to finally having her desire fulfilled. The ache in her body demanded relief. Close, so close.
But he was still moving slowly, so maddeningly slow, over the sensitive skin of her thigh. Damn him.
Patience had never been her strongest trait, and he was toying with that fact, just as he was toying with her.
She pushed up, glaring. "Fuck, Seneschal, just touch me properly, will you–"
Her words cut off in a sharp gasp as he slipped two fingers between her legs.
Oh. Oh.
He chuckled, the sound low and entirely too pleased. Infuriating, but only to the part of her mind that was still capable of forming a coherent thought.
"Well..." he mused. A slight movement of his fingers took her breath away all over again. Her grip on the desk tightened. "You certainly are desperate, are you?"
She barely had the presence of mind to glare at him. Her body arched instinctively. "Are you–" A sharp inhale as he curled his fingers, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. "Seriously complaining… that I'm wet?"
"Not a complaint," he said smoothly, annoyingly composed. Another stroke, and she bit her lip hard enough to sting. "A… pleasant observation."
She swallowed hard, heat surging beneath her skin. "I thought that was obvious," she managed.
He had the audacity to look smug. "Nevertheless," he mused, tilting his head as if considering something. His fingers slowed. "I wanted to know what I was working with."
Her breath caught, her whole body tightening at the casual arrogance of it. Bastard.
Her fingers flexed. "Then congratulations," she bit out. "You've done your research."
His eyes gleamed. Oh, he liked that.
"Thoroughly," he agreed, and she opened her mouth when he curled his fingers again.
Whatever retort she had died on her tongue. But then he pulled away –
And Maker's breath, she nearly whined.
She wanted to catch her breath for an angry word, demand his return, but there was no need. She didn't see him untie his breeches, but she felt it, the rustle of fabric, the shift in the air, his intake of breath.
It must mean –
Three seconds later, he returned. His hands seized her thighs, spreading them apart with all the demand but none of his normal restrain.
And she eagerly complied.
Finally. Finally.
With a slow, steady thrust, he sank into her.
"Fuck."
A sharp moan tore from her lips as her fingers clawed at the edge of the desk. Her entire body tensed, revelling in the delicious pressure of being filled.
He withdrew almost entirely before sinking back in, setting a rhythm, slow, deep, forceful but maddeningly measured. Each thrust sent heat coiling tighter in her core, drawing more helpless sounds from her throat. She wanted to fight them down, bite her tongue, but the pleasure forced its way out of her.
"Hawke," he breathed.
Low. Rough. His voice had never sounded like this before.
She liked his voice. Had always liked it, but she'd never admit it. Sharp, dry, but with such a pleasant tone to it. Even more so now, when it had heat, had desire, had her shuddering in response.
She didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Words weren't something she could manage, not when every movement of his body was unravelling her, making her question why she'd denied herself this for two years.
Had it always felt like this? Had she just forgotten?
Or was it because she wanted him so damn much?
His hand slid up, fingers brushing her throat before cradling the back of her neck, tilting her face towards his. But she couldn't keep her eyes open, she arched back, lashes fluttering, her mind sinking into that devastating pressure between her legs.
"Look at me, Hawke."
A demand, not a request.
His grip on her grew firmer, angling her head back until she had to obey, her eyes flickering open.
Maker.
He was flushed, just enough to break that damn composure. His amber eyes were darker, focused, all of his attention fully, intensely on her.
She swallowed. Hard.
"You didn't want to feel anything from a stranger," he continued, his next thrust sending a jolt up her spine. "If you keep your eyes closed…" He leaned in, lips brushing just past her ear. His breath was scalding against her skin. "I might as well be a stranger."
Her nails scratched the desk.
That's not how this worked.
Even blindfolded, she'd know him. The scent of him, his presence, the way he spoke... His clipped, measured tone that somehow still managed to be insufferably dry even as he wrecked her.
No one else could come close.
And fuck him, because right now, she hated him as much as she wanted him. Hatred and desire weren't supposed to exist in the same breath, but here they were, teetering at that edge, unsure which feeling would win.
He thrust, deep and unrelenting, and she found the strength to speak again.
Her head fell back. "Fuck, Seneschal–" Speaking was hard. "You called me desperate," she managed to gasp. "But you can't say you're not enjoying yourself."
Something flickered across his face, brief and unreadable, but it vanished in an instant, replaced by that infuriating, perfect composure.
A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. "It certainly pleases to see you struggling to speak."
She let out a sharp breath. "Ass."
The insult barely left her lips before he rewarded it, with a deep and rough thrust that made her fingernails drag lines in the underside of his desk. Her body tightened around him, and her next breath escaped in a moan she couldn't swallow down.
She wanted to say more. Wanted to fight back.
But she'd poured every last shred of breath into that single, half-hearted word. Now she had nothing left, only the desperate clench of fingers against the desk, the arch of the body, and the humiliating betrayal of her silence.
And fuck him, because he knew it.
He looked pleased with himself. Triumphant. And she hated it. Hated the smugness in his expression, the measured way he moved. Hated that he had found the one thing that could silence her.
And, fuck, he made her crave more.
Every breath that shouldn't gone into arguing, was wasted on swallowing down the moans in her throat.
It was some protest, she supposed.
He pulled her closer again, his thrusts slowing, momentarily relinquishing that deep pressure just to speak.
"I'm inside you now."
His breath skimmed her skin. Warm. Surprisingly, maddeningly, even. He wasn't even that breathless.
"That's what you wanted."
Her eyelids fluttered open, and balls, he was close. Close enough that she felt the brush of lips against her skin, so feather-light she might have imagined it.
"What more do you want to feel?"
His lips brushed her earlobe. Or maybe it was just his breath, hot, sharp, too close, she wasn't sure. But it was enough to make her shiver.
Her mouth opened, but…
Nothing. The words didn't come.
Not because she didn't have the breath to speak. Because she didn't know how to shape them.
Why now? Now, of all time, when she needed it most, why did her wit fail her?
She felt his irritation before she heard it. The way his hands tightened at her hips, the sharp exhale against her skin.
"Hawke," he said, his voice clipped. "You wanted to be pleased. Here I am."
His next thrust was slow, but unforgiving.
She felt it. All of it. His annoyance that now he wanted her to speak, she held her silence. The tension rolling off him, his body pressing her into the desk. The pressure coiling deep inside her, too much and not enough.
"I can do whatever you want," he said. "But I can't read your mind." His fingers dug in, demanding. "You have to tell me."
The silence stretched too long.
"But I am feeling something," she muttered, more to herself than to him. It was true. She was feeling a thousandfold more than she thought she was even capable of feeling. So much she might snap under the weight of it.
A quiet breath left him, his thrusts pressing deeper.
"Are you?"
His hand slid down her side, every touch excruciatingly slow. "So you're telling me you don't require additional stimulation to reach your climax? Lucky you. Many women would be jealous."
She wanted to scoff. Wanted to roll her eyes, fire back something sharp, something that would wipe that awful dry humour off his lips. She wanted to tell him to shut up and just… just keep going. Not make this difficult.
But her body wasn't responding the way she expected.
Her breath hitched. Fuck. Why couldn't she just say it?
She knew what she liked. Knew exactly what worked for her. Knew what she wanted.
He offered. So why was it so damn hard to ask? Penetration alone never did it before.
Her throat clenched, and her pride warred with something heavy, something unfamiliar.
She exhaled sharply, frustration curling in her gut. "No, I… I do," she whispered.
The words felt wrong. Foreign. Like they belonged to someone else. And they sounded so… pitiable. So small.
But it was all she could manage.
The Seneschal exhaled through his nose. "Alright," he said, only slightly annoyed. "Guess I'll have to figure it out myself."
His hand slid up again, tracing the curve of her ribs, moving higher.
She shivered as his palm found her breast, fingers curving over the fabric of her dress. Just one layer. Not thick enough to dull the sensation. His thumb flicked over the peak. A test, a tease, a silent question.
A jolt shot through her, heat pooling low in her belly. She arched into his touch.
"Yes," she breathed.
There it was.
That spark. That visceral desire.
A quiet groan escaped him, something low, almost appreciative. She could feel him twitch inside her. It sent another thrill up her spine.
That one layer of fabric under his fingers was still too much. She wanted it gone. Wasn't it absurd that they were still dressed? That she hadn't even seen an inch of his skin. He remained in that gold-embroidered coat like this was some courtly affair rather than –
The thought splintered as his fingers found the neckline of the dress.
Slowly, he traced the hollow of her collarbone, finally sliding the fabric aside over one shoulder. The air was cool against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his breath. Anticipation curled under her ribs. Despite the cold, her nipple was stiff, begging to be touched.
And finally, his hand was on her again.
But he squeezed her breast before going back. He didn't seem to care that she wasn't quite as blessed as Isabela. Brushed a finger over her nipple. Traced lazy circles with the same precision he put into quilling his letters, just as focussed, as methodical.
Slowly, he pinched.
When he pulled, the sensation sparked like lightning through her spine. Her moan was stifled, but still too loud in the silence of the office.
She gripped the edge of the desk harder, her legs tensing.
This.
Maker, more of this.
But he withdrew. And sighed. Pensively rather than exasperated. But why?
His hand drifted lower. A slow, deliberate descent over her stomach, before disappearing behind the hiked-up skirts. She couldn't see him anymore.
But she felt it.
Slow again, at first, like all his teases. Just enough pressure, just enough friction. A careful rhythm, a little faster, up and down, around –
A shudder washed over her. More pleasure. More heat.
And yet –
Something inside it didn't budge.
It wasn't him.
He was thorough. Attentive. Taking his time. There was no reason she shouldn't just give in.
And yet, her body held tight to something she couldn't name.
She clenched her jaw.
Why?
His hand withdrew. For a flickering moment, she wanted to chase it. To demand that it kept going.
But before she could, he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear.
"Why are you fighting it?"
The words weren't teasing. They weren't a challenge.
They were… soft.
Hawke gritted her teeth. "I'm not."
"Hawke."
Her eyes flickered open.
He was watching her, not with that glint of dry amusement, or sharpness. Not even smugness. Inquisitive, almost.
As if proving a point, he reached out again. To that exposed nipple. Gave it a gentle flick.
A careful pull.
The sensation should have made her shudder. It should have sent heat curling low in her stomach.
But instead, her body locked up.
Tension rippled through her, but not the good kind.
Not the kind that made her shiver and arch against him. This was a different kind of tightness, a stiffness she only now became aware of. Her grip on the desk was rigid. She only noticed the strain now. Her breath caught in her throat.
This was… resistance.
But, why?
She wanted this. It felt good. She wanted to let go, to sink into it, to stop thinking and just feel.
But nothing moved through her. Not the way it should.
The Seneschal exhaled. It wasn't impatience, or frustration. Almost the opposite.
"You said you wanted to feel something," he said. Still dry, but gentler. "So, feel it. Don't fight."
But she didn't want gentle concern. She wanted passion, wanted her body to just act like it should.
"Perhaps I'm fighting back because I'm so damn good at it," she snapped, sharper than she intended.
Immediately, she regretted it. Balls, he was helping her. Perhaps she should try to listen.
She tried to focus. Tried to reach for that sensation, to feel. But her thoughts were too loud, too tanged. Her body too rigid.
Just let go.
Just –
The knot inside her only pulled tighter.
It was just too much. Too much to untangle. Too much to wrestle with. Too much to explain.
"Just... Forget about me," she forced out through gritted teeth. "Focus on yourself. I – I don't mind."
The Seneschal stopped. Not to tease. Not some deliberate denial meant to drive her mad with anticipation. He just stopped.
Completely.
"I don't know what kind of man you think I am," he said, quiet and even. "But I cannot enjoy myself if I know that you aren't."
It made her jaw tighten. He was making this harder. If he'd just kept going, just continued, then maybe, maybe whatever was stuck inside her would break loose.
But he leaned back, shifting his weight as if to pull away. To step back and leave.
No.
Her grip snapped free from the desk, her hands finding his back, clinging, nails digging into the smooth fabric of his coat, holding him there before he could slip out.
"Don't," she whispered.
She didn't look at him. Couldn't if she wanted.
His breathing was deep, short. Measured.
Certainly, he thought her foolish. Thought she was stupid. Certainly, he would berate her for being difficult. This was simple, wasn't it? Just sex. Nature's sure way to keep on existing. And yet, somehow, she couldn't do it. Like she missed the instructions.
But Maker, wouldn't he understand just how much she wanted this? She didn't want to be broken.
Everything around her already was.
She swallowed hard. "I just... Give me time. Please."
She felt him pulse inside her. He hadn't given up yet. Or at least, his body hadn't. That was something. He leaned back, just slightly. Just enough to stay inside.
"Hawke."
She braced for something sharp. Some clipped retort. A biting remark.
But instead –
Fingers brushed her forehead, tucking back damp hair. Slipped behind her neck, threading into her hair.
Not demanding. Not firm.
Just guiding her to look at him.
"The world will not end if you give in."
He said it matter-of-factly, like an undeniable truth she should have learned years ago. But it wasn't without kindness.
And still, she stiffened. Fingers dug into his shoulders.
As if it was easy. As if she hadn't tried, and failed.
If she didn't hold on, then what? She had to. She couldn't afford not to. She had lost so much already, and that had been her fault. So if only she gripped a little tighter, if she never gave in –
Something inside her snapped.
A flare of irritation. Sudden. Sharp. Stupid.
She exhaled sharply. "Fuck you, Seneschal."
He huffed. It was almost a laugh, a chuckle. "You are."
Oh, he liked that she was fighting back. She felt how it invigorated him. The twitch, the pulse. Inside her.
And worse.
Or better?
It was starting to do the same to her.
The hand behind her neck slid to her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His expression carried just enough self-satisfaction to spark another jolt of irritation.
"And I think for once, you can call me Bran," he said, emphasising with a sharp thrust. "Since I am inside of you."
Her eyes flared wide. Balls. She wasn't sure if this current wave was hatred or desire.
But Maker, he was inside her. And fine. If he wanted his name, he could bloody well have it.
"Well then, fuck you, Bran."
She said it like a curse. It felt like a surrender.
His fingers tightened tighter against the base of her neck, his grip firm, possessive. A sound caught in his throat, low, rough, something between a moan and a growl. His next thrust was sharp, maybe even a little uneven, as if the sound of his own name had thrown him off balance. Had she surprised him? Or had he just needed to hear it?
The movement sent a jolt through her, reigniting the heat that had been smouldering beneath her skin. He saw it. Felt it. The way her eyes roll up, the moan she couldn't suppress. The way she clenched around him.
Perhaps he took it as permission. Or maybe something he needed to hear. Or say. Give in return.
"Rose."
Her name. Just her name.
She normally hated it. But now it was all she wanted to hear.
She looked at him again, eyes brazing, wondering what else he had to say. "Yeah."
"Good." His grip on her tightened, his smirk widening. "Hold onto that."
She did.
She drank in the details. How the fabric of her dress clung to her sweaty back, how her hair stuck to her forehead. The way his breath misted against her skin. The slow, deliberate rhythm of his hips. Good.
No hesitation, no resistance.
But it wasn't enough. She needed more.
Her hands slid from his back, one drifting to his jaw. His stubble was rough beneath her fingers, the skin hot. She traced the line of his throat, feeling the rapid pulse hammering there. Like the ticking of a dwarven clock, counting down.
He was looking at her lips. Perhaps musing the way they formed his name. She stared at his, how they formed hers.
It was strange, how his lips felt more intimate than his cock inside her.
Or maybe she was overthinking things again.
Her fingers curled against his skin.
"Oh, fuck this."
Her hand slid from his jaw to his hair, fingers twisting in that whiskey-coloured mess. It was damp from sweat. It only made her grip tighter.
She didn't think when she pulled him closer, when she crashed her lips against his.
He answered in kind. Buried a hand in her hair, making sure she wouldn't slip away. As if she would. Another gripped her waist, keeping her against him.
She gasped against his lips, desperate for air. He took the moment to slip his tongue against hers. She tasted spice, a hint of caramel. The Nevarran whiskey. It tasted better from his tongue than it ever had from the glass.
His movements, his licks, were still low, deliberate.
Balls, why was everything he did a fucking taunt?
A growl of frustration built in her throat. If he wanted her to let go, so should he.
Her fingers tightened in his hair, yanking him deeper into the kiss. Her teeth scraped his lower lip before she swallowed his startled gasp. He twitched inside her. Good. He hadn't expected it, but the surprise invigorated him.
She locked her legs around his waist.
If he thought she was a maelstrom, fine. Maybe she should show him.
The muscles of his shoulders flexed below her hands as she pushed into him. He staggered back, scrambled to hold her, the inside of his knees hitting the chair –
He crashed into it with a grunt, Hawke landing in his lap.
"Rose," he growled, equal parts exasperation and lust.
She grinned down at him, tilting her head. "Bran."
His jaw clenched. Oh, he was going to make her pay for her recklessness.
But he wasn't slow anymore.
His hand found her bare breast again, fingers grazing before closing around the nipple. His caress was brief. He wasn't here to please her, not fully.
He tugged, hard.
A sharp, bright spark shot through her, curling hot in her gut. Her lips parted, ready to moan, to curse him –
He cut it off before a sound could escape, kissing her hard enough to steal breath. It wasn't controlled anymore. His teeth grazed her lip, biting down.
A warning. Or a promise.
When she could, Hawke laughed into it, unsure if that maddened him or pleased him. She wanted it to be both.
And finally, finally, there was no overthinking. No hesitation.
Nothing but the heat curling inside her, the sensation threatening to pull her under.
For once, she just felt.
Confession time: I've never written actual descriptive smut before. This took a really long time (to write but mostly to edit and re-edit and again) but I'm pleased with the result! It was really fun to write, I love their dynamic so much. I would love to hear your thoughts if you have any!
Also, this became entirely too long. There's not a fade to black after this, but will continue in the next chapter Chair (because I'm very creative with titles). I tried to keep it in one, but it was just way too much, and this seemed like a perfect cutting-off point that wasn't too much of a frustrating cliffhanger.
But yeah. Hawke still has a lot of things to process, no matter if she, ehm… temporarily forgot about them.