"I know what you're going to say." Hawke hadn't meant to startle, but Fenris jerked around nonetheless, grimacing in pain at the quick move. They'd finally made it home after an incredibly arduous journey back to the city, but the pigheaded bastard seemed determined to refuse all but the smallest amount of those foul healing draughts. "But that healer in Darktown owes Varric a favour—"

"No." Turning back towards the basin, which was filled with steaming water already gone murky and faintly pink, Fenris picked up the washcloth and rang it out again. Most of the dirt and blood was gone from his face and neck, but his movements had been excruciatingly slow before he knew Hawke was watching. "And now is not the best time to sneak around as you do. Or meddle."

"Hey now, I don't—" Pushing off from his slouch against the door frame, Hawke padded farther into Fenris' bedroom, trying not to ogle the way the loose cotton trousers (unwillingly borrowed after Hawke insisted that leggings and torn up legs did not mix) sat low on his hips despite the tightly knotted drawstring. "All right, I do both of those things almost constantly, but it's all part of the larger tapestry of my irresistible charm." When Fenris snorted, scrubbing too harshly along his bare collarbones, Hawke slipped even closer, well into the realm of his personal space.

"Hawke," Fenris said, his voice pitched low with warning. "Don't."

"I wouldn't." Shuttered eyes flickered in his direction, and battered shoulders relaxed fractionally. In return, Hawke offered a smile that may have been too soft and not nearly rakish enough. "You've got a gash on your back, though, and if you don't let me at least clean it, you'll get an infection and die, but not before you've gone batty from some hideous blood fever. I'd rather not have a dead elf stinking up the house, if it's all the same."

The washcloth hit the water with a splash, and Fenris was suddenly wound tight as a bow again, turning his head sharply away. "I said don't. Leave me be."

"And I said I wouldn't, and I won't. Leave you be, or the other thing. Neither." He didn't miss the simmering glow that had started across Fenris' skin, just a flicker of blue. "Your wounds need to be tended properly. I promise I'll behave. On my word as an assassin and a scoundrel." When that didn't get him a chuckle or even a glance, Hawke changed tack. "On my word as your friend, then."

After a long, tense silence, Fenris huffed out an irritated breath. "You are infuriating."

"I'm also witty, handsome, and very good with my hands. Remember the tapestry thing? My tapestry of diverse and endearing charms?" Unwilling to test his luck much farther, at least for the moment, Hawke reached for the washcloth, squeezing out enough water that it wouldn't drip. "I'm going to touch you now, just a bit. Please don't punch me through the chest."

The first feather-light stroke made Fenris flinch, but otherwise he stayed perfectly still. The wound Hawke had specifically mentioned was a cut curving from the base of his neck across one shoulder blade, unpleasantly deep but not dangerously so, and it was already a bit hot and angry looking, likely from the filth caked in it. Very gently, and being as careful as possible to touch mainly with the washcloth, Hawke wiped away every trace of dirt and dried blood.

"There are two more scrapes along your spine," he murmured, purposely keeping his gaze away from the elegantly tapered ears so very close to him. If he even dared to consider what sort of noises he might be able to draw out, just by sucking on one firm tip—

No. He would behave.

"Just do it, then." Those words, that husky voice… Maker have mercy, they almost undid him. Biting his lip just shy of drawing blood, Hawke continued cleaning Fenris' back and managed to keep his hands from shaking, which was no small feat. It felt a little like bathing a statue, except for the sound of Fenris' breathing (maybe a little stuttered, a little affected) and the warmth of his skin.

He was rinsing the cloth, nearly finished with the raw scratches that tore across the small of Fenris' back, when a hoarse voice stopped him short. "I never expected her to come after me, not with Danarius dead. I was a fool."

Before he could think better of it, Hawke spoke, returning to glide the washcloth slowly over the last streaks of dirt. "Who was she?"

"Hadriana. Danarius' apprentice." Hawke could see Fenris' fingers curl into tight fists where they hung at his sides. "When I was a slave, she was a torment, a sadist, and I was powerless to fight back. With Danarius presumed dead, she wanted to claim all of his… assets. I don't wish to imagine the horrors she would have inflicted upon me, without him to keep her in check."

Careful of injuries, and even more careful to move at a snail's pace, Hawke eased one arm around Fenris' ribs, and when he heard no protest except a slight hitch in his breathing, he laid his hand lightly against the centre of his chest. The heart under his palm was hammering madly.

"I would have bloodied a swath from here to Minrathous," Hawke said softly, leaning down to ghost his lips against Fenris' shoulder, nothing but gentle and chaste. He'd made a promise, and he would keep it, but this sentiment would not be stifled for a moment longer. "I would have skinned that bitch alive. There aren't enough demons in the Fade to keep me from coming for you."

Fenris made a quiet, choked sound, but Hawke was already stepping away to a respectable distance, draping the washcloth over the edge of the basin. "I'll leave you to finish cleaning up." He swallowed, very aware that Fenris hadn't even tried to look back at him, and more than a little ashamed that he'd let himself bend his promise like that. "And I'll make us a bite of supper. Call me if you want a hand with anything else."

A few days later, Fenris was nearly mended, thanks in no small part to the dram of healing draught Hawke managed to browbeat him into drinking. The worst of the bruises had faded to a sickly yellow-green, and the deepest cuts were well scabbed; all in all, he looked good for a elf who'd so recently been thrashed by a pack of heavily armed slavers and a viciously cruel magister.

Hawke was feeling a bit edgy, what with Fenris being decidedly moodier than usual, but he supposed that was to be expected. Being kidnapped and nearly dragged to the one place in Thedas possibly worse than the Void itself was not a usual occurrence, even for them. Hawke just hoped his stupid, selfish impulse hadn't contributed to these nasty shifts in temper, but he probably wasn't that damned lucky.

At the moment, he was stretched out along their comfortably worn settee, reading Varric's latest serial in the light of a crackling fire. Winter had come in especially bitter this year, though nothing so snowy and miserable as a good old Fereldan blizzard, but other than the frosty elf brooding in his bedroom, their home was quite cosy.

When he heard footsteps crossing the sitting room— that familiar, determined stride— he kept his eyes firmly on the pages in front of him. When Fenris stopped beside the sofa, standing silently down by his feet, Hawke waited.

"Callum." There were any number of things Hawke expected Fenris to say (I'm leaving being frighteningly high on that list). His name, simply his given name, hadn't even made the top hundred. "May we speak?"

"Yes—" He scrambled, tossing the book aside and swinging his legs off the sofa. "Yes, of course."

Fenris was frowning, but not scowling, and there was as world of difference between the two. He crossed his arms, making no move to sit in the spot Hawke had vacated, and it harkened back to all those times Callum (before he'd been Hawke and almost exclusively Hawke, in this City of Chains) had done something mischievous or otherwise ill-disciplined, making his father look at him with nearly the exact same frustrated expression. It was… awkward, to say the least.

Right before Hawke would've said something flip, something about how speaking usually involved less heavy, unbroken silence, Fenris began.

"You are an exceptionally dishonest man." That… that was true, but it still hurt. "You make your living with lies and subterfuge, and you're inarguably skilled at it. It's idiotic that I trust you."

It's… oh.

Keeping a leash on the beaming grin that was threatening to burst forth, Hawke scratched the back of his head. "Well, aren't you lucky Varric doesn't keep you on for your good sense, hm?"

"And you're forever making light of everything," Fenris continued, gaining momentum, but Hawke didn't mind. He was trusted, by the most guarded man he'd ever met. "It's absolutely maddening, enough that I've come so close to choking you to death on almost a daily basis, it's a wonder either of lasted a week living in this place together. You're overconfident, presumptuous, and vain, and when you smile like that—" He pointed accusingly, and Hawke realised that joy and amusement had both ganged up to sneak onto his face, quirking his lips. "I'm driven to distraction. This is insanity."

"You know, I'm not at all sorry you feel that way." In for a silver, in for a sovereign; Hawke allowed his smile to broaden until it crinkled the corners of his eyes, shifting all the nervousness out of his posture. "You're a crabby son of a bitch, but I still adore you, so you've certainly not got a monopoly on crazy in this house, love."

Finally dropping to sit at the other end of the settee, Fenris lowered his head into his hands, muttering to himself. If it were anyone else, Hawke would have swooped down with a flurry of hands and kisses, set on making up for months of wretched wanking.

If it were anyone else, he wouldn't have been in this blighted state to begin with.

"All right," Fenris said eventually, once he'd finished insulting Hawke's ancestry all the way back to the Divine Age, or reciting his favourite epic dwarven saga, or whatever he'd been grumbling about in Arcanum. "Just… just sit there. Don't move, and don't touch me."

That sounded suspiciously like the talk Varric had been forced to give to the rest of his mercenaries, after Fenris' first attempts at teamwork had ended with broken bones. No sudden moves, absolutely no touching, and for the Maker's sake, don't stare.

Instead of delving down that route, Hawke simply nodded ever so slightly. "As you say. I am entirely at your disposal." Fenris looked surprised by the sincerity, but not necessarily disbelieving; that was certainly a step in the right direction. He stood, shuffling over to loom somewhat uneasily, and the irrationally optimistic part of Hawke's mind began to cheer raucously.

Then Fenris reached out, and callused fingers pressed against Hawke's jaw, simply resting there. A thumb brushing slowly through the scruffy stubble he'd been neglecting made him shiver, and his hand clenched hard against the arm of the settee. He'd hidden in a very tiny, very uncomfortable wardrobe for almost ten hours once, waiting for the right opportunity to slip a garrotte around a nobleman's neck, but keeping still at this momentwas infinitely more difficult.

It didn't get any easier when Fenris bent down, slanting that sinfully lovely mouth over Hawke's own. Surely the order of don't movedidn't include his lips, or his tongue— it was a risk he'd take, regardless. Sitting there like a corpse while Fenris kissed him, slow and a bit tentative, was not something Hawke would bear.

As it turned out, that gamble was a smart bet. One lick across Fenris' lower lip earned him a groan, two got him access to that hot, sweet mouth, and before you could say oh yes please, Maker, Hawke had a lapful of eager elf. Hands were tangled in his hair, pulling his head back to grant Fenris' better access, and slim, strong legs were clamped like a vice on either side of his hips, pinning him in place. In the span of a few fluttering heartbeats, tentative had shifted to almost frantic, brilliantly enthusiastic if a little inexpert, and Hawke was digging trenches in the upholstery trying to keep his hands to himself.

He's kissing you like a naughty chantry virgin who's just snuck out of vespers. Go gently, you great pervy lout.

And so Hawke weathered this ardent storm with as much care and grace as he could muster, and given the fact that he'd been kept on a knife-edge of constantly thwarted arousal for bloody months, it was rather amazing he mustered as much as he did. He met fiercely keen kisses with tenderness, letting languorous slides of his tongue and softly murmured endearments cool the frenzy but not the passion, until Fenris' fingers eased their death-grip on his scalp and the tension began to bleed from the elf's bearing.

Eventually, after what could have been hours, hands were carding through his hair, blunt nails scratching lightly as Fenris drank him in like the finest wine, and Hawke made no attempts to quiet his moans. Having a demanding bundle of lust writhing around in his lap had some significant appeal (appeal that would be thoroughly investigated later, Maker willing), but this leisurely, sensual exploration was more in line with what the current situation called for.

Still, his grip on the settee was painfully tight, clenching with every shift of Fenris' hips. It was well into the evening, and both of them were all but dressed for bed in well-worn linen and cotton, but even without layers of armour, none of it was enough. Not the occasional press of weight against Hawke's neglected erection, or the feel of an answering hardness, deliciously thick and warm and stuttering against his belly. He wanted— needed— to grab hold of those teasing hips and pull them down, making Fenris gasp and start grinding in earnest.

"Fenris—" He drew back just enough to catch his breath, and was rewarded with lips and teeth blazing a trail over to the side of his throat, staking a claim there with wet, open-mouthed kisses and making his pulse skip. "Maker, please… please let me touch."

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Fenris grew very still, and Hawke swallowed back a curse.

"No, never mind—" He began back-peddling quickly, daring to nuzzle against the tanned cheek so close to his face. "Forget I said anything, and let's go back to the kissing. The kissing is grand, and I—"

"I'm being foolish." Fenris' voice was an angry rasp, but he didn't move away, his words ghosting across the damp skin he'd left under Hawke's ear. "I trust you, more than anyone I've ever known. I want to do this. I want to be with you."

There was a faint quiver in Fenris' muscles, barely noticeable, but it made Hawke's heart ache. They'd discussed his markings before, the pain of them and the memories, but this was more than that (something that made him consider paying Merrill a visit, to see if the peculiar little elf might be willing to raise a very specific, very waterlogged corpse. Some people deserved to die twice).

This fear was something Hawke knew he could not fathom, not truly, but he thought he might have an answer for the moment. Stopping now wasn't really an option, unless Fenris called a halt— to offer otherwise would do nothing but insult him.

Fenris was not a man who would abide coddling, especially when feeling vulnerable.

"Would it help," he said softly, rubbing his nose along the line of Fenris' jaw and forcing a smile into his words for both their sakes. "If I said I wanted you to fuck me through the mattress, however you please? Or you could tie me up, then fuck me through the mattress. Or lash my hands together and fuck me over the desk. I'm not terribly picky."

"You—" Now Fenris leaned back, but it wasn't to flee in disgust. He was staring, wide-eyed and flushed, but he wasn't running. "You would… wish to be taken? You want me to bindyou, and…"

"Binding is completely optional." The thread of interest curling through Fenris' tone made Hawke's smile grow just a little lewd. "But oh Maker, yes, I wish to be taken. Thoroughly. Often, if you like it. At least twice tonight if you can manage it. I will warn you of one thing, though." Hawke would have bitten his tongue ages ago, if his spiral into wantonness hadn't been putting a very promising heat into those glittering green eyes, banked behind the lingering astonishment. "I've been dreaming of having your cock up my arse, and they are always exceptionally good dreams. Certain expectations have been set."

For one brief, terrifying moment, Hawke worried he'd gone a step too far. Fenris was pulling away entirely, standing and leaving Hawke possibly colder and more desolate than he'd ever felt in his life, but then a very insistent hand bunched in the front of his shirt, yanking him to his feet as well.

"Tell me of these expectations," Fenris murmured, and Hawke was faced with the choice of following where he was being led, or having his shirt ripped off. The sizable tent in Fenris' trousers made that decision a fairly simple one.

"Oh, I think that would be cheating," he replied, scrambling like an overzealous mabari pup after its master. They were headed towards Hawke's bedroom, the bedroom with the larger bed, upon which there was a mattress. Hawke was operating under the assumption that Fenris might just be willing to do filthy, glorious things to him on that mattress. "Show me what you've got, instead. I'll keep a scorecard, mark you out of one hundr—"

He was pulled again, hard and down, and the crush of a fierce, demanding mouth stole his breath, possibly trying to steal his soul, which was silly, since he'd gladly give all of that to Fenris if he simply asked. His hands twitched, still locked firmly by his sides, and they both stumbled the last few steps into his bedroom.

"Full marks," he gasped when Fernis let him breathe again. "Keep up the good work—" The hand on his chest pushed (just pushed, not phased, so he was still doing all right), and Hawke pin-wheeled back, landing on the bed with a grunt.

The quilts were much more forgiving than the settee had been, and the moment his mind caught up with his new position Hawke clawed his hands into the soft fabric. Fenris' grip on his thighs kept him from scooting farther back, and Hawke arched up like a drawn bow when a knee pressed between his legs.

"Fuck, Maker—" Warm, rough hands slid up his ribs, pushing his shirt up to bunch under his arms, and Fernis' tongue licked a path of lightning up the centre of his chest. "I— yes, yes, fuck—"

"It's rather remarkable," Fenris said, lapping at one quickly pebbling nipple while lightly pinching the other. Hawke still couldn't quite seem to get enough air, but what a way to die. "That you can't stop yammering even now."

There was something so very fond lurking behind that jab, and Hawke didn't stop the delighted laughter that bubbled out of his throat. "Sorry love—" The endearment made Fenris bite down hard enough to leave a mark, but it seemed much more possessive than discouraging. "You'll have… have to do better than this… to shut me up."

Fenris, significantly less verbose than Hawke even when they weren't breathless and huffing and coiled around each other like snakes, rumbled with a very promising sort of growl. That sound alone would have been thrilling, but suddenly there was a hand down the front of Hawke's trousers, grabbing hold of the very interested erection trapped within, and he was moments away from tearing the coverlet to ribbons.

Fenris crawled up farther, stretching his lithe body all along Hawke's and snatching brief kisses while Hawke panted and whined. A hand-job while still in his trousers shouldn't have been so damned good, but Fenris was watching him through hooded eyes, rolling his own hardness against Hawke's hip—

He fought to centre himself, unwilling to unravel just yet. "Getting there…" Tilting his head to nip at Fenris' chin, he called up a cheeky smirk that was only a little strained. "But too many clothes."

Which was the last thing he managed to say before Fenris all but tore the trousers off him.

Letting himself be manhandled was no issue at all; Hawke squirmed and wriggled like an eel to help get himself naked, then slid up towards the pillows to sprawl more comfortably across the bed. He could feel his mouth begin to water when Fenris finally decided to follow suit, stripping down to reveal the beautiful planes of his chest (which Hawke was now permitted to ogle to his heart's content), and then— oh blessed Andraste— everything else.

He was blatantly staring, and maybe it was a little rude, but a cock like that deserved some extensive consideration. And then extensive licking.

"Right," he rasped, letting his gaze rake over the remarkable figure of the elf who was half standing, half kneeling on the foot of his bed. It was risky to peel one hand free of the tangle of quilts, but he did it anyway, pointing. "I want that. Please."

"Callum, wait." Hawke felt a cold stone settle in his gut, instantly sobered by the hesitant crack in Fenris' voice. He glanced up, and was faced with a wide-eyed lover who had plummeted from horny and even somewhat playful to utterly cast adrift. "I don't… What you're asking… I'm not certain I know how to do this." Fenris swallowed hard enough that Hawke could see his throat contract. "Not without hurting you."

"I'll show you." Stamping down his fury— his anger certainly wasn't directed at Fenris, and it had no place in their bedroom— Hawke leaned over and pulled open the drawer of his beside table, rummaging for his trusty jar of slick. Palming the precious salve, he turned back and patted the blankets encouragingly. "Will you come up here and kiss me?"

Still looking rather unsure, Fenris moved forward, crawling up across the mattress until their lips met again, gentle and grounding. Hawke wanted to work out every ounce of tension and worry that had the poor man tied up in such knots, but settled for pressing the jar into his hand instead, letting their fingers brush briefly.

"Fenris," he said between kisses, hips shifting impatiently. "How do you want me? On my knees? My back?" Fenris hummed, reddening Hawke's bottom lip with his teeth before pulling away slightly. The fringe of his hair, irresistibly soft and a bit damp from sweat, brushed against Hawke's forehead like silk.

"I would see your face." His voice was quiet, a little gruff, and even through the flush of arousal, Hawke felt his own cheeks heat. Maker, what this elf could do to him.

"Open the jar, love," he said, instead of whatever nonsense his thudding heart was about to dredge up. "And move so I can lift my legs. We'll work on getting me relaxed for you."

There was a bit of shifting around, and then Fenris was kneeling between his bent knees, petting his thighs in a way that was both splendidly tender, and excruciatingly teasing. That was one request down— the moving part— and one to go, but Fenris didn't seem in any great hurry to get the slick open.

Then he leaned forward, letting a warm puff of breath ghost over Hawke's throbbing erection, and suddenly Hawke had absolutely no desire to rush him into the preparation stage of their evening. This had all the makings of a brilliant little side trip.

At the first touch of that tongue against his hard-on, Hawke bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted blood. There was a mouth closing over him, sliding down with cheeks hollowing, and pressure and suction, and— oh, this was what months of frustration and unsatisfying masturbation could do to an otherwise perfectly healthy and formerly very sexually proficient man. This was not the brilliant plan it had seemed. He was going to come. Holy Maker, Fenris had barely touched him, and he was going to come. That would be too embarrassing for words.

Ignoring the surprised grunt such a quick move elicited, he darted one hand down and squeezed tightly around the base of his cock, inhaling slow and deep. He teetered, pushing back against the edge of that precipice as Fenris drew back. He was fine, totally in control of himself.

Then he heard Fenris' chuckle, maybe a little darkly, and a glance confirmed that yes, the elf was smirking at him. Poised over his split-slicked prick, with that gorgeous mouth all moist and hot and willing… this was so wholly unfair.

"Later," he wheezed, squeezing himself tighter. "Blighted flames, later I will take you up on that. Enthusiastically."

"As you wish," Fenris replied, still smirking, but before Hawke could feel even a flicker of relief or disappointment (at this point, probably both), that same wicked tongue was laving at his balls.

How in the Maker's name had they gone from almost timid I don't want to hurt you, to tonguing his balls?

"G-going to come—" He arched up, gasping. Fenris' hand was unexpectedly firm around his, and what had been a restraint was now a steady, pumping grip. "Bastard—"

It wasn't the most romantic thing he'd ever called a lover the instant before a first orgasm, but it was sincere. Climax hit him like a maul, silencing the rest of the world save for the noises of pounding of blood in his ears and the smug bastardof an elf, slurping and sucking between his legs. Everything went tight, bright, then snapped in one great rush, and he was shuddering his release all over their clasped hands and his own stomach.

"Bastard," he said again sometime later, batting weakly at Fenris' head as the torture of licks and nuzzles continued, making his oversensitive cock twitch painfully. "What was… you… ugh."

"Relaxing you," came the all too self-satisfied rumble of an answer, spoken into the juncture between his groin and his thigh, and Hawke tried to be annoyed. It was difficult with his bones turned to jelly and his brains leaking out his ears, but he tried.

Then Fenris was pushing on the backs of his thighs, and that wicked, bastardly, glorious tongue was fluttering over the pucker of his arse, and Hawke may have whimpered. A little.

The sound made Fenris stop and look up at him with poorly hidden apprehension, which was the exact opposite of what Hawke wanted. "Is this all right?"

"Maker, Fenris, yes—" If his choice was either maintaining some measure of dignity during these proceedings, or getting a rimming, Hawke was just about at the point where he'd be willing to drop trou in the middle of chantry services and beg for it. Of all the things he'd expected from his darling little cock-tease, this was better. "Yes, yes, yes, yes— fuck—"

This was one of his very favourite things, and he hadn't even imagined Fenris would be up for it (not yet, at least; Hawke had enjoyed many fantasies of introducing the elf to such debauchery). Apparently mollified by such an enthusiastic response, Fenris got back to work, spreading Hawke wider with his thumbs as he began gently licking and probing. Hawke knew he was babbling— breathless curses and endearments, and probably some other horrifically humiliating rubbish— but he didn't have a single thought left to spare on trying to shut up. His nerves were singing, jolts of pleasure sizzling from his arse to his cock, up and down his spine, even into the tips of his fingers and toes.

It may have been a while since he'd had the pleasure of company, paid or otherwise, but that didn't mean Hawke had been neglecting his bum. He could've done with quite a cursory kind of preparation, but he'd had a plan. Sometime after having his nipples played with, but before he'd been speared on a questing tongue, it had seemed like a good idea to let Fenris stretch and scissor and ply him with an unnecessary amount of lubrication if that's what the elf wanted (because their first time wouldn't have an ounce of pain, to show that such a thing could be done). Those good intentions were unravelling swiftly.

Fenris, bless him, was working his tongue ever so slowly and carefully, with only the occasional press of one long finger, testing, just slipping past the loosening ring of muscle. Hawke was very ready for more. So, soready.

That was a sentiment he would have shared, if only he could've found a few more words— something other than Fenris, yes, and some guttural sound in the vicinity of ngh. He couldn't touch, couldn't grab and roll Fenris over and sink down onto the length of him. It was a thousand times harder like this than it would have been if Fenris had truly bound him, but Hawke managed to hold on to a sliver of self-control.

Finally— finally— Fenris inched that one finger inside, still lapping like a cat with cream, and Hawke felt his toes curl. At some point the jar must have been opened, and the familiar, slippery sensation of cool salve was incredibly welcome.

"Yes," he hissed, pressing down against the intruding digit. "Fenris, more. Please, Maker, please more—" When his begging got him nothing beyond a second finger prodding lightly without actually entering yet, Hawke took a moment to gather the shreds of his wits together. If he didn't get fucked immediately, he was going to die.

Grabbing one of the pillows near his shoulder, Hawke shoved it down under his hips without any warning; Fenris jerked back, startled, and his finger crooked. More than likely, it was an accidental move, but the sudden press against that fantastic little bundle of nerves made Hawke mewl like a kitten, thrusting up into empty air.

"What—" Fenris began to say, until the weight of a pair of legs slinging over his shoulders made him growl, his markings flaring ever so slightly.

Hawke barely noticed, canting his hips in a way he dimly hoped was inviting as well as shamefully desperate. "Fuck me, fuck me now, please Fenris, now…" Digging his heels into the hard muscles of Fenris' back was technically touching, but there were no immediate objections (discounting the growl, but really, from Fenris that was practically hello). Forcing himself to focus, even as the withdrawal of that lovely finger made his eyes want to cross, Hawke met Fenris' gaze as earnestly as he was able. "I'm ready, love," he murmured, more than a little impressed at the way his voice only quavered slightly. "Won't hurt, trust me. Maker, trust me."

Glancing almost suspiciously between Hawke's face and his arse, Fenris still leaned forward, obviously very turned on himself— the adorable flush and the rock-hard erection gave him away, even if he wasn't a babbling fool like Hawke. "You're certain?"

Amazingly, it sounded like a serious question. Swallowing back some laughter, possibly a sob, Hawke waited a moment for Fenris to settle over him comfortably before lifting himself up on his forearms, letting a deep, demanding kiss answer for him. Tastes of salt, musk, and Fenris assaulted him, drawing an utterly whorish moan from low in his throat—

Then he felt the steady press of a cock head, slick and wide and exactly where he needed it.

What Fenris may have lacked in experience and fancy manoeuvres, he more than made up for with passion and determination. If Hawke had truly been keeping a scorecard, it would have caught fire.

He felt every inch, stretching and filling him, and it was all so achingly gradual he could've screamed. Fenris was sweating, obviously straining with his jaw clenched and the tendons in his neck draw in tight cords, but he wasn't baulking. Hawke, to his credit, managed not to grab him by the hips and drive him in the rest of the way.

Fenris began muttering something, rough and barely audible as he closed the last bit of distance, and the sound of it made Hawke shiver even without understanding the words. Varric was right— he was a dangerously, hopelessly romantic moron— but Maker, this felt nearly sacred.

"Oh," he breathed, pushing limp hair back from his forehead as he tried valiantly not to grind onto the cock filling him up entirely. "I… oh, you feel so good. So good, Fenris." A stuttering, unexpected thrust made him curse, his own hips snapping into the sensation, and Fenris bowed his head, panting harshly. "Fuck, yes, more—"

After what felt like ages of cautious if fantastic foreplay, he'd expected (feared) having to beg and cajole before Fenris would start pounding into him in earnest. Luckily, it seemed the elf had some limits to his restraint. The fact that those limits were buried somewhere balls deep inside Hawke… well, that was very good news.

That plea for morewas nearly lost in a moan, as Fenris began to move in a steady, measured tempo. That lasted all of three thrusts, until the smallest brush in just the right spot made Hawke clench; steady and measured faltered, before evaporating into hard, frenzied fucking.

About bloody time, too.

The angle wasn't perfect, and he was getting a bit of a cramp from having his knees shoved up by his shoulders for so long, but Hawke was in paradise. Fenris was so strong, so raw and fervent in every pump of his hips, in the snarling bites and clumsy kisses he was pressing against Hawke's chest and neck… this felt like possession, like claiming, and Hawke revelled in it. The bed frame creaked, not quite ominously but rhythmically, and the world narrowed to just the two of them, to the slap of skin on skin, the cacophony of grunts and groans, and the crack of the headboard against the wall thudding like a heartbeat.

Then Fenris' hand found his, prying whitened fingers away from the sheets to lace them with his own. It was a simple thing, their joined hands pressed together against the mattress, but the intimacy of it in the midst of this fervour nearly undid him.

Of course, Fenris had two hands, and when the other closed around Hawke's straining prick, squeezing and stroking in time with his pistoning hips, there was no nearly.

Hawke inhaled sharply, eyes stinging with sweat as the first wave of orgasm crested over him, and all the pleasure in his body contracted into a small, glimmering point. When he clenched again, this time completely involuntarily, Fenris roared into the crook of his neck and tumbled after his own release, sending sparks up Hawke's spine with every short, erratic thrust.

Oh, they were a mess— chests heaving like bellows in a tangle of loose, tacky limbs— but Fenris was still holding his hand, the grip gentler now. It was a magnificent mess.

When Fernis rolled off, flopping down on the quilts, every one of Hawke's muscles twinged in protest, and he managed not to grimace. He was aching and sore, deliciously so, but he didn't quite have enough powers of speech to explain that nuance to Fenris.

"Stay," he managed to say, lolling his head over to offer a sleepy smile. Fenris looked like a wet dream made flesh, and he didn't protest when Hawke shifted a bit closer, nuzzling their joined hands. "Please, stay."

It wasn't the most certain nod he got in response, but it was a nod nonetheless.

Waking up cold and grimy was hardly a new experience, but it was never an especially pleasant one. This particular instance came complete with a naked elf trying to sneak out of his bed, which was great for the naked part, but not so much the sneaking.

"Fenris?" At the sound of his hoarse murmur, his lover (there was a small flutter in his stomach at that thought, not that he'd admit it aloud) froze, one foot on the floor. He could have been going to clean up, or even just trying to get under the covers, but the tense line of his shoulders made Hawke uneasy. "What's wrong, love?"

Lyrium and snowy hair looked ethereal in the moonlight streaming in through the windows, and if it weren't for the warning bells pealing in his mind, Hawke would have been entranced.

"I don't know," Fenris answered quietly, making no move to turn or to flee. "I think… I had dreams. Dreams of my past, before the markings."

Sitting up, Hawke almost reached out, but reconsidered at the last moment. Something was very wrong. "Were they dreams, or memories?"

There was a long pause, then Fenris' head tilted slightly, giving Hawke a view of his profile, partially obscured behind the shadow of his hair. "It felt real, before it slipped away. I can't be sure. I can't…" Trailing off, Fenris seemed to sag, curling inward. "I cannot do this."

Cold and grimy was bad, but Hawke would have preferred cold, grimy and bleeding in a ditch to ever hearing those words. "What do you mean?" he croaked, knowing full well but unwilling to believe it could be over so soon. "Fenris, please—"

"I'm sorry." Andraste's grace, he was going to leave, and not just back to his own room. Hawke heard too much sorrow in that tone, and the pain of it made sickness roll in his gut even as the panic tore through him.

In possibly one of the stupidest moves of his entire life, Hawke reached out and grabbed Fenris by the elbow as he started to make his escape, yanking him hard back onto the bed. The flare of lyrium was shockingly bright in the dark room, and Hawke half-braced for the agony of a fist through his ribs, but when instantaneous death didn't materialise, he threw all of his weight onto the elf's body, pinning him in place.

"Don't run," he said quickly, staring down into an expression that was still more shocked than outraged, but barely. "Please, just listen— just let me say something before you storm out of here."

The eerie blue light didn't fade, and Fenris was dangerously silent, but that also meant he hadn't refused. Daring a bit more (how much worse could it get, really? He'd just tackled and straddled this prickly, deeply troubled man without permission), Hawke reached down and slid his fingers over the fist Fenris had balled up at his side. The grip didn't relax, but it also didn't jerk away.

"Don't run," he said again, meeting the piercing weight of a quasi-glare without flinching. "I can't make you stay; I wouldn't dare try. Your memories… I can only imagine how confused and terrified I'd be in your place, and I swear on Andraste's pyre I won't push, but I am here for you. Whether you're my friend or my lover, I care about you, and I don't want you to go." When Fenris didn't respond, barely blinking, Hawke floundered.

He had one more card to play, but it was a damned risky gamble. As a general rule, anyone hired to kill for a living, assassin or otherwise, had exceptional skill at weighing odds, had the Maker's own luck, or got very dead, very quickly. Hawke liked to think he had a decent amount of the first, and at least some of the second.

This one phrase could foreseeably get him an uncomfortable dose of the third, or a distinct lack of Fenris in his life. Neither was a particularly agreeable option.

"Fenris," he said softly, squeezing the knot of fist still held in his hand. "Would you let those magisters reach beyond the Veil and take this happiness from you too?"

He watched, more than slightly apprehensive, as Fenris' eyes narrowed. There was no furious explosion at the very gall he'd had to say such a thing, not immediately anyway, but it felt a little like staring into a thunderhead the moment before a storm broke.

"Hawke—" Not Callum anymore, it seemed. Bethany had always been afraid of thunderstorms, even after she learned to cast lightning, and Hawke was beginning to understand why. "I do not care to be manipulated."

"And I don't care to be a one time fuck because you're a coward," someone snapped back, quite sharply. It couldn't have been Hawke speaking, though— he hadn't had a truly serious head wound in months, and what other reason could there be for such utter madness?

Whoever had said it, apparently Hawke was going to get the blame. The world shifted dramatically as Fenris reversed their positions, violent with temper. Having the wind knocked out of him and an unforgiving claw of a hand pressing against his throat was hardly how he'd wanted to be breathless in bed that night. His vision swam with sparks of light, dancing like fireflies around the glowing, glowering elf looming over him— if he wasn't so terribly close to being suffocated, it might have looked quite festive.

"You," Fenris snarled, his thumb biting into muscle and tendon, feeling nearly as sharp as a shiv. Romantic fool or no, Hawke's mind was already buzzing with a dozen ways he could get out of this hold, before lack of air made it impossible. "You think— You—" Spitting out some no doubt fierce invectives in Arcanum, Fenris released his grip as suddenly as he'd lashed out, sitting up and knotting his fists in his hair. He was still perched on Hawke's hips, glaring up at the shadowed ceiling, and made no attempts to move any farther.

Hawke rubbed his throat, wincing. There was a bit of healing potion left from the bottles he'd bought for Fenris, and he'd be sure to slug a mouthful back before showing his face in the Hanged Man, to clear up the hand-shaped bruises that would likely form. One way or another (whether with genuine concern, or some quip about being kinky), Hawke knew Varric wouldn't keep his mouth shut if he saw.

After a long silence, during which the radiance of lyrium slowly began to fade, Hawke reached up and laid his hands gently on dimly gleaming thighs. Fenris jumped, eyes snapping down in unconcealed surprise. Very gently, Hawke slid his palms over the warm skin, textured with dips and ridges of scars.

"I care about you," he said calmly, as if they hadn't just come so close to real carnage. "Please stay."

"Fine." That one word, barely more than a breath, hung heavily between them. It wasn't nearly as loud as Hawke's heart pounding in his chest, but it was infinitely more important. "I… fine. I will not leave."

The brush of callused fingers against his wrists was thrilling for an instant, until they lifted his hands away and pressed them back onto the mattress. Regardless, the not leavingpart was enough of a relief to make up for the no touching, no matter how much he itched to do so.

Later, once the dust had settled and he was less terrified to say the wrong thing, Hawke would nudge and coax and sweet-talk until he had Fenris begging for his touch.

He smiled, possibly a tiny bit giddy. "Thank you, love."

Fenris shifted, climbing out of bed, and Hawke forced himself to remain calm. That subdued agreement to stay had been as good as an oath, at least for now, even if Fenris wouldn't look at him. "Go back to sleep."

It wasn't the reassuring murmur of someone just headed out to tend the fire, or anything similar. Fenris wouldn't run, but that didn't mean he was about to bare his soul, sobbing into Hawke's shoulder. Hawke nodded and stayed where he was, watching his lover (still his lover, until Fenris told him otherwise) pick up his leggings from the foot of the bed and slip out of the dark room, the door clicking shut behind him.

After waiting a few moments on the off-chance Fenris might come right back, Hawke swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. There was some cool water in the pitcher on his washstand, and he padded over to clean up a bit, moving gingerly. He felt… very well fucked, which was lovely, but it hardly made up for the cold, aching discomfort of being alone again. The smell of sex and Fenris still hanging thick in the air was more a torment than a comfort, and his bed had never looked so vast and uninviting.

Once he'd scrubbed himself, shivering in gooseflesh, he shook out the mess of bedclothes before crawling underneath. The jar of slick was tucked into the folds of the quilts, the lid just askew enough to leak a small wet patch, and Hawke secured it tightly before putting it away and settling back against his pillows. There was one pillow in particular that smelled of faintly of iron, leather, and spice, and Hawke hugged it against his chest like a child's toy.

Fenris wasn't leaving, wasn't leaving home or leaving Kirkwall or leaving him, and that was something. For the moment, that was something.

Eventually he allowed himself to drift into the embrace of the Fade, his sleep restless but thankfully dreamless. At this point, he would take small blessings wherever he found them.

Larger, somewhat confusing blessings were fine too, even if they gave him a headache. He certainly didn't think to complain when Fenris stumbled back into the bedroom just before dawn, reeking of liquor, and all but collapsed onto bed beside him.

He didn't think to complain, and also didn't move a single muscle as that lax, drunken, half-dressed body burrowed under the quilts, curling around his back like a cat looking for warmth. Lips pressed hard against his nape, making Hawke swallow thickly, but nothing else was forthcoming. He had a rat-arsed barnacle clinging to him, breathing hot against his neck and nearly making his eyes water with the stink of alcohol, and no real idea what one was meant to do in such a situation.

So he just went with it, letting himself be cuddled, and they'd sort the rest out in the morning… or perhaps the afternoon, depending on Fenris' hangover. The return of sobriety would very likely bring more tension with it— if he thought one good bender would be enough to settle all of Fenris' many issues, he'd have drowned the elf in liquor months before. For now, however, he would take whatever was offered and give whatever was required, freely and gladly (possibly freely and with intense frustration, if the return of sobriety brought the return of celibacy with it, but Hawke refused to dwell on such a ghastly possibility).

He'd been frighteningly sincere when he told Fenris that he would be there for him, as a friend or a lover. It might have been a sickening kind of revelation if he wasn't already head over fucking heels.

Life was never certain, which was a truth Hawke knew very well. It was chaotic and messy, dangerous, and invariably deadly one way or another. Life with Fenris simply made the chaos and the danger more apparent, which was not what any relatively sane man— or any assassin, specifically— should have ever wanted. It was a distraction, and an exploitable weakness, and Hawke didn't give a shit.

The comforting weight of Fenris' arm around him, and the strong, slender hand splayed out across his chest… that was worth it. The rare rumble of his laugh and the quirk of his beautiful lips were worth it, especially when the open amusement was Hawke's doing. The sound of his rich, gravelly voice, warm with affection and strained rough with pleasure, was definitely worth it.

And apparently there was something about him that Fenris considered worth sticking around for, as well. Despite everything else, that thought made Hawke grin like a lunatic, grateful for the dark and the slow, steady breathing that indicated Fenris had fallen asleep (or maybe passed out; Maker, he smelled as though he'd been trapped inside a giant cask of wine and had to drink his way free).

Neither of them was a dashing hero, and this whole romance thing was getting more convoluted than anything Varric (even in his strangest moods) had ever put to paper, but everything was going to work out. They'd simply have to take things one day at a time, and try not to kill each other. It had been a solid plan so far.

And hey, if at least some of those days ended in mind-blowing sex with a certain scandalously handsome elf, that would be good too.

END