[Dragon Age 2] tangled up in you
Oct. 19th, 2019 04:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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rose_in_winterCharacters: Female Hawke/Fenris
Rating: Explicit
Contains: explicit sex, sex pollen, spoilers through Act II
Wordcount: 3318
Notes: Written forpress_start 2019
Betas: N/A
Summary: After the battle with the Arishok, Hawke and Fenris go to trade some of the spoils at the Black Emporium, and end up with more than they bargained for.
Despite her healing magic, it takes almost a week for Hawke to move easily after the fight with the Arishok. Orana spends every spare minute hovering, adjusting pillows and bringing tea and soup. Anders visits twice, and his magic speeds things along, but Hawke is injured in more than just body. It's not that she doesn't understand Isabela's choices; it's that she could have managed the whole thing better if she'd known.
"You can't manage everyone, Hawke," Varric tells her, during a lackadaisical game of Wicked Grace, spread out on her coverlet.
"But that's what she does," Merrill points out, chewing on her lip as she studies the cards in her hand; it means she has a bad hand. Her face gives everything away. "She's very good at commanding us in battle."
"Not in battle, Daisy," Varric says. Despite the correction, his voice is warm. "The rest of the time."
"Oh." Merrill frowns and draws the next card--the Angel of Death. "Well, time to show, then!" she says brightly. "Unless you'd like to fold?"
Varric laughs. "You wish, Daisy." His hand is quite good; three serpents and two songs, beating Hawke's own two daggers. Merrill sighs as she sets down her hand: one of each suit. She leans forward and props her elbows on her knees as she sits tailor-style on Hawke's bed. "Who are you trying to manage, then?"
"I'm not." Hawke shuffles the cards, but her hands shake, and the deck scatters. Varric gathers them for her, waving her back into her pillows when she starts to help. It's as much to prevent her dodging Merrill's question as it is concern for her health, if not more. "I'm just worried about Isabela. And--" She pauses. That's too close to truth. "About all of you."
"She means she's worried about Broody," Varric tells Merrill, and Hawke's face burns red.
"I think he misses you," Merrill says, stacking the cards as Varric hands them to her. "He hasn't come to the Hanged Man all week."
Hawke studies the coverlet intently. Orana's needlework is beautiful.
"Get some rest, Hawke." Varric offers a hand to help Merrill up. "You know where to find us."
"If Bodahn will let me leave the house," Hawke mumbles.
Varric laughs.
She's not avoiding it, Hawke tells herself, even though it's been two days since she wobbled when she got out of bed. The strained muscles and stress headaches have faded, and the bruises are all healed. She's all but brimming with energy, and tired of the confines of her bedroom. Still, she manages to walk around half of Kirkwall before ending up only a few streets from where she started, outside Fenris's door.
He doesn't answer her knock. She debates with herself for a long moment before opening the door anyway--he hasn't locked it. Even after he cleaned up the corpses, the forest of overturned furniture is dense enough, and uneven enough, that no one can get through it without making a hell of a racket. Hawke's robe catches on a chair leg and sends a small pile teetering and then crashing to the floor. She curses quietly. Something glints out of the corner of her eye and she turns to find herself with the point of a sword at her throat, Fenris's markings glowing faintly in the shadows.
"Hawke," he says, and lowers the sword. "I...wasn't expecting you."
"Sorry for the mess," she says, gesturing to the newly rearranged furniture.
"Ah. Never mind," he says. His eyes rake over her from head to toe. "You're well?" The question sounds like it's been dragged out of him, an interest in her welfare he doesn't want to express. He's been like that since the night they were together--careful of her, hacking through enemies before they can come near her, taking her healing without complaint (unlike Anders'), but unwilling to say anything that matches his actions.
She wishes she could heal what truly hurts him, but her magic mends only bodies, not spirits.
"Good as new," she says, instead of what she wants to say, which is And you? Do you still dream? Do memories batter you like a ship in a storm? "I have some things from the Arishok. I thought we could see if the Black Emporium wants them." She holds up the canvas sack that clinked over her shoulder; it drew the attention of more than one pickpocket, but the knife she carries when a staff is inconvenient disabused them of any notion of easy pickings.
Fenris eyes it warily, as though it might bite him.
She puts on her brightest smile. "I heard they have a new blade in stock. Qunari make."
That gets his attention. He sighs. "There's no need to bribe me, Hawke."
"But I enjoy it so." She gestures for him to precede her from the mansion; he pauses to rearrange the pile she knocked over. If anything, it is now more precarious; she holds her robe in tight against her body as she navigates past it. It wobbles but mostly stays up. She'll never manage to sneak in here and surprise him in bed one morning. If he ever wants her in his bed. Or to be in hers.
She shakes that off and joins him in the bright sunlight outside. He doesn't say much, but he adjusts his ground-eating stride to her shorter one. She should be over this by now; there isn't much that's clearer than "I can't be with you" right after some of the best sex she's ever had, and honestly, it's not even about the sex. It's about him. She likes his dry humor and his easy strength and the way he watches her at Wicked Grace not to guess her next move but just because he likes to (Varric says Fenris loses to Hawke more than everyone else combined, and she hates that she clings to that).
She's busy enough castigating herself for this whatever-it-is that she feels for him that she trips at the top of the stairs leading down to the Black Emporium; she feels herself tip and she knows this is going to hurt--
--and Fenris catches her around the waist, and pulls her back upright, a safe step away from the top.
He lets her go as if she's burned him, as though the magic in her pains his body as much as it pains his mind, even if she isn't using it. What does magic touch it doesn't spoil? he'd asked her, bitterly, and she can't even say she thinks he's wrong; magic has ruined her family several times over. The only reason it hasn't directly, specifically ruined her into Circle-enforced slavery is that Meredith finds her too useful to make Tranquil, yet. She knows her luck will run out on that front eventually.
"Take care, Hawke," he says, and it's so unfair how his voice seems to vibrate through her bones. "Can't be having the Champion meet an ignominious end."
"Lucky I have you, then," she says brightly, and hurries down the stairs so neither of them have to address the fact that she doesn't.
The Emporium is like it always is, dim and smelling of dust and magic and musty things best left unexamined. The golem creaks when he turns toward them, but he recognizes them, and lets them pass. Hawke gives Xenon a bow of respect. He moves slightly, something that might be a nod. She unslings the bag from her shoulder and spreads out her spoils on the counter before him. There are rings, a broken staff, a pair of daggers, and a really nice doublet that is unfortunately much too big for Hawke, not to mention the bloodstains.
One of Xenon's assistants comes over and sorts through the pile. He holds up one of the rings for Xenon to approve, and then tallies the results on a scrap of paper. "I can give you twenty-five sovereigns for it," he offers.
"What about the sword?" Hawke points to the blade hanging on the wall. She'd seen a similar one in the hands of one of the Arishok's companions, but that particular Qunari had survived and left with his weapon. She knows perfectly well what the asking price is on that sword, and it's more than they're offering for the Qunari items, but she also knows they're lowballing her.
The assistant looks at the sword and makes a dismissive noise. "Champion, you know that sword is much more valuable than this lot put together."
Xenon makes a faint wheezing sound to get his assistant's attention. The assistant leans in to hear him, and his eyes widen. He looks inquiringly at the ancient proprietor, then sighs. "We accept your offer."
That was easier than expected.
The assistant takes down the sword from the wall and wraps it. Then he pulls a small packet from beneath the counter. "This was sent here addressed to you," he says, holding it out.
Hawke takes the packet--it fits in the palm of her hand, and is surprisingly heavy in its paper wrapping. It feels like there's cloth beneath, and then something hard. Fenris takes the sword, testing its weight carefully without actually swinging it. He looks less grumpy when he secures it at his back, which is an improvement.
"A pleasure as always," Hawke says, giving Xenon another bow. He wheezes in a way that sounds like it might be laughter, which makes a chill run down her spine.
The sunlight is dazzling when they emerge from the Black Emporium. Hawke is desperately curious about the contents of the little packet, but she's also not willing to give up Fenris's company. She so rarely has it to herself. "Drinks at the Hanged Man? My treat," she offers.
Fenris huffs. "Very well." He keeps pace with her on the way there, and she'd swear she can feel his gaze on her when he thinks she isn't looking. She mostly isn't.
Varric is in his chair at the Hanged Man, but no one else is at his table. He waves when they come in. "A round for the Champion!" he calls out, and the hardcore people in a tavern at noon (which, Hawke reminds herself, includes her) cheer for her. She waves awkwardly as she makes her way back to Varric's table.
"Good to see you up and about, Hawke," Varric says, an odd note of seriousness in his voice.
"What, afraid I'd died? You know better." Hawke smiles at Nora as she sets down the mugs of ale.
"You're the Champion now," Varric says. "Some people will target you just because you exist."
"Then I suppose I shall have to hire a bodyguard," she says, intentionally blithe. She reaches in her pocket for the packet Xenon's assistant had given her.
"What's that?" Varric asks, leaning forward in his chair.
Hawke shrugs. "Apparently it was sent to the Emporium for me."
Varric leans back so fast his chair creaks. "Are you sure you want to open that?" he asks.
He has a point. "It doesn't feel like magic," she says, prodding it with a fingertip.
"Because magic, in all its forms, is obvious," Fenris mutters.
Hawke shoves the packet at him. "You open it, then."
He looks like he wants to say something, but he pulls it toward him and unwraps the paper. Beneath is heavy black velvet, and Hawke itches to touch it. It looks so soft. She twines her fingers in her lap instead.
The velvet falls away to reveal an amulet with a huge carved ruby set in it. Fenris picks it up, and then lets it fall to the table. Beneath the warm brown of his skin, he looks--flushed? Hawke reaches out with her healing magic, but she can't find an illness or fever.
"Fenris?" she asks.
He says nothing. His hands are clenched into fists.
"Very funny, Broody," Varric says, and Hawke notices that Fenris is staring at her.
Really staring at her, like when they were in bed together.
She leans over to look at the amulet. There's a note next to it--"I'm sure you'll find a use for this" is the least helpful note anyone could have written. "Don't," Fenris grits out, too late--the damn thing seems to almost fly into her hand, even though she didn't consciously reach for it. Heat washes through her, and her gaze snaps to Fenris. She wants him, not in the constant background way she's learned to ignore, but in a very immediate, not especially caring if they get a room first kind of way.
She stumbles to her feet, and Fenris does too, and she is dimly aware of Varric's hand on her shoulder as he catches on to the situation and nudges them toward the rooms up the stairs. She'll have to thank him later, but right now, she has more important things on her mind.
Like dragging Fenris through the door of the first empty room, her mouth already on his. Like getting her hands under his armor and onto his skin, warm flesh and icy-sharp lyrium under her hands. Like the way his mouth slams against hers as he turns them and uses their combined weight to slam the door shut, pinning her between him and the door. Like his hands in her hair, his teeth against her lip, the way his body presses against hers.
The first--the only--time they were together, he was careful--not gentle, exactly, but careful. This time he isn't. Seams pop and fabric rips as he yanks at her robes, and she doesn't care. Her hands are clumsy on the fastenings of his armor, but if he can undo it with a damned claw-weapon on his hand she can manage it bare-handed, and she does, and then she pulls her mouth away from his so she can feast on the salt-slick skin of his throat, where the lyrium lines point. It stings against her tongue. She scrapes her teeth over his skin and then finds herself lifted, pressed back against the door while he puts his mouth against her breasts. She sinks her hands into his hair--soft against her hands, and he liked it when she did it before--and then he presses his leg between hers and she's never come from that little pressure before, but she does now, and she knows she screams and can't bring herself to care.
Everything in her goes soft and boneless, and he doesn't stop, his thigh pressing firmly between hers while he licks and bites at every inch of her skin he can reach. She grabs at his shoulders, tries to return the favor, and then with an abruptness that makes her head spin, finds herself on her back on the floor, her hands pinned above her head in one of his. Every nerve is already on fire, and he doesn't stop, finds all the spots she showed him last time like he's been thinking about this every minute between then and now, and she writhes frantically beneath him, which only makes it worse, because he's braced himself over her so that every movement is glorious friction but not enough.
She gets her chance when he shifts his weight to shed the last of his armor, and flips them over, yanking at his smallclothes until she can sink down on him and feel how he stretches her. He gasps a curse and her name, tangled together, and his hands clench tight on her hips, lyrium burning and freezing on her skin, thin bright lines of sensation. She shudders and that makes him lift his hips into her, and draws more curses from both of them.
Every part of her is screaming to go faster, now now now, and she lets it take over, lets it drive her. He lets go of her hip and slips his fingers between them, bright vicious sparks of pleasure chasing through her like the electric bolts of the Qunari Saarebas. She grips his shoulders, her nails digging in hard enough that she knows it has to hurt, but he doesn't seem to mind. His touch is steady on her skin, and it's enough to send her shuddering over the edge again. It's too much, everything is too much, and he hasn't stopped, driving her harder with every movement of his hips and fingers.
"Fenris," she gasps, and then he shifts the angle of his hand and whatever else she was going to say is lost, her body clenching tight around him when she comes again, everything too bright and too hard and too much. He comes with her this time, his head slamming back into the floor when he arches up into her, and she collapses forward over him, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against her chest.
She's almost caught her breath when he moves, turns them so that she's beneath him again, and he can't be ready to go again--but he is, she can feel that he is, and as wrung-out and oversensitive as she is, she meets his touch eagerly. If this is all she can have, she'll seize it with both hands and hold on tight, because she can see in the line of his jaw and the way he won't meet her eyes that this won't last.
It lasts long enough to exhaust both of them, to have them both collapsed on the floor next to each other, breathing in desperate gasps, when the urgency fades, and the aftermath sets in. Hawke is destroyed, her muscles sore and everything so sensitive that even the thought of putting on clothes where fabric will touch her is enough to make her flinch. Beside her, Fenris sits up, and she finds the energy to turn her head toward him.
"Hawke, I'm sorry," he says, and damn him, he still won't look at her.
"There's nothing to apologize for." Her own voice is rough and cracked, her throat sore.
"I can't," he says, as though she hadn't spoken, and somehow he finds the energy to drag himself to his feet--the lyrium glows, and she wonders if he's drawing on that, if he's so determined to be away from her that he's willing to embrace what Danarius did to him to fuel it. He fumbles for his clothes, and hisses out a sharp breath when he pulls them on, which is a small satisfaction for her.
Nothing she can do will change this, so she lies there and watches him gather up his armor without putting it on and leave the room--quietly. Only after he's gone does she make herself sit up, find her own clothing, and limp carefully down the stairs.
Varric is waiting at his table. She thinks about avoiding him, but it won't do any good. She drops into a chair across from him and says nothing.
"You'd think somebody who just had that much sex would look happier," Varric says, "but I guess that's why I called him Broody."
She summons the energy to make a rude gesture at him. That hurts, too, but she's not willing to use magic for healing right now, not willing to erase what's left of this. Even if it was a terrible idea from the beginning.
Varric nudges a drink toward her. "I sent the amulet back to the Emporium with a strongly-worded note for Xenon," he says.
"Thanks," she mumbles.
Varric grins and waggles his eyebrows. "Of course, if you feel the need to make use of its powers again, I'm sure I could get it back."
Whatever answer she might have had to that is interrupted by Merrill's arrival, in a chaos of chatter and the scent of outdoors. Hawke makes herself smile and act as though nothing's wrong, but she can't help wishing for what she can't have.
Rating: Explicit
Contains: explicit sex, sex pollen, spoilers through Act II
Wordcount: 3318
Notes: Written for
press_start 2019Betas: N/A
Summary: After the battle with the Arishok, Hawke and Fenris go to trade some of the spoils at the Black Emporium, and end up with more than they bargained for.
Despite her healing magic, it takes almost a week for Hawke to move easily after the fight with the Arishok. Orana spends every spare minute hovering, adjusting pillows and bringing tea and soup. Anders visits twice, and his magic speeds things along, but Hawke is injured in more than just body. It's not that she doesn't understand Isabela's choices; it's that she could have managed the whole thing better if she'd known.
"You can't manage everyone, Hawke," Varric tells her, during a lackadaisical game of Wicked Grace, spread out on her coverlet.
"But that's what she does," Merrill points out, chewing on her lip as she studies the cards in her hand; it means she has a bad hand. Her face gives everything away. "She's very good at commanding us in battle."
"Not in battle, Daisy," Varric says. Despite the correction, his voice is warm. "The rest of the time."
"Oh." Merrill frowns and draws the next card--the Angel of Death. "Well, time to show, then!" she says brightly. "Unless you'd like to fold?"
Varric laughs. "You wish, Daisy." His hand is quite good; three serpents and two songs, beating Hawke's own two daggers. Merrill sighs as she sets down her hand: one of each suit. She leans forward and props her elbows on her knees as she sits tailor-style on Hawke's bed. "Who are you trying to manage, then?"
"I'm not." Hawke shuffles the cards, but her hands shake, and the deck scatters. Varric gathers them for her, waving her back into her pillows when she starts to help. It's as much to prevent her dodging Merrill's question as it is concern for her health, if not more. "I'm just worried about Isabela. And--" She pauses. That's too close to truth. "About all of you."
"She means she's worried about Broody," Varric tells Merrill, and Hawke's face burns red.
"I think he misses you," Merrill says, stacking the cards as Varric hands them to her. "He hasn't come to the Hanged Man all week."
Hawke studies the coverlet intently. Orana's needlework is beautiful.
"Get some rest, Hawke." Varric offers a hand to help Merrill up. "You know where to find us."
"If Bodahn will let me leave the house," Hawke mumbles.
Varric laughs.
She's not avoiding it, Hawke tells herself, even though it's been two days since she wobbled when she got out of bed. The strained muscles and stress headaches have faded, and the bruises are all healed. She's all but brimming with energy, and tired of the confines of her bedroom. Still, she manages to walk around half of Kirkwall before ending up only a few streets from where she started, outside Fenris's door.
He doesn't answer her knock. She debates with herself for a long moment before opening the door anyway--he hasn't locked it. Even after he cleaned up the corpses, the forest of overturned furniture is dense enough, and uneven enough, that no one can get through it without making a hell of a racket. Hawke's robe catches on a chair leg and sends a small pile teetering and then crashing to the floor. She curses quietly. Something glints out of the corner of her eye and she turns to find herself with the point of a sword at her throat, Fenris's markings glowing faintly in the shadows.
"Hawke," he says, and lowers the sword. "I...wasn't expecting you."
"Sorry for the mess," she says, gesturing to the newly rearranged furniture.
"Ah. Never mind," he says. His eyes rake over her from head to toe. "You're well?" The question sounds like it's been dragged out of him, an interest in her welfare he doesn't want to express. He's been like that since the night they were together--careful of her, hacking through enemies before they can come near her, taking her healing without complaint (unlike Anders'), but unwilling to say anything that matches his actions.
She wishes she could heal what truly hurts him, but her magic mends only bodies, not spirits.
"Good as new," she says, instead of what she wants to say, which is And you? Do you still dream? Do memories batter you like a ship in a storm? "I have some things from the Arishok. I thought we could see if the Black Emporium wants them." She holds up the canvas sack that clinked over her shoulder; it drew the attention of more than one pickpocket, but the knife she carries when a staff is inconvenient disabused them of any notion of easy pickings.
Fenris eyes it warily, as though it might bite him.
She puts on her brightest smile. "I heard they have a new blade in stock. Qunari make."
That gets his attention. He sighs. "There's no need to bribe me, Hawke."
"But I enjoy it so." She gestures for him to precede her from the mansion; he pauses to rearrange the pile she knocked over. If anything, it is now more precarious; she holds her robe in tight against her body as she navigates past it. It wobbles but mostly stays up. She'll never manage to sneak in here and surprise him in bed one morning. If he ever wants her in his bed. Or to be in hers.
She shakes that off and joins him in the bright sunlight outside. He doesn't say much, but he adjusts his ground-eating stride to her shorter one. She should be over this by now; there isn't much that's clearer than "I can't be with you" right after some of the best sex she's ever had, and honestly, it's not even about the sex. It's about him. She likes his dry humor and his easy strength and the way he watches her at Wicked Grace not to guess her next move but just because he likes to (Varric says Fenris loses to Hawke more than everyone else combined, and she hates that she clings to that).
She's busy enough castigating herself for this whatever-it-is that she feels for him that she trips at the top of the stairs leading down to the Black Emporium; she feels herself tip and she knows this is going to hurt--
--and Fenris catches her around the waist, and pulls her back upright, a safe step away from the top.
He lets her go as if she's burned him, as though the magic in her pains his body as much as it pains his mind, even if she isn't using it. What does magic touch it doesn't spoil? he'd asked her, bitterly, and she can't even say she thinks he's wrong; magic has ruined her family several times over. The only reason it hasn't directly, specifically ruined her into Circle-enforced slavery is that Meredith finds her too useful to make Tranquil, yet. She knows her luck will run out on that front eventually.
"Take care, Hawke," he says, and it's so unfair how his voice seems to vibrate through her bones. "Can't be having the Champion meet an ignominious end."
"Lucky I have you, then," she says brightly, and hurries down the stairs so neither of them have to address the fact that she doesn't.
The Emporium is like it always is, dim and smelling of dust and magic and musty things best left unexamined. The golem creaks when he turns toward them, but he recognizes them, and lets them pass. Hawke gives Xenon a bow of respect. He moves slightly, something that might be a nod. She unslings the bag from her shoulder and spreads out her spoils on the counter before him. There are rings, a broken staff, a pair of daggers, and a really nice doublet that is unfortunately much too big for Hawke, not to mention the bloodstains.
One of Xenon's assistants comes over and sorts through the pile. He holds up one of the rings for Xenon to approve, and then tallies the results on a scrap of paper. "I can give you twenty-five sovereigns for it," he offers.
"What about the sword?" Hawke points to the blade hanging on the wall. She'd seen a similar one in the hands of one of the Arishok's companions, but that particular Qunari had survived and left with his weapon. She knows perfectly well what the asking price is on that sword, and it's more than they're offering for the Qunari items, but she also knows they're lowballing her.
The assistant looks at the sword and makes a dismissive noise. "Champion, you know that sword is much more valuable than this lot put together."
Xenon makes a faint wheezing sound to get his assistant's attention. The assistant leans in to hear him, and his eyes widen. He looks inquiringly at the ancient proprietor, then sighs. "We accept your offer."
That was easier than expected.
The assistant takes down the sword from the wall and wraps it. Then he pulls a small packet from beneath the counter. "This was sent here addressed to you," he says, holding it out.
Hawke takes the packet--it fits in the palm of her hand, and is surprisingly heavy in its paper wrapping. It feels like there's cloth beneath, and then something hard. Fenris takes the sword, testing its weight carefully without actually swinging it. He looks less grumpy when he secures it at his back, which is an improvement.
"A pleasure as always," Hawke says, giving Xenon another bow. He wheezes in a way that sounds like it might be laughter, which makes a chill run down her spine.
The sunlight is dazzling when they emerge from the Black Emporium. Hawke is desperately curious about the contents of the little packet, but she's also not willing to give up Fenris's company. She so rarely has it to herself. "Drinks at the Hanged Man? My treat," she offers.
Fenris huffs. "Very well." He keeps pace with her on the way there, and she'd swear she can feel his gaze on her when he thinks she isn't looking. She mostly isn't.
Varric is in his chair at the Hanged Man, but no one else is at his table. He waves when they come in. "A round for the Champion!" he calls out, and the hardcore people in a tavern at noon (which, Hawke reminds herself, includes her) cheer for her. She waves awkwardly as she makes her way back to Varric's table.
"Good to see you up and about, Hawke," Varric says, an odd note of seriousness in his voice.
"What, afraid I'd died? You know better." Hawke smiles at Nora as she sets down the mugs of ale.
"You're the Champion now," Varric says. "Some people will target you just because you exist."
"Then I suppose I shall have to hire a bodyguard," she says, intentionally blithe. She reaches in her pocket for the packet Xenon's assistant had given her.
"What's that?" Varric asks, leaning forward in his chair.
Hawke shrugs. "Apparently it was sent to the Emporium for me."
Varric leans back so fast his chair creaks. "Are you sure you want to open that?" he asks.
He has a point. "It doesn't feel like magic," she says, prodding it with a fingertip.
"Because magic, in all its forms, is obvious," Fenris mutters.
Hawke shoves the packet at him. "You open it, then."
He looks like he wants to say something, but he pulls it toward him and unwraps the paper. Beneath is heavy black velvet, and Hawke itches to touch it. It looks so soft. She twines her fingers in her lap instead.
The velvet falls away to reveal an amulet with a huge carved ruby set in it. Fenris picks it up, and then lets it fall to the table. Beneath the warm brown of his skin, he looks--flushed? Hawke reaches out with her healing magic, but she can't find an illness or fever.
"Fenris?" she asks.
He says nothing. His hands are clenched into fists.
"Very funny, Broody," Varric says, and Hawke notices that Fenris is staring at her.
Really staring at her, like when they were in bed together.
She leans over to look at the amulet. There's a note next to it--"I'm sure you'll find a use for this" is the least helpful note anyone could have written. "Don't," Fenris grits out, too late--the damn thing seems to almost fly into her hand, even though she didn't consciously reach for it. Heat washes through her, and her gaze snaps to Fenris. She wants him, not in the constant background way she's learned to ignore, but in a very immediate, not especially caring if they get a room first kind of way.
She stumbles to her feet, and Fenris does too, and she is dimly aware of Varric's hand on her shoulder as he catches on to the situation and nudges them toward the rooms up the stairs. She'll have to thank him later, but right now, she has more important things on her mind.
Like dragging Fenris through the door of the first empty room, her mouth already on his. Like getting her hands under his armor and onto his skin, warm flesh and icy-sharp lyrium under her hands. Like the way his mouth slams against hers as he turns them and uses their combined weight to slam the door shut, pinning her between him and the door. Like his hands in her hair, his teeth against her lip, the way his body presses against hers.
The first--the only--time they were together, he was careful--not gentle, exactly, but careful. This time he isn't. Seams pop and fabric rips as he yanks at her robes, and she doesn't care. Her hands are clumsy on the fastenings of his armor, but if he can undo it with a damned claw-weapon on his hand she can manage it bare-handed, and she does, and then she pulls her mouth away from his so she can feast on the salt-slick skin of his throat, where the lyrium lines point. It stings against her tongue. She scrapes her teeth over his skin and then finds herself lifted, pressed back against the door while he puts his mouth against her breasts. She sinks her hands into his hair--soft against her hands, and he liked it when she did it before--and then he presses his leg between hers and she's never come from that little pressure before, but she does now, and she knows she screams and can't bring herself to care.
Everything in her goes soft and boneless, and he doesn't stop, his thigh pressing firmly between hers while he licks and bites at every inch of her skin he can reach. She grabs at his shoulders, tries to return the favor, and then with an abruptness that makes her head spin, finds herself on her back on the floor, her hands pinned above her head in one of his. Every nerve is already on fire, and he doesn't stop, finds all the spots she showed him last time like he's been thinking about this every minute between then and now, and she writhes frantically beneath him, which only makes it worse, because he's braced himself over her so that every movement is glorious friction but not enough.
She gets her chance when he shifts his weight to shed the last of his armor, and flips them over, yanking at his smallclothes until she can sink down on him and feel how he stretches her. He gasps a curse and her name, tangled together, and his hands clench tight on her hips, lyrium burning and freezing on her skin, thin bright lines of sensation. She shudders and that makes him lift his hips into her, and draws more curses from both of them.
Every part of her is screaming to go faster, now now now, and she lets it take over, lets it drive her. He lets go of her hip and slips his fingers between them, bright vicious sparks of pleasure chasing through her like the electric bolts of the Qunari Saarebas. She grips his shoulders, her nails digging in hard enough that she knows it has to hurt, but he doesn't seem to mind. His touch is steady on her skin, and it's enough to send her shuddering over the edge again. It's too much, everything is too much, and he hasn't stopped, driving her harder with every movement of his hips and fingers.
"Fenris," she gasps, and then he shifts the angle of his hand and whatever else she was going to say is lost, her body clenching tight around him when she comes again, everything too bright and too hard and too much. He comes with her this time, his head slamming back into the floor when he arches up into her, and she collapses forward over him, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against her chest.
She's almost caught her breath when he moves, turns them so that she's beneath him again, and he can't be ready to go again--but he is, she can feel that he is, and as wrung-out and oversensitive as she is, she meets his touch eagerly. If this is all she can have, she'll seize it with both hands and hold on tight, because she can see in the line of his jaw and the way he won't meet her eyes that this won't last.
It lasts long enough to exhaust both of them, to have them both collapsed on the floor next to each other, breathing in desperate gasps, when the urgency fades, and the aftermath sets in. Hawke is destroyed, her muscles sore and everything so sensitive that even the thought of putting on clothes where fabric will touch her is enough to make her flinch. Beside her, Fenris sits up, and she finds the energy to turn her head toward him.
"Hawke, I'm sorry," he says, and damn him, he still won't look at her.
"There's nothing to apologize for." Her own voice is rough and cracked, her throat sore.
"I can't," he says, as though she hadn't spoken, and somehow he finds the energy to drag himself to his feet--the lyrium glows, and she wonders if he's drawing on that, if he's so determined to be away from her that he's willing to embrace what Danarius did to him to fuel it. He fumbles for his clothes, and hisses out a sharp breath when he pulls them on, which is a small satisfaction for her.
Nothing she can do will change this, so she lies there and watches him gather up his armor without putting it on and leave the room--quietly. Only after he's gone does she make herself sit up, find her own clothing, and limp carefully down the stairs.
Varric is waiting at his table. She thinks about avoiding him, but it won't do any good. She drops into a chair across from him and says nothing.
"You'd think somebody who just had that much sex would look happier," Varric says, "but I guess that's why I called him Broody."
She summons the energy to make a rude gesture at him. That hurts, too, but she's not willing to use magic for healing right now, not willing to erase what's left of this. Even if it was a terrible idea from the beginning.
Varric nudges a drink toward her. "I sent the amulet back to the Emporium with a strongly-worded note for Xenon," he says.
"Thanks," she mumbles.
Varric grins and waggles his eyebrows. "Of course, if you feel the need to make use of its powers again, I'm sure I could get it back."
Whatever answer she might have had to that is interrupted by Merrill's arrival, in a chaos of chatter and the scent of outdoors. Hawke makes herself smile and act as though nothing's wrong, but she can't help wishing for what she can't have.