Chair

This.

Feeling. Sensing. Drowning.

The slightly sticky skin of Bran's neck beneath her fingertips, the lingering heat where her nails had pressed, leaving faint, crescent-shaped marks. The woody scent of his cologne, laced with sweat. The heavy rise and fall of his chest against her, their bodies still tangled, still joined.

His moans. And hers.

And she was on top now, setting the rhythm, letting her hips roll steadily. Every rotation sent a pulse of pleasure. Each, a quiet moan.

His breath misted over her lips. She tried to prevent a louder moan from escaping.

"Still speechless?" he whispered against her mouth. His lips brushed hers, not quite a kiss, but not quite not a kiss either. Coaxing. Daring.

She exhaled a hoarse laugh. "Not quite."

Her fingers curled against the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, pressing herself against him. She wanted more than an almost kiss, and swallowed the smile she felt on Bran's lips. His mouth was getting familiar now, but not less electrifying.

What in the world had brought them to this?

It was absurd really. The thought of it, the whole winding path of the night. The bet, the ball, the office. She wondered where Isabela was, now. She had been full of intention when she made Hawke drag her along.

I wonder if his hair down there is just as red as on his head.

She almost laughed. In a way, Isabela had gotten her wish. Not quite in the way she'd planned, though. The Orlesians were probably back at some fancy inn, or a forgotten wing in some noble's estate. But she was here, getting laid, just as Isabela intended.

And yet –

Isabela's other intention, her musing that Hawke really hadn't wanted to hear at the time, remained unresolved. It was ridiculous, really, given how intimately she felt him. She hadn't actually seen him.

And now that thought had taken hold, it wouldn't let go.

She broke the kiss, leaning back. Bran's eyes opened, hazy with sated pleasure.

"Wait," she announced.

His hands, which had been comfortably resting on her waist, tensed as she shifted. Despite her desire for him to stay inside, to keep the pressure there, she climbed off. Slowly, he slipped out. He groaned, surprised, or frustrated, as cool air touched him rather than the warm wetness of her. The loss of him was immediate, almost regretful –

But she had to know.

As she stood, her skirts fell back down like some silly afterthought of modesty. They were still clothed. Or close enough. Both her tits were out, but most of Bran was hidden away.

He exhaled sharply, adjusting against the chair. His expression shifted from confusion to mild concern. "Is something wrong?"

"Yeah."

His brows drew together. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Then why–?"

"I had to know," she cut in.

Bran blinked at her as she took him in. The fall front of his breeches was down, but the waistband still sat buttoned against his hips. Most of all, his cock stood proudly amid a mess of dark red curls.

Confirmation.

Bran's frown deepened. "You had to know."

Hawke nodded, grinning now. "Yeah."

"…How I looked like?" He sounded suspicious, edging towards exasperated.

"Well, that too." She tilted her head, assessing, before the grin grew into a satisfied smirk. "But mostly, I had to be sure."

She pointed, entirely shameless, to his groin.

"Your pubes are red."

Silence.

Bran just stared at her, utterly at a loss. After a sigh, he dragged his hand through his hair. "Yes," he said, in the same stressing way he might use for a particularly frustrating administrative error. "I have red hair. As you might have noticed. My beard is red, too. As is my hair everywhere."

"Yeah, but still." Hawke shrugged, crossing her arms as if she'd just settled a matter of high importance. Bran's eyes darted to the way it drew her breasts together. "Had to be sure."

Bran let out a breath, more of disbelief than annoyance, and leaned his head back against the chair. Almost against himself, he chuckled, as if he couldn't believe the situation he found himself in.

"Do you feel better now?" he asked.

"Immensely."

He shook his head. "So…" he added, just shy of impatient. "Are you coming back, or…"

Hawke still grinned. "I'm still looking at you. You can look some more at my tits if you like."

He sighed, as if he was reluctantly agreeing to her indulgences. "I am looking." His gaze flickered downward and stayed there. "I like what I see. Do you like what you see?"

She did. Of course she did. She had felt him, so none of this was a surprise, exactly, but there was something deeply satisfying about seeing the evidence of it. The way his cock glistened, slick from her, proof of what they'd done.

Her smirk widened. "It'll do."

His eyebrows lifted slightly. Almost as if impressed, but only almost. His expression flattened a heartbeat later. "Curious," he said with all his dry indifference. "That's not how you sounded when you were moaning in my ear and clawing at my back."

He shifted himself in his seat. Not much, just enough to draw attention downward. Casual in a deliberate way, entirely at ease with the current situation. And why wouldn't he be? He was well-shaped, nothing extreme, nothing strange. Just a man wholly comfortable with himself.

That annoyed Hawke.

She tilted her head slightly, assessing him. She saw a certain strain in him that he couldn't smooth away. A subtle tension.

She smiled again. "That's a lot of arrogance for a man waiting to be touched."

He didn't so much as blink. "And you certainly stall a lot for a woman pretending she isn't desperate."

Another surge of irritation sparked through her, hot, sharp. But not without pleasure. Because he wasn't wrong, and that only made her want to wipe that compose out of his countenance even more. She liked what she saw. She wanted more. A pulse between her legs nearly begged for it.

But she also wasn't about to forfeit.

"So, are we going to stand here now, see which one of us wants it more?".

Bran laughed. It wasn't a sound she'd heard often. Low. Pleased. Self-absorbed to the point of being insufferable. "Certainly not, Rose," he said smoothly. "We both know that's you."

Hawke inhaled slowly through her nose. He was right again. His stubbornness would rather keep him aching and unsatisfied than give in to her.

He knew she knew.

"Are you ready to concede, Hawke?" he said, stressing her name.

Her jaw wanted to lock, but she worked to keep her smile intact. She'd have her revenge. "You're a poor judge of character, Seneschal," she said with the same emphasis. "I never concede."

"In that case, it seems we have reached an im–"

He never got to finish.

Hawke dropped to her knees, wrapped her hand around his base, and took him in her mouth.

Bran twitched. All of him. A sharp inhale through his teeth. His grip clenching the armrest. Thighs tensing next to her face. A low, throaty moan almost escaped him, but he cut it off at the last second, clenching his jaw.

Hawke started slow, measuring the weight of him on her tongue, the heat of him, the way he hardened further under her attention. She took him further, let her fingers tighten around the base. A slow drag upwards, a flick of her tongue just beneath the head –

His hand was in her hair before he could reconsider the move, holding on.

"Maker," he managed to curse, and for once, Hawke was certain it wasn't at all voluntary.

Hawke repeated her move, slowly down again, dragging her tongue upward, lingering beneath his head.

The hand in her hair tightened. His other hand curled into a first.

Yes.

That was what she wanted. Slowly whittling his composure. See a raw, unguarded reaction.

She took him a little deeper, a few more drawn-out strokes of her mouth, savouring the way he twitched. He fought so hard to keep still. It made her increase her effort. But she didn't want to push him too far. She still wanted to have him again.

So she pulled away slowly, letting the tip of her tongue trace along his length as she withdrew.

Deliberately, she looked up.

Bran's head had tipped back at some point, his lips parted, chest rising with long, heavy breaths. She caught the last wave of pleasure rippling through his body, the clenching of his fingers, the way he forced himself to relax. One exhale just a fraction too hard before smoothing it over.

Deeply satisfying.

Hawke licked her lips and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Well?" she murmured, tilting her head up to him. "Have I worked for it yet?"

His hair was even more of a mess now. A smile began to form on his lips. His fingers slid from her hair, tracing along the angle of her jaw before tilting her chin upward, holding her still. "Are you under the impression that you're winning right now?"

Hawke twisted herself free of his grip and straightened herself.

She wanted to see him. Wanted the savour the way he still fought for composure. She wanted to stand over him and let him feel what she managed to draw out in him.

"Smug," Hawke concluded, her voice still a little unsteady. "And yet..." She tilted her head, still taking him in. "Not quite as composed as you'd like to pretend, are you?"

His fingers tensed against the armrest. Hawke's only warning.

Bran shot up, lunging forward to close his fingers around her arms, dragging her forward with all his momentum.

She gasped, turning into startled laughter. She should have seen it coming. And yet, he'd still managed to take her by surprise.

The chair jerked, scraping a full inch backwards, dragging a screeching groan from the wood against stone, as he pulled her on his lap.

She landed less than gracefully, but she didn't care. There was a tumble of skirts between them, just too many layers, and it was delightful to see Bran get frustrated trying to find his way through them.

She chuckled a laugh, revelling.

By the time he managed to find his way, Hawke's knees were weak. Trembling. Knowing he'd be inside her against soon. They were just strong enough to straddle him. Steady enough to shift just so. To take him how she wanted.

He didn't pause to draw it out, drag out her longing. They could pretend, but they were both as eager now.

A single thrust upwards was all it took.

He slid back inside her as effortlessly as if it'd never left her at all. Pressing. Comfortable. Sating her ache. Exactly right.

A sharp inhale. Both of their breath together.

Heat coiled, flared, curling deliciously up and down her spine. Breathless laughter melted into moans of pleasure.

Bran recovered first. His grip tightened, just slightly, just enough to remind her he was back in control of himself, before he leaned in.

His mouth brushed the corner of her lips.

"I told you," he said huskily. His breath hitched against her lips. He nearly kissed her, but paused. "Desperate."

Hawke let out an indignant chuckle, and before he could dare to look too pleased with himself, she rolled her hips.

Bran inhaled sharply.

Yes.

She moved to brace herself against his shoulders, to dig her nails in and set a pace to her own pleasure –

But Bran snatched her wrist. He held it firm.

"Do not soil my clothes." His voice was smooth, but laced with a warning.

Hawke blinked, and followed his gaze.

Her own hand was shining, slick with wetness. Evidence of how she'd touched him, after he'd been inside her. The wetness was her own. Not that she'd cared for even a single moment.

She grinned. Bran's reaction amused her.

For a second, she debated yanking her hand free. She almost wanted to smear it deliberately down the front of his jacket. It could be cleaned anyway.

But Bran moved.

He lifted the hand to his lips. Licked. A long, unbroken drag of his tongue over her wet fingers.

Heat bubbled through her, spreading in a tingling shiver down her spine and setting heavy between her thighs, against the pressure of him, there.

Bran licked his own lips as he released her hand. His eyes glinted. Amusement that he had managed to throw her off guard.

"Handkerchief," he grunted in a low voice.

Hawke didn't even think about defiance after that.

"Left cabinet – my left," Bran continued, and Hawke awkwardly leaned back, supported by firm hands at her waist. Maker's balls, her limbs felt uncoordinated, rough.

"No, your other left–" he snapped. "Yes, that one."

The cabinet door swung open under her fumbling attempt. Inside, she saw neatly stacked boxes, a half-empty bottle of something dark and promising, and finally…

She picked the topmost handkerchief from the pile, running a thumb over the embroidered initials.

"What's the C stand for?" she asked as she started wiping her hand.

Bran exhaled slowly, flexing his fingers against her hip. "It doesn't concern you."

She cleaned between her fingers and tilted her head. "I think it does. Since, you know, the bearer of these initials is currently deep inside me."

He ignored her. She was moving up and down before his eyes, taunting him with her breasts. He reached out, cupping them. Squeezing as she moved, providing the perfect motion for him. He leaned in, claiming a nipple with his teeth.

Hawke felt the answering tug of pleasure low in her stomach.

"Bran," she moaned in reprimand, fingers tangling in his hair, unsure if she wanted him to continue or pull him back and make him answer. "The C?"

He released her from his mouth, but his hands continued their caress. "And here I thought your investigative mind would have figured that out by now."

Her fingers gripped tighter against his scalp. "Haven't had the time."

He looked up, his expression almost bored. "Cavin." He said it like a minor inconvenience, as if reading aloud a name filed in a ledger.

Hawke sank herself fully down, rolling her hips just enough to watch his composure fray. There. A sharp inhale, a twitch of his fingers against her.

"Cavin," she repeated, tasting the shape of it on her tongue.

His fingers flexed again. Hawke wondered if it was in aggravation or pleasure of her claiming more of him. His first name. His last name. Shards of his composure. His tongue. His cock.

Her hands slid up his chest, spreading her fingers to feel the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath her fingers. The goldwork embroidery of his coat was rough against her fingers, and balls, why was he still wearing all of this?

"You wear too many layers," she muttered, tugging at the knot of his cravat.

Bran exhaled. "I'm wearing what fashion dictates."

Hawke tossed the cravat aside in a dramatic motion. "Balls, you make that sound boring. I'm here to liberate you."

Her fingers made quick work of the buttons on his coat. His shirt didn't open all the way, but she jerked the collar open enough to reveal a sparse mass of fine red hair covering his chest. Smiling, she ran her fingers through it, enjoying the texture.

Bran scoffed, or he tried to, but it came out like an amused breath. "Satisfied?"

"Exactly as red as I imagined."

He sighed. "You could have taken my word for it."

"I prefer firsthand verification."

She arched her back, leaning on her knees, tilting her hips exactly right to roll deeply and slowly. It had the effect she wanted. His breath caught, his fingers flexed against her waist. A low sound, like a suppressed moan.

Satisfied, she let her hands drift lower, her nails grazing over his chest.

"Seneschal Bran Cavin," she said, surprised she managed to make it sound exactly as purring as Isabela could talk. "As a man who seems to schedule every hour of his days, where exactly did I fit on your to-do list?"

Bran exhaled, half a laugh, half frustration. "I think you wrote yourself in." He shifted beneath her, a half-hearted thrust. Her legs prevented most of his movement. It was clear to Hawke that he had enough of this position. He had indulged her, enjoyed it, but now he wanted to dictate the motions again.

"Are you always this chatty?" His voice was strained, filled with frustration.

Hawke clenched her fingers, nails pressing into his skin. She wouldn't let him, not yet. "Are you always this impatient?"

His answering sound was almost a growl. "Hawke. Rose." He said it like a warning. "If you want me to play along, you might want to let me move more. This damned chair–"

He stopped talking, clearly still clinging to some form of restraint.

Hawke took a moment of contemplation, deliberately drawing it out. After a shared heartbeat, she pressed herself down, hard, slow, rolling her hips against him. A deep, unhurried grind.

Again.

And again.

Bran twitched beneath her, his whole body stirring. His breath came out throaty and exasperated.

"I can move rather well," she said airily.

Something flickered behind his gaze. His patience snapped.

He seized her hips, holding her still. The force of it nearly sent her off balance. Her breath hitched as she managed to grasp the armrest.

"Alright," he breathed. "I'll chat."

He'd managed to move after all, as he thrusted from below.

"Do you want to know if I ever thought about you?" His mouth was against her throat now, breath hot against sensitive skin. "Did you think I never did?"

Hawke gasped. Bit her lip.

"That I was some kind of pious man?" Teeth scraped against her pulse. "Immune to temptations?"

Another thrust, but he lessened his force to regain his breath.

"You've been in my bedroom before, Rose. You were naked." He nipped at an earlobe. "Did you truly believe I wouldn't imagine how it would be if I were there with you?"

Heat coiled in her belly, sharp and overwhelming. She bit her lip again, fighting for control. Over her breathing, over the sharp coil of want within her.

"Naughty, naughty," she managed, her voice betraying her pleasure more than she liked. "You were offering help to a damsel in distress, and your mind wandered to impure thoughts."

Bran scoffed, dragging a hand up to cup her breast. His thumb traced a slow, torturous circle. "You don't want anyone to think of you as a damsel," he said, before rolling the bud between his fingers.

A sharp jolt of pleasure shot through her. It spread, hot and overwhelming, curling low in her belly. A gasp left her lips. Heat coiled tighter.

Maker, if he did a few more times... Kept moving like this...

But he didn't.

His hand withdrew, and his movement stilled.

"Besides," he said casually, his breath fanning over her skin. "I am enough of a gentleman to know when I should not act upon my thoughts."

Hawke arched forward, shameless in her need. Her pride be damned. If she didn't get more of him, she might actually go mad.

"Please. You've never been all that gentlemanly with me. Don't start now."

His hand returned, firm, possessive. He squeezed a breast, but he didn't give her what she wanted. Just gave enough to make her crave.

"Alright," he said, his voice dropping into some low and authoritative. "Then get off me and get back on the desk."

Hawke blinked. What?

Bran just looked at her, calm and expectant. Not quite smiling. But there was something in his expression, like he wouldn't take no for an answer. As if he dared her to try.

A sharp shiver shot through her, hot and undeniable.

"You wanted this, Rose. All of this. So you'd better listen to me."

She wanted to argue. Wanted to fight. Turn his dare back on him.

But Bran wasn't a man to make empty promises. If she didn't do what he said, he'd leave her like this. Aching. Burning. Unfulfilled.

He wouldn't care if it left him the same.

Scowling, she shoved his hands away from her waist. She sank herself down one last time, deep, grinding her hips in the way she knew would draw his reaction.

His breath caught, but he managed, somehow, to stifle the moan.

Still, she felt the suppressed shudder.

The loss of him left her aching, but she climbed off him. She bent forward over the desk, her palms bracing against the wood, her breath coming too fast in anticipation.

But he didn't reach for her. His voice sounded behind her, sharp and commanding. "Turn around."

The order sent another bolt of heat through her.

Her instinct, her defiance, made her resist. She glanced over her shoulder, smirking.

"Oh? Was that an order? I didn't quite hear you."

It earned her an immediate scoff. Bran pressed his lips together like he was debating whether to be amused or annoyed. He stood there all casual, maddeningly composed. As if she hadn't just made him moan, as if his cock didn't stand thick and gleaming, wanting her as she wanted him.

"Don't play coy with me, Rose. You heard me."

He moved. A shift of weight, a rush of heat... And then he pinned her in place, one hand wrapped lightly around her throat, the other firmly against her stomach. His teeth scraped the back of her neck, his breath scalding hot.

"But if you want to test my patience, be my guest."

The words should have set her off. She should have laughed in his face. Told him to go to the Fade.

But by now, Bran had judged her well enough.

He let go of her stomach, sliding up her skirts again. He wasn't rushed, he wasn't fumbling. She thought he'd press his fingers into her, give her something, but no.

That was just a futile wish.

His hand lingered just beneath where she needed him. Taunting. Hovering. Close enough that she felt the warmth of his skin.

No words. No movement.

Just waiting. Just pressing himself against her back, waiting for her move, and –

Damn it. Damn the Maker. He, him, fucking Bran was going to make her break first.

Damn the way her lips were dry.

Damn the way she couldn't find the words to mock, counter, or retort.

Damn the way heat coiled in her stomach, aching in want.

Damn the way her body reacted to the command in his voice.

She wasn't like this. She wasn't. She defied authority. She hated being told what to do. It usually made her do the opposite.

Didn't it?

Maker, take her.

She swallowed. Bran loosened his hold slightly, as if he sensed her surrender.

She turned. Lifted herself back on the desk. Spread her legs without hesitation.

"You're still an ass, did you know that?" she bit, pouring all defiance left to her into the words.

But Bran was already between her legs, hiking up her skirts, his fingers teasing along her sensitive skin. Infuriatingly slow. Again.

"And yet," he said, pressing against her entrance but refusing to push in. Flaming fucking balls. "You want me. Don't you?"

Hawke bit her lip, frustration nearly bubbling over. She reached for him, grabbing his arms, desperate to take him herself, but he stepped back. Just out of reach.

Her patience snapped. "Fuck you, Bran." Nails dug into his arms. "Yes. I want this. I want you. Come and claim me. Happy now?"

His lips curled, darkly pleased. "I will be."

He didn't give her much time to think as he sank himself back in.

The first thrust stole the breath from her lungs, and shattered whatever defiance she had left. She gasped, fingers tightening around his arms, bracing herself against the force of him. He set a pace, not punishing, not frantic, but deep, steady, unrelenting. The kind of rhythm that left her teetering, drawing out please in slow unbearable waves, keeping her just at the knife's edge. Never quite allowing her to catch her breath.

It was all heat. Friction. The slide of him against her, inside her. The press of his body. The firm grip of his hands on her bared stomach, claiming every inch of bare skin as his own.

Maker, she was drowning in it.

But she wouldn't just give him her surrender this easily.

Wouldn't let herself have this, a tiny voice whispered.

But then a hand slid up, tracing the lines of her body towards a breast. A teasing graze. A firmer touch. Finally, a pull of her nipple that sent lightning jolting down her spine.

A moan ripped from her throat before she could swallow it down, her body betraying her completely.

Yes.

No.

She trembled beneath him, desperate for more, desperate to resist.

His other hand moved between her legs, his thumb finding that swollen, aching bud. He rubbed exasperatingly slowly at first, coaxing, teasing, but steadily faster, perfectly in time with each deep thrust.

Prickling heat pooled in her stomach, tighter, sharper, twisting into something all-encompassing, threatening to pull her along.

A sudden, raw knot bubbled to the foreground, commanding that she fight it.

She shouldn't feel this.

Not this much. Not this good.

It fought to bring her to what she should be thinking about instead. Grief, guilt, the gnawing knowledge that she didn't deserve this.

But her body didn't care.

It chased the pleasure anyway, futile to resist. Desperate to hold on, to keep it suspended forever. But she couldn't give in, she knew she didn't deserve –

Don't let go, don't let go.

But it was too late.

She was already unravelling, the pleasure building to something too big, too consuming, rolling over her like a riptide.

Her nails sank into Bran's wrist, clinging, bracing.

It was coming. It was inevitable now –

Heat collapsed, pleasure detonating in fierce, rolling waves that flooded through her entire body, a buzz, a thrill, bliss, everywhere and lingering, washing back –

She let out a quiet, broken moan, her back arching as her muscles clenched around him, pulling him deeper, drawing him with her. She felt him, inside her. Against her. Around her.

Warm. Hot. Stiff. Grounded. Real.

Maker, had she ever felt this?

The last shuddering wave of her release still rippled through her when she felt Bran snap.

A low, ragged groan as his body tensed. His grip tightened on her waist, hard, nearly bruising as he ground against her. His body shuddered. The pulsing thrusts of his cock, in rhythm with his movement. The warmth as he spent himself. His breath, ragged, shaking.

It was hot against her skin, hands sliding down her sides, warm and lingering.

Holding her together.

Or perhaps just holding on.

She closed her eyes, her exhale slow, feeling the last echoes of pleasure still shivering through her limbs.

And yet –

The cold was already curling at the edges of her mind, waiting for her to return.

Waiting to remind her of everything she'd been desperate to forget.

Waiting to tell her she should never have let herself feel this good.

She swallowed hard, and leaned forward, pressing her face against Bran's shoulder, hiding the sudden sting behind her eyes.

It couldn't win.

She clung to him, her fingers curled into the damp fabric of his collar, the hairs at the nape of his neck tickling her cheek. His breath was still heavy and warm against her ear.

The weight of his body, the lingering heat between them... She should be basking in it. Should have let herself drift, just for a little longer.

But the cold crept in now, dragging along every buried failure with it.

She hadn't felt this much emotions since –

Since her father died. She saw her mother's heart crumble before her eyes. Since she became the strong one because someone had to, and she was the eldest.

She'd pushed everything else aside. Her grief, her fear, her pain. She had to protect Bethany. Made sure the templars didn't get to her. There was no room for weakness. For emotions.

Then Ferelden edged towards a war. She could fight. Carver could fight. They couldn't protect Bethany if the country fell. So fight, they did.

The battlefield was littered was bodies. The promised Wardens didn't arrive. But she and Carver still lived, and they ran. And for what? To come home to nothing. To fire and ruin and the last pieces of their childhood turning to ash.

And the darkspawn weren't finished with them yet.

Carver, struck down before her eyes. Knowing they'd had to leave him, that they couldn't take his body, and bury it, like he deserved. The terrible, hollow knowledge that she hadn't been strong enough, hadn't been fast enough to save him.

Killing the ogre left her feeling nothing.

She built a wall around herself after that.

For Bethany. For her mother.

There wasn't room for anything else.

But humour... Humour was different. It wasn't something she chose. It was just there. A reflex, like breathing. A quip when her mother's hand trembled. A joke when Bethany looked scared. A grin she didn't feel, just to see them try to smile back.

And even if they scowled, at least they forgot about their troubles. No matter how temporary.

And after a while, it wasn't just for them. It was her, too.

Because humour was easy. It could deflect, distract, fill the silence so she wouldn't have to feel what simmered beneath.

She had tried to make things better. Had worked herself raw in Kirkwall's filth, dragging them up inch by inch. To get them out of their uncle's shack.

She met Varric. The expedition to the Deep Roads was supposed to be their way out. Instead, there was Bartand's betrayal. The terrible, suffocating fear that they'd die down there. That she'd failed her family.

And then there was Anders.

A warm touch of magic to calm her nerves, a quiet comfort in the dark. The touch that turned into a caress, into a kiss, an embrace, entanglement, and heat. It made the nights bearable. Something she had let herself take because...

Why not? They were probably going to die anyway.

But they hadn't.

And when they surfaced, she learned that she had failed Bethany. Had failed her the moment she let herself forget what was important, the moment she let herself take something for herself.

She couldn't prevent Bethany from being dragged away. She stood helpless against the templars. She had been foolish enough not to pour all her energy into escaping, every second of being in the dark.

Wasted in Anders' arms.

She fought with him after. He blamed the templars, urged her to take action. But he didn't understand. He didn't see that it was all her fault. That action would make things worse. And he wouldn't stop nagging. Nagging, pushing, not listening. Not understanding.

She'd tried, in the years since. In the dark, in bed, when her body was longing, when she ached for something. She'd touch herself. Tried to make herself feel.

She never could.

And now, here she was again.

She shouldn't have let this happen. Shouldn't have let herself feel this good.

She didn't deserve it.

What made her think she could?

Her fingers trembled against Bran's skin. The tight coil in her chest twisted higher, threatening to swallow her, make her choke –

She should move. She should go.

But her body didn't respond. All she could do was cling to Bran, as if he could anchor her, as if he could hold back the storm clawing his way through her ribs.

He shifted. Slowly, gently.

Hawke couldn't respond to it. His hands slid around her, arms folding at her back in a loose, steading hold. He didn't speak, didn't demand anything of her. Just held her.

He slipped out. Something dribbled down her inner thigh.

He held her.

He was warm. Solid.

Kind.

That was the worst part.

If only he pushed her away, berated her for acting like this, after she, she, wanted this. But he just held her.

Another thing she didn't deserve.

She swallowed hard, and pressed her hands flat against his chest. Carefully, she pushed herself away.

Bran let her go without resistance. His gaze stayed on her, watching, waiting.

She didn't look at him.

She found the handkerchief she used to wipe her fingers. Cleaned her thigh. Reached for her underwear, and pulled it on with shaking hands. The room felt too close, too warm, pressing in as if it knew.

She slipped the straps of her dress back on her shoulders, covering her chest again. Her hands didn't work quite right. She moved quick, clumsy. She needed to go. Needed air, needed distance.

She reached the door, closed her fingers around the handle.

She hesitated.

Before she could stop herself, before she knew why she was saying it –

"...Thank you."

She didn't turn around. Didn't wait for an answer. She stepped through the door and closed it behind her.

Didn't look back.


Bran exhaled slowly, listening to the door click shut.

Thank you still rang voicelessly through the space, pressing in on the silence.

She hadn't meant to say it. He was sure of that.

Then why had she?

It wasn't for the sex. That much was clear. For holding her, then? For not pushing her away? For not asking questions?

For not being cruel?

He was many things, but he wasn't that.

Bran prided himself on understanding people. Judging their character, predicting them. He thought he understood her. But she had unsettled him. Left before he could even decide whether to answer her.

He sighed.

The air was thick. Lamp oil, sweat, sex. The scents clung to the walls, to his skin, to the mess across his desk. Papers scattered everywhere. His ink jar had tipped over onto its tray, one of his quills was on the floor, half-buried beneath the stacks of folders from the broken shelf. And yet, somehow, the damned chrysanthemums were still in their vase.

And he himself was no less a mess. His cravat gone, his coat unbuttoned, the front flap of his breeches down. He could still see himself glistening, with her.

His fingers twitched before he forced them into motion. A handkerchief from his cabinet. Clean himself. Wipe away her remnants. A deep breath. This was familiar. Grounding.

Perhaps wrongfully so.

But familiarity was steadying. Just after visiting the brothel, he had to clean and dress. It didn't matter that now, he was still wearing most of his clothes. It just meant fewer steps. Fasten his breeches. Tie his cravat. Smooth his clothes.

Methodical. He had done this often. Separate indulgences from the rest of his life.

He moved his shoulder as he fastened the last buttons of his coat. A dull ache shot through him from where the shelf had hit. Damn thing. He hadn't even noticed it when he was inside –

Or perhaps he had, but he had ignored it in favour of his more imminent desires.

Everyone had those, certainly. Desires. Physical urges. Or most people did. There was no shame in tending to them, like clenching a thirst with a glass of cold water.

You just cleaned up after. You moved on. Simple.

Except it wasn't. Not this time.

Bran glanced at the desk. The polished surface still bore the smudges of her hands.

His fingers curled, nails digging into his palms. He shouldn't think about it. He did.

He ran a hand through his hair. He should neaten things. He didn't.

Instead, he kept looking at that one empty space on his desk. The space she had occupied.

Maker, she had been eager for him. He'd felt it before he'd even pressed two fingers inside her, and when he finally entered... Fuck. The heat of her, the way she had clenched around him, the way she arched against him, shuddered beneath him as she came.

Her moans, her expression. Her foul mouth, her soft lips –

He clenched his jaw. No.

That wasn't part of going to the brothel. Or if it was, it wasn't a service he ever paid for. He had never wanted to kiss them. Had never even thought about it.

But he had wanted to kiss her.

He inhaled sharply, forcing the thought away.

That was the problem, wasn't it? She had felt good. Too good. Not just physically, that was easy to explain. But her. Her presence. Maker, even her insults, even her goading.

Again, he ran a hand through his hair.

She had wanted him. That was all. Not the other way around. He had just answered her call, reacted to the opportunity. Given his body what it demanded.

Less effort than going to the brothel, he told himself.

But it wasn't, not really. Perhaps in the moment, but not in everything that followed. He had never been one to only look at short-term goals.

And yet she had made him forget about that.

Hawke. Rose.

He had always called her Hawke. It was what she preferred. Yet, in the heat of things, after she had said his first name, he had said hers.

And she hadn't stopped it. Had even mocked him for it later, when he called her Hawke again.

What was she now?

Hawke was the woman who stormed into his office, all grins and recklessness. The thorn in his side. Insubordinate. Impertinent. A force of chaos he should have ignored.

But Rose had been beneath him. Above him. Wrapped around him.

Rose had taken him in her mouth, made him grip her hair.

Rose had come for him. Rose had made him come.

Rose had clung to him afterwards, like he'd never been held. Like she needed him, like his presence was somehow comforting.

In that moment, Rose had been silent, fragile in a way he had never expected of Hawke.

His mind told him they were the same person. And yet there were two different names. Next time he saw her, he would have to decide which to say.

Or she would decide for him. Did he want her to call him Seneschal or Bran?

It should be Seneschal, he reasoned.

Nothing within him dared to correct that.

Hawke then.

Yes.

Rose was a wildcard. Unpredictable.

Hawke was familiar. That was safe.

Not like the things he had let slip. Things that should have remained unsaid.

He had told her he had imagined her in his bed before. As if this had been inevitable. As if this was something he had wanted.

And she had trembled under his touch. Moaned in his ear. He had felt her as he thrust in her, all warm and wet and eager, the little shocks of pleasure in her body, her grip on his wrist, the way she fought back, for the control she wanted, the way she released it, told him to claim her, Maker, how she'd clung –

He clenched his jaw. No. None of that was the point.

He exhaled sharply. His eye fell on the two glasses of whiskey. Hers was empty. She had drained it before pressing her hand against his chest.

His glass was still half full.

He wanted to take it, down it in one go, and leave his office. Walk home, let the night air cool him. Leave this mess for tomorrow.

He'd already taken two steps closer, when his eyes fell on something on his desk made him pause.

A worn leather pouch, just beside a stack of reports.

Bran inhaled sharply.

Her toolkit.

The damn thing that had occupied his mind ever since she lifted her skirts and he saw strapped around her thigh. Ever since she'd stared at him, wide-eyed, in the realisation that she had accidentally exposed herself.

When he had imagined following the straps with his hands.

Before he got the chance to actually do it.

He reached for it, running his finger over the leather. Well-worn, practical, and deceptively unremarkable in appearance. But it only was because it wasn't strapped to her thigh.

She'd forgotten it. Likely left in such a hurry she didn't remember him unbuckling it and placing it there. It said something about her current state.

She was careless in many things, but not this. When he sheltered her during the thunderstorm, he distinctly remembered her tending to it and drying it by the fire. This was a part of her, like her sharp tongue, the grin she wore as armour.

Bran frowned.

He should have it sent to her house.

That was the logical thing to do. Have a messenger drop it off. They wouldn't have to exchange another word about it. It would be dealt with.

Out of his office. Out of his hands. Out of his thoughts.

That irritated him.

He didn't want to send it to her.

He much less wanted to keep it.

The idea of her walking in here, again, all grins and insolence, to retrieve it –

Bran exhaled sharply and set the kit back down. Quickly. Almost as if it burned him.

A decision he would make later.

The whiskey still taunted him with its rich red colour, but he decided to ignore it after all. He'd do the responsible thing. Neaten things up.

As if leaving a clean slate behind could somehow make him forget.


Note: Poor Hawke has a lot to work through (and so does Bran, but at a far different level). I hope you like reading it as much as I did writing it! Next chapter's called Tea.