Fic: And I Shall Bring My Armour
Title: And I Shall Bring My Armour
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3000
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "Well, well, elves sneaking into my mansion in the middle of the night. What will the neighbours say."
AN: Written for the 'tattoos/tattooing' square, for kink bingo.
Hawke had left his plated armour on one of the low seats near the door. Bodahn seems to have stolen it away somewhere, possibly for polishing, or possibly so Sandal can do strange and unnatural things to it. Hawke has no idea what he's going to do when they eventually leave for Orlais. He doesn't know where anything is, or how anything works. Though they've been threatening to do that for a while now, and they're still here. He thought that after the invasion of skeletons, and that nasty fire in the wine cellar they'd pack up for sure. He's taken to not mentioning it any more, in the hope that Bodahn will forget.
He might have needed the armour though. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to dash out in the middle of the night because blood mages had invaded the city, or a dragon had started eating caravans along the Wounded Coast. Though why would anyone try and travel along the Wounded Coast in the middle of the night anyway? People should take responsibility for their own stupidity. But it isn't an emergency - or at least it doesn't look like one. Fenris is at the bottom of the stairs, looking grim and strangely luminous in the lamplight. Hawke doesn't think it's anything bad. That's one of Fenris's all-purpose grim expressions, just in case he'll need to glare at someone later.
"Well, well, elves sneaking into my mansion in the middle of the night. What will the neighbours say."
"I'd imagine they already disapprove of the company you keep." Fenris doesn't come upstairs but lurks by his desk instead. Though unlike Isabela, he doesn't seem to feel the intense need to rifle through Hawke's things.
"On the contrary. I think they hang out of their windows in the hope of catching every single lurid detail of my life." Hawke frowns as he comes down the stairs. "If they knew exactly how lurid and unpleasant my life gets sometimes, I suspect they'd stop."
"You weren't asleep?" It's more of an observation than a question. But Hawke answers anyway.
"No, I was sorting through the ridiculous number of trinkets we picked up, when we attacked the Carta earlier - and who knew there were so many rings of fire resistance in the mines. I heard someone downstairs, and the dog didn't make a fuss, so I knew it had to be someone I knew."
"You should lock your door."
Hawke can't help but laugh at that. "I'm fairly sure it was locked. Isabela must have stopped by when I wasn't looking. She does like to prove a point, and steal anything shiny she can find, at the same time. Besides I thought you liked sneaking in. I assumed you enjoyed the whole stealthy burglar aspect of it all. It's not you who's been stealing the chicken is it? There's never any chicken in the middle of the night, when I want a sandwich."
"I haven't taken any chicken," Fenris says, through a bewildered frown. Hawke has always treasured his friend's willingness to follow his brain wherever it goes, no matter how strange it insists on getting. Even Aveline, who disapproves of strange and unusual on principle.
"I hope it's not the dog, I wouldn't put it past him to know how to open cupboards. I love the creature but I don't particularly want to share food with him. Not that I'd object, if it was you," he corrects hurriedly at the end of the thought. "Help yourself to as much chicken as you like."
Fenris is still frowning.
"Did you run out of wine? I have some in the cellar, I told you to help yourself."
"Hawke." Fenris tone of voice suggests something pressing, like dragons. Though Hawke's fairly sure he would have heard the screaming, even from Hightown. "I didn't come for that. It was...a personal matter." It's funny how Fenris makes 'personal matter' sound an awful lot like dragons. Hawke can't help but worry, just a little. More than a little.
"Is something wrong?"
"No," Fenris says hurriedly, hand dismissing the notion with some force. "It's not that."
"I've told you before, come whenever you like, take whatever you like."
"You are overly generous to your friends." It's glared at him, Fenris obviously disapproves.
"We're more than friends, Fenris," Hawke says carefully.
Fenris reacts like he's been chastised, though Hawke doesn't think he meant it that way, or perhaps he did but he didn't mean it to sound that way. Fenris doesn't always know what he's supposed to do, doesn't always know how to react. Anger is his favourite self-defence mechanism, which tends to make the remorse later sharper and more upsetting. Hawke is trying to teach him that there is a middle ground. Somewhere between angry glowing and apologies.
"You have an unnerving ability to make me feel like an idiot," Fenris accuses,
Hawke can't help but laugh. "It's not intentional, I assure you."
Fenris's hands curl into fists, and then relax. Hawke can almost sense him steeling himself for something..
"I've always been willing to do whatever you feel comfortable with. You know that, Fenris."
Fenris gives him a helplessly frustrated look from under his hair. "You're making this difficult." His voice has dropped to a low growl and Hawke really has no idea at all what Fenris is talking about.
"I don't mean to be. But you're being confusing. How about you just tell me what you need?"
"I wish to have sex," Fenris says firmly. There's a glare too.
Hawke certainly wasn't expecting that.
"Oh," he says.
Fenris seems to think that's a bad 'oh.' Which Hawke immediately tries to rectify.
"You don't have to ask, you know. Or demand, in an angry sort of way. Though, don't get me wrong, I'm not against the angry demanding."
"You look surprised," Fenris accuses.
Hawke does his best to stop looking so surprised.
"I am, a little. There's just - well usually you seem to want to stay after we've killed a group of dangerous blood mages, or a giant spider, or the reincarnation of an ancient death god. Or when we're running for our lives because we started a mage revolution."
"I still blame you for that," Fenris growls.
"Understandable," Hawke says. "Though it wasn't all my fault."
"Some might say otherwise."
Hawke ignores the prodding, since it's not nearly as sharp as it used to be, tries to reel them back to the matter at hand.
"I assumed you found it easier that way. You've never liked to talk about it -"
"I do not wish to talk now either." Fenris stops, swears under his breath, sharp hissed out consonants which Hawke can't decipher. "I'm sorry. I've told you before I'm not good at this." He sighs, loudly, and there's a good chance he's going to apologise again, or leave. Or apologise and then leave.
"No talking, I think I can do that." Hawke nods, reaches out for Fenris sharp, mailed fingers, and tugs him towards the stairs.
Fenris exhales relief, bare feet silent on the carpet. He knows the way, they've navigated there enough times, under the flare of flaming torches, elbows and hips knocking plant pots and books askew. Though Hawke always seems to be the one shoved into the nearest wall. Or closed door. Which is both unfair and amusing, considering they could both probably take a Qunari in a fistfight. But then the reasons at the moment are explainable enough. He tugs the hair at the back of Fenris neck.
"Much as I would love to toss you around, you're still quite...spiky."
Fenris's grip on his waist loosens. "Some might consider that a flaw." He can be subtle when he wants to be.
"I like your spiky personality," Hawke protests. "I find it very distracting when you growl at me." He thinks about that for a minute. "I'm distracted constantly."
Fenris mouth tilts up at the corner. A smile that's barely there.
"We should get you some spiky boots. You could cause horrific injuries to every bandit within range."
"Tempting," Fenris says. "Though I believe my inability to walk in boots would be a problem." He steps back, leaves Hawke dishevelled against his bedroom door, while he unsnaps his armour. There's something so aggressively efficient in the way Fenris strips. Like his clothes have offended him in some way. He's barely finished, before he's grasping Hawke's waist in his hands, fingers almost as sharp out of their gloves as they are in.
It turns out 'have sex' is something of an understatement. Fenris pushes him to the bed with an impatient and fierce sort of determination. Hands pulling his clothes free, more aggressively than he'd treated his own. Though there's a slow indulgence once he has Hawke's bare skin under his hands. Hawke stumbles when he hits the end of the bed, and falls back into the sheets. He has a lap full of elf before he manages to brace himself, warm on his thighs, knees catching him tight. Fenris's body stretches in his grip, in a way that makes his stomach jerk, and his cock twitch.
"Fenris." It sounds like a plea, and perhaps it is.
The tattoos glow a faint, smoky blue, almost-cold where Hawke's fingers drift over them. He wants to touch them, wants to lay his hands over them and watch the brightness leak between his fingers, feel the faintest vibration where the lyrium flows like it's alive. He bites back the instinct, lets his hands slide down and curl round Fenris's bare, unmarked hips.
Fenris is less gentle with lyrium flowing under his skin. Demanding in a way that was perhaps learned through anger, and is not an exact fit for this. But Fenris wants this, that much is never in doubt. Hawke has never objected to Fenris's tendency to leave bruises, to hold just a little too hard, or to leave the sharp curved marks of his teeth in Hawke's skin. Fenris treats sex like it's a competition, or a battle, and he's duty-bound to win at all costs.
The cabinet beside the bed opens when Hawke thumps it, and the scatter of glass bottles ends up half on the floor, and half in the sheets. Fenris steals one from his scrabbling fingers, manages to unscrew it while kissing him. Hawke winds an arm around Fenris waist. The other is pulled up and filled with oil, which runs between his fingers, and spills against his thighs. There's a sharp, sudden fury to Fenris's kisses, cut through with demands, growled out explicitly and pornographically, with no shame at all. Hawke has no idea where he finds the self-control to pull away, to coax Fenris up to his knees, spreading him with slippery hands, and pressing his fingers inside him. Fenris's mouth drops open, hips rolling back to meet him.
Fenris gives him almost no time at all to indulge in the feel of him. He smacks Hawke's hands away and grasps hold of him, before lifting and fitting them together. It's quick and graceful, and Hawke loses all his breath, gripping skin and slowing Fenris's sink down onto his cock. It doesn't help, it doesn't help at all. Fenris moves like he knows exactly what he's doing to him. Hands stronger than they should be twined in blue light, cool where the patterns slide against Hawke's shoulders. Hawke lifts his hands, pushes Fenris's hair back, and the green of his eyes is almost as bright as the blue under his skin. The glow of it is almost hypnotic, and Hawke has to catch himself, to stop himself from reaching out and grasping Fenris hips, shoving up into him.
Fenris presses him down into the bed, stretches and then leans over him, body a clench of muscle and heat. Hawke groans out his name, fists his hands in the sheets, hips pushing up as far as they can. Fenris's hair is a waterfall of white across his face, skin bright where the tattoos glow. Hawke would call him beautiful, and take whatever punishment Fenris deemed to give him, if he could only form words. He tries to hold on, but Fenris works him, aggressively, relentlessly towards release. Until he's there, thighs drawn up, body tensing, fingers tight on Fenris thighs. Fenris slows, but doesn't stop, and Hawke can't do anything but hold his hips and try to survive the rolling push of Fenris body where he's over-sensitive.
The elf's hand is twisting on the back of his neck, breath hot across his face.
"Hawke -"
"Anything," Hawke says fiercely. "Maker, Fenris, just fucking ask and it's yours."
Fenris's hands slide up and fist in his hair, hold him still long enough to press a biting kiss against his mouth.
"Up the bed," he says roughly, shakily. "I want to fuck you."
Hawke groans sharply at the words, wonders how he ever survived before he discovered Fenris's tendency to snarl filthy things at him. Before he stops caring altogether, and lets Fenris have whatever he wants.
It's significantly closer to dawn, light just shading through the door, the next time Hawke thinks to notice the time. He's tired and sweaty, and he aches like he's been run over by a cart. He has his face buried in Fenris slender neck. He smells like sword oil, burnt lyrium, and metal, and very faintly, of that strange smell that Hawke had originally assumed was unique to Fenris, but it turns out is something more basically Elvish. It lingers under his hair, against the low curve of his ear. Fenris uses every available trick to fool people into believing he's larger than he is. Stripped of his armour, and his giant sword, angry hair pushed away from his eyes, he's slighter than expected. Hawke would never dare call him delicate, but sometimes, tangled in his pale sheets, the word seems to fit. It shouldn't, Hawke thinks, it's altogether the wrong sort of word. It doesn't do Fenris justice at all.
One of the lamps has burnt out, or was blown out, or ended up with some piece of clothing on it, and is even now in danger of setting the entire mansion on fire. Hawke doesn’t particularly care. Fenris's dark, spiky armour is still a collection of pieces on his floor. The elf seems in no hurry to move from Hawke's bed, and it's almost morning. He's half afraid to move, in case Fenris notices. He knows that if he falls asleep he'll wake up alone.
Fenris head rolls, hair brushing Hawke's cheek, tickling lines of silver-white.
"I promise not to leave if you fall asleep," he says quietly.
Hawke doesn't bother to admit that he was thinking exactly that, nor to question the moment of mind-reading. But he tenses, and he thinks that says far too much.
"It's not - " Fenris stops, starts again. "It doesn't mean I don't want to be here. I do, Hawke."
"I know your independence is important to you." Hawke does understand.
"You are important to me too."
Hawke has had enough of resisting, not with Fenris so close, body loose and warm, and more familiar every day. He lets his fingers drift over the pale skin of his waist, thumb circling his navel. He doesn't touch the curling vines of lyrium that crawl across his pelvis.
"You avoid them," Fenris says quietly. "As much as you can. When we're together." His voice is flat, like he's making a point. But his eyes are fixed on his own raised hand, on the design etched there.
"You said they were sensitive, and I got the impression you didn't mean in a good way. It's lyrium burned into your skin after all. I'm not going to touch them if it will cause you pain."
"It's more...the memory of them. Of what they represent. Like pressing on a scar." Fenris shakes his head. "But I don't want to be tied to that any more. I think I would like you to touch them."
Hawke's hand is still uncertain, fingers barely moving on the pale lines of lyrium. Fenris's hand lifts, pulls on his wrist, until it's laid over a curling line, and Hawke can feel it.
"We've already had the conversation about good glowing and bad glowing."
Hawke hums agreement against the curve of a shoulder, fingers rubbing at the edges, the faintest difference in temperature. "I remember that conversation."
"It was uncomfortable," Fenris growls.
Uncomfortable isn't the word Hawke would have used. "It was enlightening."
"If you could choose..."
Hawke already knows where the conversation is going to go. The awkward stumbling blocks everyone comes to when they try and fit the pieces of their life around another person's. Fenris has more corners than most.
"I have no intention of picking and choosing," Hawke tells him, fingers following the delicate lines of blue down his throat. "I love you because of who you are, not in spite of it."
Hawke has pushed his hair off of his face, and Fenris has nothing to hide behind. The sharp shift in his expression is obvious.
"It cannot be easy."
"The things that matter never are."
Fenris fingers stretch against the sheets, restless, nails making soft noises on the cotton.
"You never demand either. You can, if you like. If you want something - if you want me to do something for you." He stops, and there's a cautious sort of silence.
Hawke shakes his head. "I thought you rather liked it when I didn't talk at all. I remember you mentioning something similar to that effect, something about shutting me up - "
"Hawke"
Hawke bites back a laugh. "You're serious, I know. Though I think you're demanding enough for us both."
Fenris head tilts, hair falling sideways, and there's a frown on his face.
"That was not a complaint," Hawke assures him.
"No?" Fenris's frown slowly curls up at the ends.
"Very much not a complaint."
.
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3000
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: "Well, well, elves sneaking into my mansion in the middle of the night. What will the neighbours say."
AN: Written for the 'tattoos/tattooing' square, for kink bingo.
Hawke had left his plated armour on one of the low seats near the door. Bodahn seems to have stolen it away somewhere, possibly for polishing, or possibly so Sandal can do strange and unnatural things to it. Hawke has no idea what he's going to do when they eventually leave for Orlais. He doesn't know where anything is, or how anything works. Though they've been threatening to do that for a while now, and they're still here. He thought that after the invasion of skeletons, and that nasty fire in the wine cellar they'd pack up for sure. He's taken to not mentioning it any more, in the hope that Bodahn will forget.
He might have needed the armour though. It wouldn't be the first time he'd had to dash out in the middle of the night because blood mages had invaded the city, or a dragon had started eating caravans along the Wounded Coast. Though why would anyone try and travel along the Wounded Coast in the middle of the night anyway? People should take responsibility for their own stupidity. But it isn't an emergency - or at least it doesn't look like one. Fenris is at the bottom of the stairs, looking grim and strangely luminous in the lamplight. Hawke doesn't think it's anything bad. That's one of Fenris's all-purpose grim expressions, just in case he'll need to glare at someone later.
"Well, well, elves sneaking into my mansion in the middle of the night. What will the neighbours say."
"I'd imagine they already disapprove of the company you keep." Fenris doesn't come upstairs but lurks by his desk instead. Though unlike Isabela, he doesn't seem to feel the intense need to rifle through Hawke's things.
"On the contrary. I think they hang out of their windows in the hope of catching every single lurid detail of my life." Hawke frowns as he comes down the stairs. "If they knew exactly how lurid and unpleasant my life gets sometimes, I suspect they'd stop."
"You weren't asleep?" It's more of an observation than a question. But Hawke answers anyway.
"No, I was sorting through the ridiculous number of trinkets we picked up, when we attacked the Carta earlier - and who knew there were so many rings of fire resistance in the mines. I heard someone downstairs, and the dog didn't make a fuss, so I knew it had to be someone I knew."
"You should lock your door."
Hawke can't help but laugh at that. "I'm fairly sure it was locked. Isabela must have stopped by when I wasn't looking. She does like to prove a point, and steal anything shiny she can find, at the same time. Besides I thought you liked sneaking in. I assumed you enjoyed the whole stealthy burglar aspect of it all. It's not you who's been stealing the chicken is it? There's never any chicken in the middle of the night, when I want a sandwich."
"I haven't taken any chicken," Fenris says, through a bewildered frown. Hawke has always treasured his friend's willingness to follow his brain wherever it goes, no matter how strange it insists on getting. Even Aveline, who disapproves of strange and unusual on principle.
"I hope it's not the dog, I wouldn't put it past him to know how to open cupboards. I love the creature but I don't particularly want to share food with him. Not that I'd object, if it was you," he corrects hurriedly at the end of the thought. "Help yourself to as much chicken as you like."
Fenris is still frowning.
"Did you run out of wine? I have some in the cellar, I told you to help yourself."
"Hawke." Fenris tone of voice suggests something pressing, like dragons. Though Hawke's fairly sure he would have heard the screaming, even from Hightown. "I didn't come for that. It was...a personal matter." It's funny how Fenris makes 'personal matter' sound an awful lot like dragons. Hawke can't help but worry, just a little. More than a little.
"Is something wrong?"
"No," Fenris says hurriedly, hand dismissing the notion with some force. "It's not that."
"I've told you before, come whenever you like, take whatever you like."
"You are overly generous to your friends." It's glared at him, Fenris obviously disapproves.
"We're more than friends, Fenris," Hawke says carefully.
Fenris reacts like he's been chastised, though Hawke doesn't think he meant it that way, or perhaps he did but he didn't mean it to sound that way. Fenris doesn't always know what he's supposed to do, doesn't always know how to react. Anger is his favourite self-defence mechanism, which tends to make the remorse later sharper and more upsetting. Hawke is trying to teach him that there is a middle ground. Somewhere between angry glowing and apologies.
"You have an unnerving ability to make me feel like an idiot," Fenris accuses,
Hawke can't help but laugh. "It's not intentional, I assure you."
Fenris's hands curl into fists, and then relax. Hawke can almost sense him steeling himself for something..
"I've always been willing to do whatever you feel comfortable with. You know that, Fenris."
Fenris gives him a helplessly frustrated look from under his hair. "You're making this difficult." His voice has dropped to a low growl and Hawke really has no idea at all what Fenris is talking about.
"I don't mean to be. But you're being confusing. How about you just tell me what you need?"
"I wish to have sex," Fenris says firmly. There's a glare too.
Hawke certainly wasn't expecting that.
"Oh," he says.
Fenris seems to think that's a bad 'oh.' Which Hawke immediately tries to rectify.
"You don't have to ask, you know. Or demand, in an angry sort of way. Though, don't get me wrong, I'm not against the angry demanding."
"You look surprised," Fenris accuses.
Hawke does his best to stop looking so surprised.
"I am, a little. There's just - well usually you seem to want to stay after we've killed a group of dangerous blood mages, or a giant spider, or the reincarnation of an ancient death god. Or when we're running for our lives because we started a mage revolution."
"I still blame you for that," Fenris growls.
"Understandable," Hawke says. "Though it wasn't all my fault."
"Some might say otherwise."
Hawke ignores the prodding, since it's not nearly as sharp as it used to be, tries to reel them back to the matter at hand.
"I assumed you found it easier that way. You've never liked to talk about it -"
"I do not wish to talk now either." Fenris stops, swears under his breath, sharp hissed out consonants which Hawke can't decipher. "I'm sorry. I've told you before I'm not good at this." He sighs, loudly, and there's a good chance he's going to apologise again, or leave. Or apologise and then leave.
"No talking, I think I can do that." Hawke nods, reaches out for Fenris sharp, mailed fingers, and tugs him towards the stairs.
Fenris exhales relief, bare feet silent on the carpet. He knows the way, they've navigated there enough times, under the flare of flaming torches, elbows and hips knocking plant pots and books askew. Though Hawke always seems to be the one shoved into the nearest wall. Or closed door. Which is both unfair and amusing, considering they could both probably take a Qunari in a fistfight. But then the reasons at the moment are explainable enough. He tugs the hair at the back of Fenris neck.
"Much as I would love to toss you around, you're still quite...spiky."
Fenris's grip on his waist loosens. "Some might consider that a flaw." He can be subtle when he wants to be.
"I like your spiky personality," Hawke protests. "I find it very distracting when you growl at me." He thinks about that for a minute. "I'm distracted constantly."
Fenris mouth tilts up at the corner. A smile that's barely there.
"We should get you some spiky boots. You could cause horrific injuries to every bandit within range."
"Tempting," Fenris says. "Though I believe my inability to walk in boots would be a problem." He steps back, leaves Hawke dishevelled against his bedroom door, while he unsnaps his armour. There's something so aggressively efficient in the way Fenris strips. Like his clothes have offended him in some way. He's barely finished, before he's grasping Hawke's waist in his hands, fingers almost as sharp out of their gloves as they are in.
It turns out 'have sex' is something of an understatement. Fenris pushes him to the bed with an impatient and fierce sort of determination. Hands pulling his clothes free, more aggressively than he'd treated his own. Though there's a slow indulgence once he has Hawke's bare skin under his hands. Hawke stumbles when he hits the end of the bed, and falls back into the sheets. He has a lap full of elf before he manages to brace himself, warm on his thighs, knees catching him tight. Fenris's body stretches in his grip, in a way that makes his stomach jerk, and his cock twitch.
"Fenris." It sounds like a plea, and perhaps it is.
The tattoos glow a faint, smoky blue, almost-cold where Hawke's fingers drift over them. He wants to touch them, wants to lay his hands over them and watch the brightness leak between his fingers, feel the faintest vibration where the lyrium flows like it's alive. He bites back the instinct, lets his hands slide down and curl round Fenris's bare, unmarked hips.
Fenris is less gentle with lyrium flowing under his skin. Demanding in a way that was perhaps learned through anger, and is not an exact fit for this. But Fenris wants this, that much is never in doubt. Hawke has never objected to Fenris's tendency to leave bruises, to hold just a little too hard, or to leave the sharp curved marks of his teeth in Hawke's skin. Fenris treats sex like it's a competition, or a battle, and he's duty-bound to win at all costs.
The cabinet beside the bed opens when Hawke thumps it, and the scatter of glass bottles ends up half on the floor, and half in the sheets. Fenris steals one from his scrabbling fingers, manages to unscrew it while kissing him. Hawke winds an arm around Fenris waist. The other is pulled up and filled with oil, which runs between his fingers, and spills against his thighs. There's a sharp, sudden fury to Fenris's kisses, cut through with demands, growled out explicitly and pornographically, with no shame at all. Hawke has no idea where he finds the self-control to pull away, to coax Fenris up to his knees, spreading him with slippery hands, and pressing his fingers inside him. Fenris's mouth drops open, hips rolling back to meet him.
Fenris gives him almost no time at all to indulge in the feel of him. He smacks Hawke's hands away and grasps hold of him, before lifting and fitting them together. It's quick and graceful, and Hawke loses all his breath, gripping skin and slowing Fenris's sink down onto his cock. It doesn't help, it doesn't help at all. Fenris moves like he knows exactly what he's doing to him. Hands stronger than they should be twined in blue light, cool where the patterns slide against Hawke's shoulders. Hawke lifts his hands, pushes Fenris's hair back, and the green of his eyes is almost as bright as the blue under his skin. The glow of it is almost hypnotic, and Hawke has to catch himself, to stop himself from reaching out and grasping Fenris hips, shoving up into him.
Fenris presses him down into the bed, stretches and then leans over him, body a clench of muscle and heat. Hawke groans out his name, fists his hands in the sheets, hips pushing up as far as they can. Fenris's hair is a waterfall of white across his face, skin bright where the tattoos glow. Hawke would call him beautiful, and take whatever punishment Fenris deemed to give him, if he could only form words. He tries to hold on, but Fenris works him, aggressively, relentlessly towards release. Until he's there, thighs drawn up, body tensing, fingers tight on Fenris thighs. Fenris slows, but doesn't stop, and Hawke can't do anything but hold his hips and try to survive the rolling push of Fenris body where he's over-sensitive.
The elf's hand is twisting on the back of his neck, breath hot across his face.
"Hawke -"
"Anything," Hawke says fiercely. "Maker, Fenris, just fucking ask and it's yours."
Fenris's hands slide up and fist in his hair, hold him still long enough to press a biting kiss against his mouth.
"Up the bed," he says roughly, shakily. "I want to fuck you."
Hawke groans sharply at the words, wonders how he ever survived before he discovered Fenris's tendency to snarl filthy things at him. Before he stops caring altogether, and lets Fenris have whatever he wants.
It's significantly closer to dawn, light just shading through the door, the next time Hawke thinks to notice the time. He's tired and sweaty, and he aches like he's been run over by a cart. He has his face buried in Fenris slender neck. He smells like sword oil, burnt lyrium, and metal, and very faintly, of that strange smell that Hawke had originally assumed was unique to Fenris, but it turns out is something more basically Elvish. It lingers under his hair, against the low curve of his ear. Fenris uses every available trick to fool people into believing he's larger than he is. Stripped of his armour, and his giant sword, angry hair pushed away from his eyes, he's slighter than expected. Hawke would never dare call him delicate, but sometimes, tangled in his pale sheets, the word seems to fit. It shouldn't, Hawke thinks, it's altogether the wrong sort of word. It doesn't do Fenris justice at all.
One of the lamps has burnt out, or was blown out, or ended up with some piece of clothing on it, and is even now in danger of setting the entire mansion on fire. Hawke doesn’t particularly care. Fenris's dark, spiky armour is still a collection of pieces on his floor. The elf seems in no hurry to move from Hawke's bed, and it's almost morning. He's half afraid to move, in case Fenris notices. He knows that if he falls asleep he'll wake up alone.
Fenris head rolls, hair brushing Hawke's cheek, tickling lines of silver-white.
"I promise not to leave if you fall asleep," he says quietly.
Hawke doesn't bother to admit that he was thinking exactly that, nor to question the moment of mind-reading. But he tenses, and he thinks that says far too much.
"It's not - " Fenris stops, starts again. "It doesn't mean I don't want to be here. I do, Hawke."
"I know your independence is important to you." Hawke does understand.
"You are important to me too."
Hawke has had enough of resisting, not with Fenris so close, body loose and warm, and more familiar every day. He lets his fingers drift over the pale skin of his waist, thumb circling his navel. He doesn't touch the curling vines of lyrium that crawl across his pelvis.
"You avoid them," Fenris says quietly. "As much as you can. When we're together." His voice is flat, like he's making a point. But his eyes are fixed on his own raised hand, on the design etched there.
"You said they were sensitive, and I got the impression you didn't mean in a good way. It's lyrium burned into your skin after all. I'm not going to touch them if it will cause you pain."
"It's more...the memory of them. Of what they represent. Like pressing on a scar." Fenris shakes his head. "But I don't want to be tied to that any more. I think I would like you to touch them."
Hawke's hand is still uncertain, fingers barely moving on the pale lines of lyrium. Fenris's hand lifts, pulls on his wrist, until it's laid over a curling line, and Hawke can feel it.
"We've already had the conversation about good glowing and bad glowing."
Hawke hums agreement against the curve of a shoulder, fingers rubbing at the edges, the faintest difference in temperature. "I remember that conversation."
"It was uncomfortable," Fenris growls.
Uncomfortable isn't the word Hawke would have used. "It was enlightening."
"If you could choose..."
Hawke already knows where the conversation is going to go. The awkward stumbling blocks everyone comes to when they try and fit the pieces of their life around another person's. Fenris has more corners than most.
"I have no intention of picking and choosing," Hawke tells him, fingers following the delicate lines of blue down his throat. "I love you because of who you are, not in spite of it."
Hawke has pushed his hair off of his face, and Fenris has nothing to hide behind. The sharp shift in his expression is obvious.
"It cannot be easy."
"The things that matter never are."
Fenris fingers stretch against the sheets, restless, nails making soft noises on the cotton.
"You never demand either. You can, if you like. If you want something - if you want me to do something for you." He stops, and there's a cautious sort of silence.
Hawke shakes his head. "I thought you rather liked it when I didn't talk at all. I remember you mentioning something similar to that effect, something about shutting me up - "
"Hawke"
Hawke bites back a laugh. "You're serious, I know. Though I think you're demanding enough for us both."
Fenris head tilts, hair falling sideways, and there's a frown on his face.
"That was not a complaint," Hawke assures him.
"No?" Fenris's frown slowly curls up at the ends.
"Very much not a complaint."
.