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~ Free Marches, City of Kirkwall, Hawke’s estate in Hightown, 9:37 Dragon ~
He felt Fenris’ eyes on him as he pulled on his boots.
He’d made an effort to dress as noiselessly as possible so as not to disturb the other man, but he was unsurprised that it proved futile. His lover dozed lightly and his eerie sensitivity to Hawke’s moods rarely faltered, even in sleep.
The Selbrechs’ salon of the previous evening had been tiring. The couple’s daughter, Lady Marlein, was among a select few of Hightown’s residents whom Hawke considered noble in more than title alone, but after meeting her parents, he could report with a measure of cynicism that it was not an inherited trait.
Lord Garrél and Lady Marcine were allies only insofar as they were enemies of his enemy. Hawke’s was the loudest voice protesting the Knight Commander’s usurpation of the Viscount seat, and so they'd pledged to support him – albeit discreetly, and as a matter of concern for the value of their holdings rather than those being crushed beneath Meredith’s stranglehold on the city. His hostess’ reluctance to offer her hand in greeting had been noticeable. Hawke couldn’t decide if it was his status as an apostate, the air of Lowtown dog-lord that cleaved to him still, or the fact that he favoured his father’s Chasind blood over his mother’s Marcher aristocracy that offended her more. In all probability, neither could she.
Arriving with an elf on his arm hadn’t helped, either.
Maker knew, he despised dragging Fenris to these things, but the truth was, he needed him there.
As a veteran of Tevinter intrigue, his lover possessed the savoir-faire to recognise nuance that Hawke sometimes missed. Then, there was the matter of appearances. While flaunting an attractive elven inamorato was considered vulgar by most, in Hawke’s particular case it was tolerable - preferable even. Being Champion of Kirkwall and the scion of House Amell carried him across the threshold, but as a mage and the offspring of a Hightown cautionary tale, patriarchs with daughters would consider his unaccompanied arrival to be the greater of two evils.
He had the Starkhaven heir as his open sponsor and the aid of the Grand Cleric to appease Val Royaux, but it wasn’t enough.
He needed to find a new Viscount, someone able to wrench the city back from ‘Gallows Rule’ as Anders called it. To achieve that, Meredith’s influence had to be siphoned away. Slowly, subtlety, without polarising the Free Marches further and without forcing her hand – not before Hawke had the political reach and the legal rope to bind both the left and the right behind her back. This, required the support of people like the Selbrechs. And the Harrimans. And the Darrows, and the Arfords, and even the De Launcets.
An uncouth mongrel he may be; stupid he was not.
Hawke knew what was at stake, understood the consequences of failure.
If Meredith moved first, before he was ready, she would not come for his head.
No. He would face the Brand, and a life on display as the ultimate trophy, proclaiming her victory over magic and its wielders. A neutered, broken-toothed Mabari on a leash. The only question that remained, was whether she would inflict that fate before or after exacting her vengeance on those he cherished.
“You’ve been summoned.”
Not a question. The rich baritone was low, softened with sleep, but the edge of worry was clear.
Hawke sighed, hand raking through the hair already rebelling against the thong he’d used to tame the ebony mass. He had no platitudes to offer and Fenris wouldn’t want them if he did.
He heard an indrawn breath behind him; a pause lingered before it was released. “And you planned to depart without a word?” The mattress creaked and Hawke felt a tug on the sheets beneath his weight. “Rather discourteous. Considering that you have a prior engagement.”
Hawke frowned. “What prior engage—” he began, only to falter as he turned to face the elf. Fenris’ hair was mussed, falling softly into luminous green eyes. He had one arm bent above his head as he lounged amidst the pillows, the image of decadent repose. The bedding had been flung aside. Beneath Hawke’s gaze, his legs fell open, inviting him to look as slender fingers teased along his early-morning hardness.
Hawke’s breath caught.
He was not in the habit of neglecting his lover’s desires, but last night his exhaustion had rendered him useless for anything but sleep. “Tomorrow, when we wake, Wolf. I promise.”
He’d forgotten, mind blanked of all but survival when Bodahn’s knock came before the sun, rapping with an urgency that promised ill tiding. ‘’Begging your pardon, Messere. There’s a messenger downstairs. From the Gallows.”
Flames danced in the hearth, filling the room with warmth and shadows. Hawke had to get up. Every summons from the Knight-Commander might well be his death knell, but it would be foolish to court the woman’s ire with something so petty as delaying. He had to don his coat and gloves, go down and greet the Templar in his foyer before the bastard came up looking, but Kirkwall and its conflicts were fading from thought as he drank in the sight of this man – usually so reticent and cautious, naked in his bed and at ease enough to be wanton.
Hawke stared, gaze ravenous as light rippled through Fenris’ markings, flaring along his ribs, sparking in the triad of dots on each hip.
Whether anger or ardour, the elf’s passions always rose quickly once stirred.
He made a sound, caught between impatience and need, but he didn’t give up the tease or hasten his pace. His grip remained loose, fingers trembling, cock hard and twitching as the first pearl of liquid trickled from the tip. He rolled his hips, lips parted, lashes fluttering.
“Wreath…”
His given name in that breathless timbre. A demand, cloaked in a plea.
Hawke’s resolve snapped. He moved, closing the distance like a beast felling prey. The meeting of mouths was bruising, more force than finesse. A clash of lips and teeth and tongues, and Fenris met him blow for blow. Lithe strength clung to him, fingers tangling in his hair, snapping the tie and shrouding them in black. Hawke felt, more than heard, the sob break against his lips; tasted salt as Fenris licked into his mouth, rutting fitfully against his thigh.
He tried to stop, to pull back, but the grip in his hair fisted at the root, keeping him close. Their breaths mingled, sultry and wet. “Hate this, mage. That I c-can’t follow. Can’t protect—” Fenris’ snarl tapered to a whine. He surged forward, laying siege as he crushed their lips together, tongue sliding, hot and lewd, alongside Hawke’s.
The confession lodged behind his sternum like an ache and Hawke’s own anger kindled, impotent and aimless, roughening his touch. He groped blindly, alighting on the flexing muscle of a thigh and used the grip to slot their hips together, seeking friction of his own.
A moan vibrated against his tongue and he shuddered. Lights danced behind his eyelids as the cold-hot burn of lyrium raised gooseflesh down his spine, calling to his mana, even through his clothes. He felt the Fade encroach, Veil thinned to gossamer. There were whispers just beyond his hearing, but they didn’t feel like demons.
He could feel Fenris trembling, sense the change in rhythm as he barrelled toward climax.
Hawke rolled, not breaking the kiss as his hand slid down the elf’s heaving belly to find his cock and stroke him roughly to release. Fenris jerked as he spilled, teeth closing on Hawke’s lip, hard enough to sting.
They lay together, dazed and panting. Fenris in the aftermath; Hawke in throbbing need. The Fade still echoed, but more distantly as his senses succumbed to baser interests, the taste of his lover in his mouth and the smell of hearth and sweat and spend.
When it came, the diffident rap of knocking jarred like the ground at the end of a fall.
“Messere? Just to let you know, our visitor is getting restless.”
Hawke sat up, raking back his tangled hair. He swallowed thickly. “I’ll be right down, Bodahn!” If his voice cracked, he knew his steadfast retainer would pretend not to notice.
Fenris watched him, eyes dark and pleasure-glazed. One hand lay beside his head, the other resting idly across his midriff. His lips were parted, red and swollen. Semen dappled his belly, the flush of their exertion shining on his skin.
For a moment, Hawke indulged a fantasy of scraping up what remained of the ‘restless’ Templar and feeding it to Arshavir.
He rose, looming over the bedside. He snatched Fenris’s hand from the mattress and pressed it to the rigid bar of flesh, still trapped beneath his placket.
“When I get back—” he growled, a promise wrapped in a prayer.
Fenris nodded; licked his lips. His fingers tightened in a grope, dragging a hiss up from Hawke’s core.
The elf’s voice, when he found it, was hoarse, his gaze like broken glass. Green and sharp and brittle.
“See that you do.”