A/N: For some reason, I find myself compelled to write these little smutfics. I'll admit they are a nice diversion. I'd like to thank everyone who's reviewed my previous DA fics; your kind words and feedback are a remarkable inspiration to me to keep on writing.
"You let him live!"
Hawke stood unflinching as Fenris shouted those words at her, holding her ground before him even though every taut line of his body radiated a terrible fury. Her detached demeanor in the face of his accusation only enraged him further; his shoulders hunched and she saw, from the corner of her eye, his hands ball into fists. That he would hit her did not surprise her. After what had transpired in the last cycle of night and day, nothing much would.
But he reigned in the urge to lash out at the last minute, instead spinning away and moving with tightly controlled strides to the hearth that dominated the parlor of her estate. There was a fire there, flickering low about the embers, giving off wan and intermittent light. He turned to face her again, unable to even look at her without succumbing to the great tidal wash of pure and unadulterated rage. For a moment he was rendered immobile by the strength of that emotion, and all he could do was stare at her while he spoke his next words.
"He destroyed the Chantry, Hawke." His voice was a whisper that trembled beneath the enormity of his wrath. "He destroyed everyone in it. And everyone that died tonight while we fought for Meredith—that was his doing, too. And you let him live—you let him simply walk away!"
The last of his words rose abruptly in volume, ending in a hoarse shout that echoed ominously throughout the large confines of the room. She remained silent and motionless before him, clad still in the stained and bloodied armor she'd been gifted with after resolving the incident with the Qunari. Her staff, a warped and blackened stick adorned with a triad of serpent heads, was held loosely in a one-handed grip. She had not escaped the punishing battles of the past night unscathed; blood from a head wound had dried in clumps in the foremost lengths of her fiery hair and in rivulets down the left side of her face; she stood favoring one leg. It was her eyes that bothered him the most, though, for as he paced an agitated circle before the hearth he could feel their weight and knew that if he looked within them now, he'd see no defiance in the face of his condemnation. All he would see within their weary blue depths would be guilt and self-recrimination.
That fact did nothing to assuage him. Instead, it fanned the flames of his anger even further. He stalked back to where she stood and driven by the ruthless machinations of his furor, he seized the loose folds of her lowered hood and jerked her forwards. She stumbled bodily into him, still unresisting, and he found himself yelling words directly into her face as he shook her violently.
"You're as much to blame as he!" Her gaze had not faltered from his own, even now; what dark and oppressive judgements he saw there—all directed inwards—haunted him; he knew she already suffered the horrible consequences of her decision. He experienced his own brief remorse then, but it was forcibly subdued by the stronger, ruthless tide of his ire. He shook her once more, and as her head fell back beneath the onslaught he hissed, "Say something!"
"There is nothing for me to say." She replied softly. He became still, hands still fisted in the fabric of her hood as she went on. "It's all true."
Her voice was heavy and thick with sorrow, mingled with what he knew was self-disgust. But his temper, his convictions, his hatred—they could not be appeased. He saw again the destruction of the chantry, heard again Anders' impassioned words, and these memories suddenly flooded together with those from his days as a slave under Danarius. Always mages, always magic—so wickedly convoluted those forces, so inarguably devastating to any and all they came in contact with—
Fenris lost all control then, unable to withstand any longer the dangerous and uncontrollable fusing of emotion that came with the recollections he so hated. As he lashed out time seemed to slow; he watched wide-eyed as his own hand, open-palmed, connected solidly with the side of her face.
The seconds snapped back into proper flow as she staggered away from him, staff falling from her grip as she reached up to probe gently with her fingers the ugly red imprint he'd left on her cheek. In the stark silence that fell he stared at her wide-eyed, nausea rising within him as he realized with horror what he'd just done. She straightened, letting her hand fall away from her face, and turned again to face him directly. And again he saw nothing in her eyes, no blame, no indignation, only the yawning, depthless chasm of an agony he couldn't even begin to fathom.
She turned away from him then, and began to walk from the room.
The conflicting chaos he felt inside him then was inexplicable in its complexity, undeniable in its callousness. He lunged. The sound she made as he grabbed her from behind was one of alarm, but still she did not fight. With a grunt he tightened his grip and swung her about, driving her back with a shove until she slammed up hard against the wall. He closed the distance between them with two quick steps and brought the length of his forearm up hard against her neck. Slowly he applied pressure, cutting off her breathing, willing her to strike back, willing her to curse, willing her to show any sign of rebellion at all; within the furthest recesses of his mind, a voice was frantically screaming at him to cease.
Her face was reddening, and he could hear the strangled wheeze as she struggled to draw in breath. Still she did not retaliate, her arms remaining pinned at her sides by his weight. Desperately his eyes flicked upwards to hers once more only to find them devoid of any enmity, only that same awful acceptance—
His breath left him in a harsh exhale of resignation, and he collapsed against her. He let his arm fall from her neck and placed his hand flat on the wall next to her head, using it to brace his weight as he leaned. His head fell forward as he closed his eyes, helpless then under a torrent of self-contempt. The choice she made in that darkest hour of the night previous had stunned him, for what Anders had done had been beyond any and all redemption. His loathing for the male mage had been so unrelenting that he would have without hesitation struck him down in those instants after the Chantry's destruction—had in fact intended to, but had been stayed by the quiet command of Hawke. It was only now that he realized that she had known all along that letting Anders escape with his life was folly, for as much as Fenris himself was governed by his hatred of magic and all it tainted, so too was Hawke ruled by a great and all-encompassing compassion.
It was something he both admired and detested about her, the sheer capacity she had for forgiveness without clinging to a grudge; he had never been able to master such skill, nor did he think he ever could. In Hawke he found an ever-shifting conundrum, a mingling of that which he so despised and mistrusted—her magic—and that which he could not help but respect: an inherent gift for leadership through logic, reason and kindliness. And in the years he had spent in her company, he had found himself caught unsuspecting by the most startling of occurrences.
He'd fallen for her.
That he had feelings of this sort for a mage were both unforgivable and inconceivable. The depth of his attraction threatened at times to drive him mad, for she was the very embodiment of everything he had despised, the very fundament of the hate that sustained and fed him through all his years as a slave. He could not fully convince himself of the wrongness of it all, however, for beneath the trappings of a mage he knew there lurked a woman more courageous and more generous than any other person he'd ever known.
In the hours since the Chantry's demise, Fenris had been able to focus only on the fact that Hawke had done as he'd expected of every mage he ever encountered and made the most dangerous choice, the most abhorrent of decisions and had let Anders live. He'd cast aside his affection, misplaced as it was, and concentrated only on the detestation that had been buried so deep within him as a slave that it was much a part of him as his very bones. It was only now, as he leaned against her lost in a tumultuous swirl of emotions, that he was able to realize that in harming her, he'd committed as grievous a wrong as she had.
"I'm sorry," he whispered then. "Hawke, I should never have—"
"It's alright." She said. Her voice was toneless and calm.
He shifted so that he was no longer pressed against her and lifted his head in order to see her face. It was as it had been before—utterly inexpressive, and still in her eyes he could find no feeling, no sign of life save for that of a devastating self-reproach. She had withdrawn so completely in the hours since Anders had revealed his true intent that Fenris found himself wondering if she would ever be able to return.
It frightened him.
So it was the fear drove him to do that which he had only dared to imagine in the deepest hours of so many nights, when desires he had not wanted to realize openly kept sleep from him. He kissed her, an abrupt lunge that startled him as much as it did she. Her lips were warm and full beneath his, unresisting but not encouraging, either. He wanted a reaction from her, wanted to know that the core of her person—that vibrant, magnetic woman that had drawn him despite how strongly every deeply ingrained instinct he had had struggled against it—was still there, locked somewhere within. And so he kissed her harder, surging up against her, pressing himself tightly against her body with his hands on the wall on either side of her head. All his misgivings, all his doubt, all his aggravation he channeled into the pressure of his lips on hers; it became almost a punishment, as much for his sins as it was for hers. Long seconds passed and inwardly he despaired; he'd lost her—had he ever had her?—and he did not think there was any way to bring her back completely—
And in the span of one heartbeat, something changed. He felt her body relax, felt her submit, and then her mouth opened beneath his own—so small a thing, but it incited his blood to become fire in his veins. His tongue glided over the ripeness of her lips to slide against her own, a sinuous mating that had him pressing harder against her. His hands left the wall and tangled themselves in the lengths of her hair, pulling her head back, allowing him to explore her mouth and lips more fully. When finally he pulled away, panting, he saw in her eyes the warmth and life he had so fervently been wanted to see. There was desire there too, faint traces of it visible and recognizing this he felt himself suddenly maddened as a rush of possessive lust flooded through him.
He kissed her hard as his hands left her hair, running their way down, marking the shape of her body covered even as it was by her armor. He would have her here, now—he would have her before the dismal outside world intruded to drive them down different paths; he would have her before sanity reasserted itself. His mouth still plundering hers, his hands found the waist of her doeskin breeches and felt blindly until they deciphered the laces that bound them. He gripped them and pulled roughly, feeling them tear beneath his strength, hearing the sharp rip as they gave way. She had not tried to stop him; as the laces tore, as he inserted one hand beneath the now tattered fabric to find the flesh hidden beneath, she surged up against him and in doing so, made the kiss near-brutal in its intensity.
Unerringly his fingers delved beneath the thin covering of her underclothes, sliding against her flesh and finding at last the wet, silken folds of her. Without preamble he inserted two fingers, forcing them into her despite her tightness, despite the gasp she gave. He pulled away only enough to watch her face as he took her thus, marking the way her eyes closed with each thrust and the way her breath escaped her not in words of denial, but with soft sounds of wanting.
Her release came upon her suddenly, startling a soft cry from her mouth as her body became even wetter, as she tightened reflexively around the crooked length of his fingers. Shaken, she clung to him with her hands at his shoulders as the tremors wrought from his touch abated; her eyes, wide and dazed, held nothing of the shame he'd seen before and were filled now only with the same primal longing he himself felt.
Witnessing her pleasure—and being the cause of it—had fueled the waves of his own desire and his cock beneath the constricting confines of his breeches was rock-hard and throbbing. He pulled his fingers from her slickness and wrapped his other hand around her arm, tugging her with him as he crossed the room with an urgent stride. At the other end of the parlor was the writing desk, and without a word he swept her in front of him and shoved her down, face-first, over the polished wood surface. She made a small sound, one of mingled apprehension and want, and he felt an answering growl crawl its way up his throat. With one hand at the back of her neck, holding her in place, he gripped her breeches and the smallclothes beneath and tore them downwards with one furious movement. The expanse of her curving, tender flesh exposed thus before him fanned his raging lust, and he fumbled violently at the fastening of his own leggings. Seconds later he'd torn them open; gripping his aching cock , he guided it into her in a slow and forceful penetration.
His breath left him in a low and guttural groan as the tight walls of her sheath gripped him and stretched to accommodate his girth. She cried out beneath him as he ground into her with short, hard strokes, her body writhing against the hard and unrelenting surface of the desk. Still he held her captive, making his withdrawal a languid and torturous device, pausing only a moment before driving the rigid length of him back into her in a relentless plunge. He set a steady, pounding rhythm, taking her with all the fury he'd harnessed these past years, converting it into a desire only to take her, to own her, to capture her with all the wildness of what he'd felt. The pleasure he knew was indescribable, wondrously remarkable, and as he felt it start to crest towards that shining, imminent peak he reached up to grab the edges of the desk with both hands, and used it as leverage to pull himself even deeper within her.
"Fenris!" She cried then, and he felt her shudder violently beneath him as again she came. Her name fell explosively from his lips as a moment later as he found his own release, as he shoved himself as hard and as deep as he could while he emptied convulsively inside her.
So powerful was his final reaction that he found himself unable to move for long seconds afterwards, slumped atop her, his cock still buried within her body. Reality filtered back to him slowly; he became aware of the rise and fall of her back against his chest as she breathed, felt the sweat covering his body began to cool. Reluctantly and with a little apprehension he pulled away, sliding out of her, backing away enough to allow her room to stand. She did so slowly. With her back still to him she pulled her ripped breaches up, covering the lower half of her body from view once more. It was then she turned to him, the movement cautious, and he found himself irrationally terrified to know what expression her face might wear.
Her features were unreadable and he felt his heart plummet—what he'd done here had been irrevocably damaging, then. But she took a step towards him, looking both bewildered and wanton with the laces of her breeches dangling free and the tuft of reddish curls at the junction of her thighs exposed by the torn fabric. He watched, dry-mouthed, as she approached him and didn't dare move even when she reached out one hand to cradle his cheek with her palm.
Of all the words whirling about the chaotic mass that was his mind, he found he could only utter one thing. "Forgive me, Hawke."
But she shook her head and he saw then a smile flicker about the edges of her lips. "There is," she told him softly, "nothing to forgive you for."
She stepped close to him, leaning against his body; with hesitant disbelief his arms came up and closed tightly around her. She said into his chest, words slightly muffled, "Can you forgive me, Fenris?"
He knew she was asking him not only to absolve her of the actions she'd committed hours earlier, but for all she'd done in the past that he'd argued against, and all that she might do in the future. His eyes closed with the relief that washed through him then; he hadn't broken their connection, as skewed and flickering as it had been. He hadn't destroyed with his madness and lust the one thing he coveted and cherished above all others.
"There is," he told her in an echo, his lips brushing against her hair, "nothing to forgive you for."