Patriarch III

(In which Malcolm learns more about his son's sparring partner)

(Warning: Slash ahead. Turn back if it squicks you out.)

Carver turned up the collar of his shirt just a bit, to hide the darkening bruises along his neck. The last thing he wanted was his dad asking what had happened. Malcolm Hawke was a healer by choice, and Carver didn't need another awkward conversation. Maker, he'd sink into the floor with embarrassment.

Still, last night had been…good. He hadn't expected Fenris to react to his advance, much less throw him up against the wall like he had. For someone so much smaller than him to manhandle him like that – it made Carver's heart race at the thought of it, and he brought his hand to his neck, where the marks of Fenris's teeth remained.

Fenris growled, sinking his teeth into the juncture of Carver's shoulder, his markings flaring bright in the dimmed room. Carver gasped, twitching in Fenris's smaller hands as the elf stroked him with a manic intensity, his own arousal pressing against the joint of Carver's hipbone. Lyrium-branded fingers pressed just underneath his length, causing the larger man to shudder against the rough brick wall, harsh breathing the only noise in the room save for the soft slap of skin on skin as Fenris stroked Carver to stuttering completion, his hips jerking in an erratic rhythm as he spilled himself into the elf's palms.

Fenris smiled, lapping at Carver's seed while he watched, fascinated. "This is only the beginning. There is much more we can do, should you wish it."

He sagged against the wall, drained from his exertions as he looked at Fenris in awe. "M-more?"

"Oh yes." Fenris's voice was a purr that promised many more things to come. He cleaned them both up and led Carver to the bed, settling him down as he undressed. "Much more."

Even though Carver was exhausted, Fenris elicited a spike of desire that went straight to his belly, hot and wonderful as the elf crawled over the bed towards him. A pink tongue darted out to moisten dark lips, Carver's eyes watching every move as Fenris lowered himself between his knees. Gentle fingers spread him wide for Fenris's perusal, and Carver wriggled at the first application of a moist tongue against his entrance, unused to the sensation.

"Relax," came the murmured rumble of Fenris's voice. "It only gets better from here."

The tongue continued, probing with slow assurance as Carver squirmed against the sensation. He was spent, and that meant under normal circumstances a considerable wait, but Fenris was adamant, the flat of his tongue caressing Carver as the elf licked a slow trail up Carver's trembling skin; he felt himself awakening once more as Fenris ministered to him.

Deft fingers massaged and stroked, coaxing more life into the hardening length of him. Carver let out a growl, twitching against his stomach. The flat of the tongue pressing against him became an insistent pressure against the ring of muscle, Fenris humming with delight as he relaxed enough to enjoy the sensations coiling over him. He floated in a haze of arousal, washed with the press of tongue and lips and hands as Fenris had his wicked way with him.

He whimpered as the warmth of the tongue withdrew, opening his eyes to see Fenris reaching for a jar of slick, the scent of oil and musky spice wafting from the glowing fingers. He watched, fascinated and curious as he felt Fenris placed those same fingers against him, swirling them right where his tongue had been moments before. Carver arched on instinct, allowing Fenris better access, and he heard the elf chuckle as more slick was applied.

"Eager, are we?"

"Sh-shut up." He hated how his voice shook with need, and the low laughter that sent sparks sizzling straight to his groin, but the rotation of Fenris's fingers was maddening. A single digit slipped inside him to the first knuckle, and he froze, the stretching sensation unfamiliar. Fenris eased him into it, his fingers gentle as more slick was applied, and –

He jumped as his name was called, whirling around wide-eyed to see his dad leveling the Look at him. He and his sisters had agreed that the Look was a force to be reckoned with. It could make them confess anything they had done, whether they wanted to or not. Had their father been such a staunch advocate against blood magic, they would swear he had some way of telling when they'd done something wrong.

Carver swallowed. "Sorry, dad. Was there something wrong?"

"I think we need to have a talk, son." Malcolm settled into the chair by the fireplace, pushing the other one out a little with one booted foot. "I've noticed you disappearing a lot. Not like your sister, but quite a bit all the same."

Carver sank into the chair. Damn it. His dad would be sure to pick up on where he was going, and he would get a stern talking-to. It seemed that nothing he did was right, even if he was better about his absences than Ceelee. He suppressed a sigh, meeting his dad in the eye.

"Carver, is there a girl in your life now?" Malcolm smiled at him, eyes twinkling with mischief. "I remember being your age, even in the Circle I had a few girls hanging off my arm."

"Not…exactly." Carver forced himself to speak up, to avoid mumbling. Mumbling would only make his dad pester him further.

"Not exactly?" Malcolm's brows drew down in confusion, and then rose in horror. "Maker, Carver, you haven't got the chit pregnant, have you?"

"That's not much of a concern here, Dad." Carver swallowed, hunching his shoulders to hide the bitemarks better.

"Not much of a concern? Carver, you know better than that. Remember what I talked about with you?" Malcolm looked disappointed in Carver, frown lines appearing between his brows.

"No, dad, you don't under – "

"Carver, you are going to take responsibility for your actions. When I was young, I took care of all of you, because I was always taught to be a – "

"It's Fenris, all right?" His voice had risen to a shout, drowning out his father, and he wondered if there were any nobles left in Hightown who hadn't heard it. His face flamed, reddening in embarrassment, and he stared at his boots, aware of his father's shocked silence. He waited for the yelling to start, but it didn't.

"Well…" Malcolm sat back in the chair with a creak. He clasped his hands over his stomach, regarding his son in silence for a moment. "It's not what I expected, but if it makes you happy, who am I to argue with you?"

"W-what?" Carver looked up. Malcolm beamed at him, an indulgent smile for his only son. "You're okay with – " He made a vague hand gesture at himself. " – this?"

"Carver, you will always be my son, no matter who you get involved with. Gamlen might not approve, but sod that bastard." His expression darkened a moment at the mention of his brother-in-law, then cleared. "Just promise me you'll bring him by to let me talk to him, all right?"

"Daaaa-aaad." Carver groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands, his cheeks burning with shame. "I can take care of myself."

"I know, son. I just want to make sure he and I have an understanding, is all."

Carver grumbled, but he knew his dad would go out of his way to talk to Fenris anyway. It was easier if he just gave in. He promised to invite Fenris to the house for dinner tonight, and made Malcolm swear that he wouldn't try to intimidate Fenris. He didn't want either of them coming to blows, regardless of what they thought. He liked Fenris without scorch marks, and he thought his father's heart should remain in his chest.

It would be a disaster, but that was how things worked in the Hawke household. You either went along with Malcolm's wishes, or he plowed you under. Carver sighed.

It was going to be a very long day.

A/N: Well, that was certainly an experiment. That was the first actual slash I have ever written, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. However, I won't improve as a writer unless I push boundaries, so there we are. Chalk up something different for me today. Also, I wrote a poem for Carver. Not quite a limerick, but it gets my point across:

Carver was a prickly sort,
Always cranky, always short.
Forever a scowl upon his face
Until a smile for Fenris took its place.
Now he's more relaxed these days,
Since grumpy Carver's finally been laid.

Hope you enjoyed, and if you don't read slash, no worries. I write enough het to satisfy you, I'm sure.