A/N: Final chapter/epilogue! See end notes for summary.

Smut warning for this chapter; very NSFW.

"... and so I turn around, and guess who just happened to be there?"

Hawke walked backward as she spoke, illustrating some of the more interesting bits with her hands. Varric had told her to bring back a story, and she had damn well succeeded. He'd met her at the estate a short while earlier, Fenris in tow, making their way to Lowtown for a round of Congratulations-You-Didn't-Burn-An-Entire-City-State-Down-Also-Welcome-Back drinks at the Hanged Man. It had been several hours since Hawke had been released from her appointments, and the evening air was crisp and cool.

Varric chuckled, adjusting his gloves as they made a lazy pace over the rough cobblestone. "Come on, Hawke. Everyone I know in Starkhaven I've heard about from you in the last half hour."

"You know him," Hawke insisted. "Here's a hint: he's an elf. Tattoos. Good with knives."

"Do I know him," chirped Merrill, having been 'rescued' from a noble's Hightown garden along the way. "Is he Dalish?"

"Yes, and no. Hint two." Hawke held up two fingers. "I killed a group of people chasing him, and then brought him back to my place so that he could show me his, ah, gratitude ."

All eyes turned to Fenris, who prickled.

" No. "

"But it fits!" Merrill ticked off the hints on one hand. "You're an elf, you've got tattoos, you're not Dalish, and Hawke did protect you from those men that the magister -"

He groaned, rubbing the back of one clawed hand across his forehead. "You saw me twice here in Kirkwall last week." The implied and we don't have sex was lost on Merrill.

Thankfully, Varric caught up, albeit too late to save them from the last thirty seconds. "Didn't you drag us along the whole damn coast to help an Antivan Crow a while back?"

"Correct!" Hawke threw an arm up in the air with a flourish. "The very one. Zevran. Though he hadn't come looking for us – he was there representing the interests of some Antivan lord or another." She snickered, remembering the look on Sebastian's face after she'd left him alone with the assassin for ten minutes. "I think Sebastian was somewhat less thrilled to see him than I was."

"Oh?" Merrill hopped over an uneven line of stones. "Why's that?"

Hawke cursed her big mouth.

"He'd never met a Crow before," she explained quickly, "and didn't really trust him in his homeland. It took him a while, but he's come around."

It wasn't a lie, she told herself as they walked, describing the splendor of the Great Hall and the more egregious fashion statements seen therein. It just wasn't the whole truth of it – that Zevran was an incorrigible flirt who put Sebastian on guard, especially when word of their engagement was starting to spread.

An engagement that Hawke had just happened to omit from her storytelling thus far.

She and Sebastian hadn't really talked about how to announce it to their fellows; they'd been too busy getting married and subsequently fucking against the nearest wall to discuss strategy. It wasn't that she wanted to hide it – not by any means, and she made a mental note to remind Sebastian of that later – but that she had no idea whatsoever how her chosen family would react.

The anxiety was rather like having hot coals slowly gathering under her feet.

"...and since Loudain's daughter was only one of the frontrunners," she continued, "the competition for Goran's attention was like watching a bunch of hungry wolves descend on a single rabbit."

"I almost pity him," Fenris chuckled, the gravelled tones of his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "I imagine it was uncomfortable, to say the least."

"Poor sod," Varric muttered and reached up to scratch at his stubbled jaw. "Marrying someone's stuffy daughter for the sake of politics is one of my holdover nightmares from working with the Guild."

Hawke's gut tightened, but she kept pace. "Nightmare, really?" She snickered dryly. "Not dragons or darkspawn or giant spiders. Daughters. "

"Can shoot the darkspawn," he replied. "But try to worm your way out of a marriage where generations of family business and maybe even wars are depending on your ability to tolerate someone for the rest of your life?" With a snort, he brushed off the front of his duster. "Right. Good luck with that."

"Marriages in Tevinter were much the same," Fenris added. "Advantage and power."

Grimacing with her gaze pinned forward, Hawke set her jaw. This was looking less and less like an optimal time to explain that she'd married someone to help throw a coup. Maybe if she claimed that Andraste told her to; it had worked for a lot of people throughout history.

"You two are so grim!" Merrill's clear voice cut through the night air. "The Dalish choose their partners because of who they want to build a life with. The clan's opinion has nothing to do with it." Hawke was silently thanking her bright-eyed savior as the latter wrinkled her nose in concentration. "Why does everyone fuss so much over who marries who? You don't have to marry them."

"Well, Daisy, things are different when money and titles are involved." Varric spread his hands. "It can get... messy."

The elf let out an 'oof' as she sidestepped a topiary. "Then I guess it's a good thing elves can't hold titles."

Strike one, Hawke mused as they continued on toward Lowtown. If her estimations were correct, they'd be just in time to catch Sebastian around her uncle's and kidnap him into coming along for much-needed drinks.

She hoped that he was faring better.

" You ?"

"Aye," Sebastian replied, keeping his posture as formal and respectful as possible. "This morning."

Snorting, Gamlen leaned back against the rough wood of his chair. "Thought if she married anyone, it'd be that dwarf."

Sebastian chuckled. "We all did."

Silence passed over them, the crackling of the fire the only sound as Sebastian patiently waited for Gamlen to sort his thoughts. When the latter did speak, it was with a lower, more resigned tone.

"So you want to know my terms then, is that it?"

"We were unorthodox," Sebastian confirmed, "but I would like to do right by tradition, if I can."

"Hrm." A grunt came up from Gamlen's throat, and he reached for the nearest bottle, frowning as he stared openly at Sebastian in the dingy apartment's main room. Hawke had made improvements, but the grimness of Lowtown was hard to plaster over with paint and curtains. Her uncle was also not the type with a discerning eye, though he was sizing up Sebastian in a way that made the prince distinctly uncomfortable. He hadn't thought to send a letter to Gamlen; there had been other things on his mind, and he regretted it now. This was almost worse than his trip to the Chantry had been – at least there, he had had the support of the Grand Cleric. Here, sitting across from his new uncle-in-law at a squat table in a dark room, he was quite alone.

The silence was tense and heavy in the air, and Sebastian braced himself for the worst. Maker only knew what kind of price he would name – a title, holdings in Starkhaven, a small fortune – none outside the realm of reason for a princess' ransom. As soon as he were seated prince and had the power, he would grant it, of course, but the only variable was a single man's greed.

It was some time before Gamlen spoke, pushing back from the table and slamming his bottle down with determination. "All right," he muttered. "How much does a commission in that Royal Archers of yours cost?"

"The Royal Archers?" Confused, Sebastian furrowed his brow. "As prince, I have the right to make personal appointments. Why, if I may ask?"

"Charade. My... daughter." Gamlen scratched the back of his neck, struggling over the word. "Girl's whip-smart and a talented archer, doesn't get it from me." He took a long pull from the dingy green glass, staring at the mouth. "You get her out of this wretched city, out of this rotting heap and into something respectable – we'll call it even."

Given Hawke's warnings and what little he knew of the man, this wasn't at all the answer Sebastian had been expecting. And from the glare Gamlen was giving him the surprise must have shown on his face.

"What?"

"Nothing." He smiled, straightening. "As soon as I am on the throne, I'll send for her. As Hawke's cousin, she'll have a warm welcome waiting for her in Starkhaven." He extended a hand, clasping the older man's wrist. "And I'm sure Hawke will be glad of it."

Gamlen sighed. "Don't tell that girl anything . I'll never hear the end of it. Tell her it was your idea, or that I asked for coin or something." He set his jaw. "Can't have her getting better expectations of me."

With a chuckle, Sebastian agreed.

The dirt in Lowtown gave way with a familiar grimy crunch under Hawke's boots.

"And so we thought that Loudain was going to try and smuggle him out in a merchant caravan," she said, marking five points in the air. "Then when they all left at the end of the festivities, who knows where he'd end up."

"Makes sense," Varric grunted as he kicked aside a piece of rubbish. "Now get to the good part."

"The what?"

"The exciting bits," Merrill clarified, leaning forward and clasping her hands behind the small of her back. "Your stories are always funny or exciting or thrilling, but all you've been talking about is plotting. No one actually doing anything."

"And if I wanted that," Varric continued with a smirk, "I could've just gone to the guild meeting. So skip ahead to the big reveal or the twist ending. You promised me a good story."

Hawke stopped in her tracks, thumbing her wedding band through the leather of her gloves. "I did," she agreed, "and believe me, it gets interesting."

"So get to it already."

Sighing, Hawke spun to face them. "See," she began, "the first thing you need to understand is- "

A clamor from the square behind them cut her off, and the momentary relief she felt at the diversion was quickly replaced with fear as she realized where, precisely, it was.

"Gamlen's house," she managed, drawing her daggers and waking the runes. "Someone must have been waiting for me, watching the place." She took off running, and the others followed suit.

"We were still a distance away," Fenris pointed out as he kept pace. "They would not have seen you."

"But Sebastian's there," she answered, "and they know that if he's back, I am." She rounded the corner, skidding in the sand. "They must have jumped him as soon as he set foot outside."

"Why was Choir Boy visiting your deadbeat uncle in the first place?" Varric asked between breaths, and Hawke grimaced.

"Didn't get to that part of the story yet," she called as the spiked balustrades came into view. "I told you, it gets interesting, so just – I'll explain later!"

Bolts hit the ground at their feet, and Hawke rolled aside. The repeated click of Bianca loading told her to hit the deck, the ensuing hail of cover fire just enough time to take stock of the situation. Sebastian was pressed behind a stack of barrels. He'd managed to take out one or two opponents on his own, from the looks of things. Over a dozen visible men in total remained, four of them archers. Sending such a big group – someone was pissed.

"Merrill," she called as she dove for the stairs. "What's that emblem on their shoulders?"

"Red swords," Merrill replied, "two or three in a row!" A bolt of green light shot from her staff and wrapped itself around the nearest few thugs. "Could swear I've seen it before!"

Hawke cursed under her breath. 'Pissed' was an understatement. This was the last remaining force of the Crimson Weavers, whose leader and headquarters she'd wiped out as a going-away present to Aveline before taking off. The amount she'd taken down at their base of operations, however, made this number of stragglers very unlikely.

As Fenris cut a swath through the center and slammed his pommel into the ground, Hawke took advantage of the distraction the tremors provided and dashed over to join her newly-minted groom behind the barrels.

"Thank the Maker," he exhaled, ducking down between shots. "I was afraid they might have found you first. Are you hurt?"

"No. You?"

"By the grace of Andraste, no. I was fortunate."

Hawke managed a glance around the wooden edge as Sebastian took out an archer on a second-story balustrade across the square. "Damnit," she muttered. "How are there so many of them?"

The repeated thunk of arrows lodging in their makeshift cover was a reminder that other archers yet remained. Yanking the leftmost barrel about-face, Sebastian pulled a handful of arrows free and turned them between his fingers so that Hawke could inspect the fletching. "It seems that we have another unresolved grudge to contend with."

" Crows, " Hawke groaned. Once contracted, they always finished a job or died trying, and it seemed that they hadn't quite finished off all of their new friends in Starkhaven. Maker knew that the street thugs wouldn't turn down another set of blades or bows, and the convenient alliance was a giant pain in her ass.

Icy smoke wrapped around her blades, and she gestured toward the left end of the square. "I'll freeze as many as I can. You take it from there."

"Understood." As she crouched, rolling her shoulders, his hand reached out to squeeze hers. "Be careful."

She smiled through a grimace. "I have to be – you promised me a proper bride deflowering."

The chuckle that that earned her disappeared as soon as it was there, and she leapt out into the fray.

"Who the hell are these guys," Varric called from his vantage point atop a short set of carved steps.

"Weavers and Crows," she shot back, jamming her daggers into the ground and shooting tendrils of ice out to catch any boots in their path. A flurry of bolts from both sides rained into anyone frozen in place, and she dove in to finish the stragglers.

"Crows?" Varric's voice was equal parts annoyed and impressed. "Who'd you piss off this time, Hawke?"

She grunted as she dodged a swipe at her torso. "I told you, I'll explain later!"

"You know, I'm getting real tired of hearing that."

"Hawke," Merrill warned between spells, "behind you!"

Mairead thrust her daggers upward and back, catching her assailant between the ribs and tossing him airborne with a bloody gurgle. Two others were incoming, and she rolled forward to cut them off at the knees. Another leapt out from the shadows, and Hawke cursed the fact that competent stealth fighters were among the rabble. After a dash in her direction was met with steel, he disappeared into a cloud of smoke, and Hawke left the weaker thugs to her companions as she set to tracking him. Assassins were tricky bastards, but she knew more than most about their games.

She hit sight of him again as he faded in and out of the moonlight, and without wasting a moment, she leapt. He managed to dodge, but not for long – he was cornered, and Hawke was fast. As he loosed a grenade, she caught him in the gut, and it took about the same amount of time to pull her blades free as it did for her to realize where the projectile was headed.

"Sebastian!" she cried, but it was too late. The flask shattered in front of the stack of barrels, toppling them completely. Fear and adrenaline shot through her system, and her reflexes took over as she joined Fenris in the center to dispatch the last few holdouts – Crows, all. Their skill was heads above the street gangs, and with every movement, every swipe and parry, Hawke became more and more frenzied.

Please, she prayed silently. Please, let him be all right.

As she slammed her knees into the final assassin's chest, pinning him to the ground and driving both daggers through his heart and lungs, she abandoned her weapons to turn and run toward the collapse. Hands shaking, she yanked barrels free despite their heft and clumsily shoved them aside.

"Sebastian," she managed between gasps for air, "Sebastian, can you hear me?"

When she caught sight of him, he wasn't moving, and something cold seized hold of her chest. The last wooden containers cast away, she pulled him to sitting upright, gently tapping the side of his face and neck with her fingers. "Come on," she called, voice hoarse. "Come on, please. "

The powerful relief she felt at his long groan washed over her very bones, and she collapsed back onto her knees as his eyes opened.

"Perhaps," he managed as he struggled to right himself, "I should be more careful with my choice of shield in the future."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Hawke replied, finally cracking a smile and standing. She offered a hand, and he took it. "You all right?"

He grunted as she helped him to sit atop one of the intact barrels. "Aye, though I expect some bruises in the morning."

"I'm fine," Varric muttered from behind her. "Thanks for asking."

Hawke turned to see Merrill nudging some of the bodies with her toes, inspecting them curiously. Fenris, too, seemed largely unharmed, though it was hard to tell with all that armor.

"We should check their pockets," Hawke said, gaze lingering a bit longer on the dead Crows. "Figure out if there are others left to worry about."

"Ooh," Merrill trilled. "This is my favorite part."

As the shuffle of armor and metal began behind her, Hawke returned her attention to Sebastian, whose right temple seemed to be the source of a trail of blood smeared along his ear and cheek. Tugging off her strikers, Hawke tucked them into her belt and pulled out a strip of cloth. "Here," she said, bare hands warm against his skin. "Let me."

The prince bowed his head obligingly, tensing as she pressed the cloth to the wound as gently as she could. After a moment under her ministrations, he raised a hand to catch hers. "Hawke."

"Mm?"

Those earth-shatteringly blue eyes seemed apologetic as they met her gaze. "This is only the first of many," he said slowly, "and hardly the worst we'll face."

His meaning was clear, and the blood staining the rag in her hand seeped through to coat her fingertips. Still, Hawke was undeterred, and shifted to rest her free hand on her hip. "But we won, didn't we?"

"Aye, that we did," he admitted.

"And didn't you say," she reminded him with a smirk, "that you were going into this marriage expecting a fight?"

He chuckled, running his thumb over her captured wrist. "Aye," he repeated, "that I did."

Still smiling broadly, Hawke lowered her hands and allowed herself to be drawn downwards to meet him. From his seat on the barrel, Sebastian wrapped one arm around her waist and brought her in flush against his chest, knees on either side of her hips. The smell of blood had never deterred her from a kiss before, and the warmth of his mouth banished any remaining adrenaline to the back of her mind.

That is, of course, until their audience decided to remind them of their presence.

"Hey, Hawke!"

That got her attention, and she snapped upright like a rod.

Wearing a broad smirk, Varric cupped one hand around the side of his mouth. "So," he called, "we at that 'interesting part' yet?"

Fenris stood beside him, taking in the sight with great amusement, and Merrill wore a poorly-stifled expression of excitement that could only be described as 'internal screaming.' This was clearly far more interesting than rifling through assassins' corpses, for all of them.

Hawke stared the trio down in a long silence, then turned back to Sebastian, who merely offered a warm, albeit somewhat uneasy smile in response.

This marriage pact was about facing the future head-on, about choosing one another, about not running.

Her gloves were still tucked into her belt.

"Oh," she said, "you don't know the half of it." She held up her left hand, knowing full well that both elves and dwarves had night vision enough that they would have seen her newest addition from Hightown.

Someday, Hawke would count the look on Varric's face among her most treasured memories, a rare triumph over her best and most smug friend, but today was not that day.

She wiggled her fingers, moonlight glancing off of her ring.

"Ta-daah," she managed weakly.

'Someday' turned out to be two hours and three drinks later.

"Hey, Varric," Hawke said. "Remember that time Sebastian and I eloped and you almost pissed yourself?"

"Don't remind me," he muttered, but hid a smile behind his tankard. "I'm still not sure one of those Crows didn't poison me and I'm hallucinating right now."

She shoved her newly-adorned hand in his face, mashing her ring finger against his nose and earning herself a chuckle as he yanked her hand away. The Hanged Man was full that night, the city's occupants only too happy for an excuse to drink and to toast to Hawke's return, but only those chosen few at the head table knew the real reason they were celebrating.

It had taken every ounce of willpower that they could summon out of Merrill's tiny frame to not blurt out the news when Aveline and Donnic arrived. The latter had only been too happy to offer his well-wishes, but the guard-captain had taken a solid round of convincing that it wasn't just some elaborate prank.

"Aveline believes me," Hawke reminded Varric. "And she's the toughest sell whenever I try anything. "

"Sometimes it's more fun to go along with it," he countered, and Hawke raised her glass in a toast.

"Truer words."

As she drank to that, a thought interrupted her, and Hawke made a noise in her throat and put her tankard down. "I'm curious, though," she said, dragging a hand across her mouth and turning to said guard-captain. "What was it that convinced you that I was telling the truth? Usually it takes twice as long for you to believe anything half as ridiculous."

Aveline crossed her arms. "Coming from you, Hawke? I'd have sooner believed a talking dog claiming to be the King of Ferelden."

Such an assertion - albeit accurate - would have been rude coming from anyone but her best friend, and Hawke was about to protest as much when the expression on Aveline's features softened.

"It was the look on his face."

Indignance immediately mollified, Hawke sat back. "Whose, Sebastian's?"

"Who else?" Aveline scoffed. "That look - it's the same idiotic smile all men in love get."

Hawke snorted, deftly evading the subtle tug in the lowest part of her gut. "Careful," she warned over the rim of her ale, "that'll be prince idiot in a few months."

"It's the truth. And I won't apologize for it."

Hawke toasted her words wholeheartedly, and no sooner had she emptied the tankard than a fresh one was placed at her side. Familiar gloves caught her eye, and she turned up to greet her Starkhaven serving wench.

"Perfect timing," she said, and his warm chuckle and affectionate smile drew Aveline's words in long, looping calligraphy across the forefront of her mind.

The same idiotic smile all men in love get.

Two marriages and all of a sudden she was an expert, Hawke groused as Sebastian took a seat and Aveline eyed the two of them smugly.

"So you know," Sebastian began, "I've promised Merrill that she can be the one to tell Anders."

Hawke grimaced and dug a fingernail into the weathered grain of the table. "If he shows up. Can't imagine he'll be too thrilled that I'm essentially marrying into the Chantry."

The prince reached out to touch her. "Hawke -"

"It's fine," she interrupted. "Really." She held the hand he'd laid on her arm and gave what she hoped was a reassuring squeeze. "He's already made his priorities clear. As has everyone else at this table, which is why they're here with us ."

"Trust me, Hawke," Varric muttered, "not the craziest shit you've pulled, but it's up there."

At that, Sebastian cast his attention to the dwarf. "She was most worried about you , if I recall," he said, and immediately Hawke's hands were at his mouth in a desperate attempt to shush him.

"Me?" Varric frowned, pulling over a full tankard. "What did I do?"

Sighing, Hawke pulled her hands back and wrung them anxiously. "You're like family, and that's an understatement," she admitted.

"And you thought -"

"Earlier tonight you were talking about the horrors of political marriages," she reminded him. "I was scared shitless that you would, I don't know, get angry. Call me an idiot. Tell me that I was making a mistake."

Varric went quiet for a bit, considering her words as he leaned back in his oversized chair.

"I might," he said with a smirk, scratching one stubbled cheek thoughtfully, "if this was all about politics."

Hawke stared in disbelief for a full ten seconds before speaking. "I'm sorry, did you miss the part where we overthrew a ruler? "

"Oh, I heard you." He chuckled. "But I think you're forgetting that I'm also a storyteller, and sometimes the best twists are the ones you can see coming."

It was then that she noticed that his smug grin wasn't directed at her, but rather just past and a bit to the side. She followed his gaze - and was met with Sebastian flushed at the neck and looking pointedly elsewhere.

"Wait, what -"

" Thank you, Varric," he said as he loudly cleared his throat. "Your flair for the dramatic is second to none."

Varric spread his hands, offering a shrug without losing any of the amusement from his expression. "What can I say? It's a talent. Though..." He tapped one gloved finger against the side of his drink. "Might have to change your nickname, Choir Boy."

"Oh?"

"If I'm understanding this right, you're not in the Chantry after today. I'm thinking…" His smirk widened. "Hunter?"

"Hunter? Why?"

The color drained from Hawke's face as the realization hit her. "Don't say it."

"Because you managed to -"

"I'm warning you, Varric!"

" - tame a Hawke."

The two women at the table groaned, though Sebastian smiled brightly at the suggestion.

"Actually," he chided Hawke as she buried her face in her arms, "I think it's sweet."

She lifted her head just enough to glare. "If stabbing you weren't regicide, you'd be bleeding right now."

"Think about it, Hawke!" Varric went on. "You leave, go kill things, come right back, he stands there and looks important. Everybody's happy."

"I hate you so much."

"Love you too, Princess."

Hawke shot upright, eyes wide. "ANDRASTE'S SACRED TITS, THAT NICKNAME."

Varric grinned broadly as she half-crawled over the table to invasively close the distance to his face. "How much do you know, dwarf?!"

Chuckling, Sebastian hooked an arm about her waist. "Come now, love, we've people to greet and a round to dispense."

As he tugged her away, Hawke's face was grave.

"Are you an old god," she whispered before disappearing into the crowd.

The moment she was gone, Varric flagged down one of the barmaids to bring over a bottle of the good stuff.

"Well, whaddya know," he murmured as he poured himself a glass. "Good for you, Choir Boy."

They had made it to the bed this time.

Hawke's room was lit with the warm glow of the massive fire in the fireplace, gold and orange glinting off of the mixed armor that lay in a heap by the linen chest. Every stitch of clothing had come off in the span of minutes, the earlier urgency sated enough to allow for that, at least.

It had also been enough to leave thought to basic courtesies - such as a cushion under Sebastian's knees as he knelt by the bedside, Hawke's thighs over his shoulders. One of his hands lay flat on her stomach, that arm beautifully half-embracing her hips while the other hand joined his mouth in an earnest and raw and intimate display of his love.

" Fuck ," Hawke managed through a gasp, wriggling as though to pull back but bucking up against him harder. "How are you so good at this after almost ten years?"

His fingers kept pace, seated two inside her as he withdrew just enough to speak. At the absence of his tongue, she arched her hips and whined, and his thumb briefly took its place.

"Thanks to you," he said with a chuckle, "I had a good deal of archery practice. My dexterity never suffered."

"Thanks to me," she repeated, and he set his mouth upon her again. Here, at least, she was open and honest; he had quickly learned which patterns undid her, and his heart rose at each discovery he was granted.

He had never been more grateful for his wild youth.

Her thighs shifted about his ears and she curled inward, stifling a sob as he felt her warmth tremble against him. She was growing close, though her restraint vexed him still. There was no need for walls, no need to hide her reactions or voice or pleasure or any part of herself she had yet to give. He had opened himself before her; he was ready and willing and waiting.

She didn't have to hold back with him, never, not about this nor anything in Thedas or the Fade or anything they either of them could imagine.

"Let go, love," he coaxed gently, and one of her hands shot down to grasp his.

"Sebastian," she breathed, thighs taut and shaking. " Please. I - fuck . I'm - "

He thrust in motions consistent and firm, matching the strokes of the flat of his tongue, and her head fell back at the moment her words left her. Within seconds, their every point of contact was painfully tight, and warmth filled his chest and burned through his jaw and wrist as she came against his lips. Violent shudders took her, shoulders pressed down into the coverlet deeper with each wave. His movements slowed in turn, murmuring endearments against her flesh as she stretched and writhed.

He didn't withdraw completely, however, continuing the path of his fingers in lazy, affectionate caresses against her inner walls. One such pass earned him a deep moan, and the encouragement was enough for him to return his attentions to the bundle of nerves that had yet to fully recover. Light, gentle suction elicited the snap of her hips and a sharp gasp, and suddenly he found himself yanked upward by a fistful of hair.

Hawke stared at him from her position propped up on one elbow, flushed and disheveled and every inch as beautiful as when he had said his vows that morning. He was about to say as much before she spoke.

"Hey," she exhaled, "I came."

"Aye," he replied with a warm smirk. " Once. "

Her grasp on his hair loosened, and the look on her face set a low chuckle in his throat. He planted a warm, wet kiss on her thigh, trailing closer while maintaining deliberate eye contact. "Of all men," he began in his deep brogue, "a prince," another kiss, "should know what fealty a princess is due."

He watched the rise of her breasts as she inhaled deeply, eyes following his every movement as his mouth again reached the apex of her thighs. One long, broad stroke -

- and he was pulled forcefully upright, Hawke meeting him in a fierce kiss that wrapped her legs around his chest and his arms around her backside.

"Fealty," she muttered as she caught his lower lip between her teeth, "commands you up here."

His legs protested for a few fleeting moments, but he obeyed faithfully and joined her on the rich embroidery. Almost immediately, he found himself flat on his back, chuckling as Hawke pinned him down with a hand on his chest. His hands fell by his head in mock surrender, and he made no move to stop the explorations of her hands as he lay exposed to her touch.

"I am conquered," he sighed, and Hawke's snicker brushed warm air over his lips as she leaned in to claim his mouth again.

"Damn straight," she declared, and he relished the smile she wore against him. The moment of playfulness was intertwined with that intimacy he so yearned for, but before he could catch it, Hawke had abandoned his face for other pursuits.

The burn from the hearth lit her curls in bright, fiery reds as they fell in a curtain across her shoulders and brushed the skin of his hip. The pins holding them back had long since been tugged free, both by her impatient hands and the affection in his. Now that same hair was a torture, dragging lightly over his cock just enough to register as she lifted one hand to pull it back and free her mouth from any obstruction.

Sweet Andraste help him, her mouth .

She wrapped a few testing fingers about his base, the glimmer of her wedding band catching in the light and distracting him just long enough for her lips to envelop the length of him in one long slide. It was almost too much - hot and wet and tight and Hawke - and he sucked in a greedy breath as his arms reached up to grab the edge of the mattress.

Encouraged by the vehemence of his reaction, Hawke hummed her approval and molded her tongue against his head. She dipped once, twice more, each shallower than the last. He was sensitive, too sensitive and too possessed by need to have been alleviated by a short, hurried tryst. Time had passed since that morning, and he had spent agonizing hours being shown the warmth of his bride while unable to bury himself in her, be it via heart or cock.

No demon in the Fade could have convinced him to break his celibacy for anything less.

"Maker," he breathed, the word turning into a low moan as it escaped him and Hawke thumbed circles around the underside of his shaft. He needed something, anything to keep him at bay before he -

"Though I am flesh," he began in a strained voice, and a glint caught in Hawke's eye at the familiar words. "Your Light is ever - ah - ever present -"

The Canticle of Trials was a match for neither her determination nor her clever tongue as she sank to his base. He hit the back of her throat, verse soundly choked by the sudden urge to thrust upward and spill himself into her mouth. He barely managed to convince her up and off, his chest heaving as she watched him with an amused smirk.

"What," she teased. "Already?"

"The sight alone would have me done for," he confessed with a sigh, restraint damn near killing him after coming so close.

"Too bad - it's one of my favorite things." The fingers still encircling him gave a gentle squeeze, and his cock twitched in eager response. "And it seems you don't hate it, either."

Sebastian swallowed the impulse his hands immediately had of knotting themselves in her curls and forcing her head back down to finish the job.

"I enjoy it greatly ," he said slowly, "but I had... hopes for our wedding night, mo gràidh ."

Hawke ran her fingers over him absentmindedly, considering his words, and for a brief moment, Sebastian worried that she would deny him this request, this softened plea for a step in the shift from comrade to lover.

"I've wanted that all day," she admitted, and warmth flooded his heart. It must have shown on his face, judging by how quickly she moved to deflect it with a sly grin. "But I already know how I'll be waking you up in the morning."

The thought froze him, and she laughed even as she moved to straddle his hips. Hot, slick folds nestled against his cock and trapped it between her weight and his body, and in that moment, it was as though the air had been sucked from the room. He could barely breathe; she braced her palms on his chest as she rocked slowly and took one long, stuttering breath that echoed through her breasts.

"Worth the years of celibacy," she half-asked as his grasp shifted her insistently backward.

" Maker , yes."

She leaned down for a kiss, and one of the prince's hands snaked along her cheek reverently while the other reached between them to better guide her. No sooner had she been seated fully than she lifted her hips, biting back a moan as she rolled them back down.

The combined sensations and visual of Hawke astride him hit at something visceral in Sebastian's core, and his willpower had no reserves to call on. Groaning, he instinctively clutched at the small of her waist and hips, relishing the way her muscles shifted beneath his touch.

"Slowly," he pleaded, "if you have any mercy."

Her rise and fall was a thing of beauty, a sight the prince would never tire of. He had an incredibly privileged view as Hawke's hands traveled the length of her body, dragged from her neck over her breasts, pausing to palm them roughly while letting gravity and her strong thighs do their work. Her pleasure, the pleasure she took in him, was so profound to him now; her moans and shudders were no longer merely a measure of his prowess or a means to his own end. They were connected , moving together in the low light.

She gasped at one particularly hard thrust, and he felt her fall forward and cling to him with a whimper. Her fingers buried themselves in the hair at his nape as her mouth found his throat, teeth testing the sensitive expanse between jaw and shoulder and back again. He drew in a sharp breath but made no effort to twist away, instead granting her every inch of skin while his heels dug into the coverlet in an effort to reach deeper. There was more heat there than warmth, more a forest fire than a hearth, but as long as it was directed at him, he would let it take him.

"Hawke," he managed as he felt his control slipping, and she allowed herself to be held tight in his arms as he set his desperate rhythm.

"Do it," she commanded, breath hot on his face. "Fuck me, come in me, fuck your wife -"

Wife.

That was enough to shatter him in a way he'd never had. He buried his face in her hair, hips furiously striking her backside as the rest of his body - lungs, hands, ears, eyes - unilaterally ceased to function in the wake of his climax. That morning had been the key in the metaphorical lock, and this release, this feeling as he gave every inch of his body to her in complete surrender, this was the door that they had opened.

Hawke gentled him through it, one hand wrapped about the back of his neck as she pressed her forehead to his, grounding him in her soft encouragement. Her voice was a tether to reality, the weight of it nearly tangible on his skin as sensation began to return to the rest of him. The pads of his fingertips pressed firmly into the musculature of her back, followed by the brush of her hair registering across his shoulder, the raised texture of the embroidery rough as sandpaper beneath his heels -

- and the warm slickness at the meeting of her thighs and his hips as she slowed, but did not stop, her motions above him.

There were not many things in Thedas that Sebastian would declare a sin against creation, but leaving the woman he had finally allowed himself to love able to walk after their wedding night was one of them.

No prince could do her such a disservice, he vowed, and released her in order to slide his hands to her waist.

" Maker, " she breathed as he took over their rhythm and guided her upright. "How are you still so -"

"Eight hours," he reminded her. "I have lived eight hours beside you and free but unable to continue what we started." One hand shifted to reposition itself at the apex of her folds, and she let out a tight moan as his skilled fingers pressed into her flesh. "If you do not know the meaning of worship, I am - ah - eager to prove my absolute devotion."

She braced her palms on his ribs, angling the roll of her hips to hit something deep within her that was calling for him. "Oh fuck , it's not fair when you talk like that."

"Oh?" Amusement edged his voice, deep and warm as his thumb stroked her clit. "How should I speak, then?" He slowed, letting her set the pace. "Shall I list every thought that burned into my mind every moment you touched me? As I dreamed what expression you would have when I had the pleasure of seeing you come apart?"

Hawke bit her lip, her rhythm growing haggard, and the whimper that escaped her as her eyes met his struck at something in his core that had only ever been a man and never a prince.

"I love you," he murmured, and felt her tighten around him.

" Ah ," she managed. A tremor set in her thighs, and the blunted nails of one hand dug into his skin. "Say it again."

" I lo-"

"No. Not -" She seated herself on him, hard, and he sped up the work of his fingers. "Your tongue. Say it - fuck - in your tongue."

The memory of his bride asking him for such a thing at a moment like this would warm his nights for the rest of his life.

The Starkhaven accent, indeed.

" Tha gaol agam ort ," he said once, twice, over and over again as he lifted his head to press his forehead to hers. Her limbs began to tremble, and he used his free hand to lift her chin, to watch her as she lost herself in him.

You and no other, my love.

There was no loud shout, no violent thrash - only a half-choked sob and shaking shoulders as the seconds dragged on, Hawke unable to breathe or speak for the strength of it. Sebastian slowly carried the motions through, in reverent awe of the powerful sight above him. She was a savior, a hero, a ruler; but in that moment she was, above all, a woman undone by his affection.

When her climax had ebbed enough that she breathed his name, it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and never let go. Instead, he yanked her forward until she was sitting across his jaw, then traced every word of his vows into her with his tongue.

Worship , he repeated to himself as his hands traced her back and she cried out against the upholstered headboard.

Hours later, the stillness of the room had done nothing to induce Sebastian to slumber.

Hawke lay curled up against his side, one arm thrown lazily across his chest in an echo of their shared exhaustion. Sebastian's hand had found hers, intertwining their fingers as he marveled at the way such simple intimacy could feel so profound in the wake of their earlier activities.

How strange the will of the Maker, he mused as he stared up at the canopy above. How dark his path had been, and how clear things seemed to be now.

A smile warmed his mouth as Hawke murmured something unintelligible and halfheartedly bit him in her sleep. Andraste had chosen an interesting vessel, he chuckled. Violent, lustful, impatient, vulgar - yet so deeply kind and steadfast she bettered him and all she touched. He couldn't have walked into the future, into leadership and faith, with anyone less at his side.

Quietly, the prince extricated himself from her grasp and crossed over to the hearth. As he tended the fire, it occurred to him that he had yet to do his after-wedding devotions, and he made use of a nearby cushion for an improvised prayer mat on the fire-warm stone floor.

He knelt, and he asked the Maker to look with favor on his bride, as the Maker had looked after His own.

The requisite verses seemed inadequate as he dutifully made his way through each of them, their cadence familiar and comforting but not quite addressing the sentiment he felt the need to express. He had guided many newlyweds through this in his time at the Chantry, but here, attending to his own - perhaps this was why the Grand Cleric had always encouraged them to be conducted in private.

His gaze turned to settle on Hawke, a vision in repose as the sheets shifted and exposed one perfect breast with her sigh.

When their children asked him about their wedding day, he wouldn't tell them about the Starkhaven ceremony; anyone in the Marches would be able to regale them with stories about such a celebration, the decorations and fanfare and feasting at the union of their prince and princess, a symbol of light and restoration of a city's spirit.

No, he would tell them of that morning, the way their mother had looked coming out of the chantry doors into the orchard. The armor they both wore. He would tell them of the walk to the estate, a walk they'd made a thousand times but neither of them realizing that it was their first time doing so as husband and wife. Of the way his world had changed, how it was the first time in a long while that fear and dread and loss had been overpowered by hope .

Hawke stirred, and her grey-blue eyes focused on him drowsily in the low light.

"Talking to the Maker," she asked, adjusting the angle of her head on the pillow.

"Aye."

"Asking questions?"

"Thanking him."

"For what?"

"My life. The road that led me to you."

She fell quiet for a moment, considering something before she spoke.

"While you're at it," she said as she stretched, "tell him 'thank you' for me, too."

His face lifted with the brightness that it brought to his heart every time she engaged with his faith. It was always unexpected, yet always welcome, and he would take her hand as much as she offered it. "For what, Hawke?"

She snickered, rolling to face away from him.

"Your cock."

To his credit, Sebastian's stunned silence lasted only a moment before just a bit of that princely ego resurfaced with a smirk.

"I'm sure you're not the first."

He chuckled as a pillow was launched at him from the bed, its owner squawking indignantly when it was returned to her in person squarely across her rump.

As her laughter filled the room, he returned to her embrace, murmuring praise to Andraste and the Maker with each kiss he planted on her skin.

The prayers he had never dared to voice had been answered, and come what may, he would never doubt again.

NOTES: Whooooo.

Thank you guys for sticking around, really and truly. Through moving across the world and every aspect of my life exploding, I haven't forgotten about these two and their story and their long, long path to get there. I chipped away at this chapter whenever I could, and those stolen minutes and sentences finally added up.

Many thanks to artful_fanfic, who always makes time to beta my smut. xD You should 110% check out her work if you're a Blackwall fan!

As for Hawke and Sebastian, I still take prompts for these two on tumblr, when my prompts are open! And there might be more drabbles in the future, all collected on AO3 (under this username!).

Stop by and see me on tumblr (tinyfierce). I love hearing from you. 3

And as always: thank you so, so much for staying this far and reading. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it.