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A Private Reunion

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She never forgot the feeling of his hands on her hips, his lips on her skin, but the reality of it is so much more than the cold memories she took comfort in.

And they’re leagues away from Kirkwall, from the street where they met and the bed that they shared, but here in this office Hawke is finally home .

Fenris wraps his arms around her again and pulls her closer; Hawke can feel the tips of his gauntlets dig into the skin of her bare arm, but she can’t bring herself to care. He moves again, backing herself against the heavy wooden door. One gauntleted hand comes up to touch her cheek, unexpectedly tender in contrast to his desperate kisses.

His lips trail from her mouth down the line of her jaw, back to the sensitive spot below her ear, sucking and teasing at her skin. Hawke hears herself moan as if from a distance, twines her fingers in his silver-white hair. It’s longer than she remembers, long enough to brush past the line of his jaw and catch at the back of his collar.

Fenris raises one hand, draws his head back to tug at a gauntlet strap with his teeth.

Hawke laughs, half breathless, and helps him remove it, glad she left her own off for the day. It’s the work of a moment to get the straps loose, and even less time before both gauntlets fall to the floor with a clatter.

The silence that follows seems to echo through the room, and Fenris locks eyes with her. His hands--bare now, and gentle in spite of the swordsman’s callouses--return to her face, cupping both cheeks softly and holding her forehead to his.

“I missed you,” Hawke says, grasping his hands with her own. Fenris smiles in response, one of his rare, true smiles that always feel like a privilege to see.

“I will not leave you again,” he says, simple words heavy with conviction. Hawke feels as though her heart might burst when he kisses her again.

Hawke is reminded, then, of another kiss, another doorway. But this time, Hawke doesn’t turn them, doesn’t reverse their positions.

She suspects that, were she not supported by his arms and the solid wood at her back, her trembling legs would not be able to hold her up.

She loses track of how long they stay there, Fenris pressing the length of his body against hers. He kisses her, stroking her hair and cheek while his lips move with her own. It’s slower than before, this kiss, like he’s relearning the way she feels and tastes.

Slowly, Hawke slides her hands down and over his shoulders, to the strap that holds his breastplate in place. It’s difficult to get the get the thing loose without breaking the kiss, but Hawke has no desire to pull back.

After what seems like forever, she works the leather free and lets the breastplate join his gauntlets on the floor.

Another obstacle removed, Fenris presses even closer, one hand bracing himself against the door and the other moving down to the small of her back.

Hawke gasps when Fenris takes her lower lip in his teeth; his answering growl rumbles through his chest and sends shivers down her spine. His mouth leaves hers again, nipping down the column of her throat.

Together, they start on Hawke’s armor, piece by piece: fur collar, metal arm and leg guards, breastplate, tunic, chainmail.

Mentally, Aliss curses herself for wearing so many layers.

Finally, she’s left in just breeches and a linen shirt.

His hand slides down again to her thigh, hitches her leg over his hip. He rolls his hips into hers and she gasps, tries to pull him closer. She feels more than she feels him chuckle,and then he lifts her in one smooth motion, his hands cupping the curve of her rear.

She shouldn’t still be amazed when he does that--he’s carried a massive greatsword for as long as she’s known him, and she’s watched him throw a man across a room without a blink--but it still makes her gasp to feel how easily he lifts and moves her.

Hawke laughs as Fenris carries her, locking her legs around his waist to stay in place.

He resists her efforts to pull his head up for a proper kiss, instead brushing maddeningly light kisses against her throat and collarbone.

She nips at the tip of his pointed ear in retaliation, earning a deep groan and a shudder that seems to go through his entire body.

“Aliss,” he says warningly, and she nearly trembles to hear her name on his lips after so long.

He sets her down on the desk in the corner, penning her in with an arm on either side.

“You know,” Hawke says, between another kiss and a bitten back moan, “there’s a perfectly good bed right down that ladder.”

Fenris hums in acknowledgement but moves only to untuck her shirt and slide his hands up the skin of her back.

“Desk is fine,” Hawke says, and uses a leg to hook him closer.

Fenris chuckles, and takes a step forward. One hand stays at her back, fingernails raising gooseflesh on her skin, but the other drops to her thigh. Hawke’s response is muffled by a kiss, but she near whimpers when his thumb strokes slow circles through her breeches.

His hands are still so gentle, and it’s lovely, it really is, but it’s been ages and she wants him, wants him on her and over her and within her.

She tells Fenris as much, whispering filthy things in his ear. Tries to wear away at his Maker-damned control .

Hawke is rewarded for her efforts with a low curse in Arcanum and a thrust of his hips against hers.

Fenris pulls away just enough to tug at the knotted laces of her trousers, leans her back, and yanks down breeches and smalls both.

When the garments catch on her boots, Fenris kneels before her to remove them. If Hawke hadn’t already seen him naked, she would swear that his green eyes looking up from between her legs is the most erotic thing she’s ever seen.

Once her legs are bare, he tosses Hawke’s clothes aside to join his own shed cloak, pack, and greatsword in a pile on the the floor.

Hawke leans back against the desk with a breathless laugh, realizing that this is the first use the thing has gotten since Montilyet gave her the office.

He stays there for a few long heartbeats, just looking at her, his hands gently cupping the backs of her calves. He only moves to kiss her knee, then the inside of her thigh, and it’s wonderful except for being so far from where she wants him.

She groans and shifts in place on the desk. “Fenris, I love you, and I missed you, and I love that you take your time, but if you don’t get up here and fuck me already…”

With a chuckle, he stands, and she can hear the slide of leather as he loosens his own trousers. “Later, then,” he says, bending over her. “Because, Aliss ,” he says, his voice low and sinful in her ear, “I intend to take my time .”

The way he slides his hand over her belly and down leaves no doubt what he plans to do with that time.

Fenris groans when his fingers reach her wetness, dropping his head to her shoulder. “Maker…” he says, and captures her lips in a hungry kiss.

Hawke moans into his mouth as one of his long fingers circles her bud before going lower, teasing at her entrance but going no further. “ Please ,” she says, when Fenris takes another breath. “No more waiting, I’m ready, I need you…”

She knows that she’s begging, but can’t bring herself to care.

Not when Fenris kisses her again and takes himself in hand, not when he presses against her and holds her gaze, not when he slowly--so slowly, Maker, his control doesn’t snap even now--thrusts into her, not when he slides deeper and seats himself fully within her.

Hawke wraps her legs around his waist, trying to pull Fenris deeper and hold him closer. He hisses in her ear and starts to move, speaking breathlessly as he finds a rhythm.

Beautiful, beautiful, Aliss, I love you, mine, you are mine, Aliss, and I am yours, beautiful, love, I love you, yours, always yours…

Her hands drift, trying to anchor her on something, anything, as she rolls her hips to meet his thrusts. One finds purchase on the edge of the desk, and she bites on the knuckles of the other to muffle her rising voice.

Fenris straightens without stopping, looking down at her as his hands hold her hips steady. She can tell that his fingers will leave bruises, but she doesn’t care because finally he’s exactly where she wants him. The angle change is delicious , and Hawke’s hand leaves her mouth to clutch her own hair, her voice rising in a steady stream of pleas, cries to the Maker, and, always, Fenris’s name.

One of his hands leaves her hip for the place where they’re joined, teasing at her pearl in time with his thrusts. And that nearly does it for her, has her curling her toes and clenching around him. His rhythm stutters for a moment with a groan, but he continues, pulling her up just enough to change the angle even more, and then she’s coming and she can’t think or speak or even breathe for a moment, and he follows her over the edge, grunting her name and a low curse before falling forward once more.

 

 

Hawke knows that they’ve been lying on the desk for too long; one of her feet is all pins and needles, and there’s something suspiciously quill-shaped digging into her lower back, but she can’t find any real desire to move.

Because Fenris is lying atop her, fingers of one hand interlacing her own, the other tracing light patterns on her thigh.

She feels like she should say something, but all none of the words that come to mind seem enough . Because having him back is like a weight coming off of her chest and letting her breathe again.

Not that she’d ever say something that sappy and ridiculous out loud. Especially not when she’s in the same castle as the dwarf who seems to take such pleasure in publishing her love life. Not that Varric can hear them here--she thinks, though she learned long ago not underestimate him--but still, she doesn’t want to take any chances.

“I missed you too,” Fenris says, low enough that she almost misses it.

She grins as he stands, accepting the hand he extends to pull her upright. For a moment, she stays seated on the desk, unapologetically staring as Fenris tucks himself back into his breeches and straightens his jerkin.

“Oh, good,” she says, smiling at him. “That’ll make it much less awkward when I ask if you’d like to see my new bedchamber.”

Fenris shakes his head and laughs softly, giving her a hand as she hops down from the desk. With a wry smirk, he takes a step closer and kisses her, slow and deep, cupping her cheeks in his hands.

“So that’s a yes…?” Hawke asks, when he breaks the kiss. Fenris groans and drops his head to her shoulder.

Yes , Hawke,” he says, his tone somehow both affectionate and exasperated. “You said it was down the ladder?”

Hawke steps towards the ladder, holding up a finger to Fenris. “Yes, but I’m going first. Can’t have you staring up at my ladybits on the way down, can we?”

Fenris snorts but complies, waiting until Hawke is about halfway down before starting his own descent.

The room is small, but well-warmed by the kitchen below. There’s a bed against one wall, a wardrobe opposite it, and a mirror and washstand in the corner. A pair of narrow windows in the outermost wall lets in light and a view of the valley below. The decor is heavy, solid, and very Ferelden; it reminds Hawke a bit of the places where she grew up, even if it is far nicer than anything she remembers seeing in Lothering.

Facing the bed, Hawke lifts her arms above her head and stretches up onto her toes. She can hear Fenris behind her, leather creaking as he removes his jerkin, and a soft thump as it falls to the floor. She smiles, and reaches down to the hem of her own shirt.

“Let me,” Fenris says, and then he’s right behind her, pressing a kiss to the crook of her neck and covering her hands with his own. Slowly-- too slowly, Hawke thinks--he pulls the garment up, running his hands over every inch of exposed skin. When it reaches her shoulders, Hawke raises her arms again, helping him tug the thing off and toss it aside.

Left in only her breastband, Hawke shivers just slightly as Fenris traces across her skin with his fingertips. His mouth is level with her bare shoulder and he takes advantage, kissing the flesh there gently.

She tilts her head to the side, exposing more of her neck to his attentions. With one hand, she starts to tug at the laces between her breasts, using the other to pull free the already mostly-loose binding from her hair.

Fenris makes an appreciative sound and turns her, kisses her again as he backs her towards the bed. When her legs bump against the mattress, he moves his lips down to her collarbone and pulls her breastband loose. Every movement is deliberate, every touch tender.

He eases her back onto the bed, bending down to follow her without breaking the kiss. Hawke smiles and moves so she can stretch out across the bed, lying bare beneath his gaze. Fenris straightens, and there’s something powerful in his eyes, something hot and hungry that nearly breaks her heart.

Supporting himself with one knee on the bed, Fenris reaches out a hand. Gently--still so gently, though his green eyes grow dark and his lips part eagerly--he touches her. His fingers trace the tattoo curled around her eye and cheekbone, move all the way down to a fresh-healed scar on her ribs, a souvenir from a spiky green demon’s claws.

“This is new,” he says, softly, though his brow creases in concern. He doesn’t say more, but Hawke is sure he blames himself for not being there to stop the blow.

Before she can say anything, reassure him that she’s fine, really, that he doesn’t need to worry, he moves on. His hand crosses her torso to an older scar, where the Arishok’s blade once pierced her. Instead of speaking, he bends low, kisses the silver-pink mark. When he looks up at her, the shadow in his eyes is gone, replaced with that heat and a smile on his lips.

He trails his hips lower, over her hipbone and down, to the curls between her thighs. A shudder goes through her when he eases her legs apart, and Maker she can feel his breath on her. He doesn’t break eye contact with her as he parts her with his fingers, and then he dips his head and she keens because this time he isn’t slow, this time he goes straight to relentless, circling her clit with his tongue and sucking .

She casts about for something to hold onto, finally fisting her hands in the blanket beneath her. His name falls from her lips on a moan, and for a long while the only words she can form are Fenris and please and more .

He gently presses a finger to her opening, spreading her own slick upwards to her sensitive bud in a teasing circle. Then his fingers are in her, two of them now, and he’s sucking again as the digits curl to press against that spot inside of her.

Hawke can feel her climax already coiling low in her belly, and she wails, trying to draw it out a little longer. But then there’s just the barest edge of teeth against her and she’s lost, feels herself clench down on his fingers as she comes, and his moan vibrating against her only adds to it, makes the sensation just this side of unbearable.

Panting, she relaxes as the sensation ebbs and he pulls away from her nearly too-tender flesh.

He crawls up the bed to kiss her again, not rushed the way they were before, but just as hungry, and she can taste herself on his lips and tongue.

After another kiss--and another, and another, because Maker she loves the way he groans when she nips at his lower lip--she gasps out a breath. “Breeches,” she says, still breathless. “Off. Now.”

Pulling away for a moment, Fenris pulls his breeches down and kicks them off and away. He stretches out over her again, his cock hard between them. Hawke whines his name, and he grins, moving to line himself up with her entrance. Then his hips snap forward, and he seats himself within her with one thrust, moaning low in his throat when she clenches around him.

He stays there for a few long moments, just looking down at her, green eyes staring into amber. He kisses her once, twice, taking his time like he promised. Hawke wraps her arms around his neck to hold him close, skin to skin. Fenris’s muscles tremble the slightest bit as he holds himself still.

“I love you,” he says, and Hawke can’t do anything but moan in response as he starts to move, almost lazily. The pace he sets is slow, his thrusts shallow, but she’s hyper-aware of every place they touch, every word he whispers, every inch sliding in and out of her.

She braces her feet on the bed enough so that she can roll her own hips to meet him. Unwinding one arm from around his neck, she raises her hand to his ear, teasing at the long, sensitive lobe. Fenris groans again and increases his pace, lowers his head to kiss and suck at her collarbone.

Hawke knows that he’s leaving love-bruises on her skin, but she’s glad because they’ve been apart for so long, and she wants him in every way he’s willing to give.

She can tell he’s close when his thrusts picks up speed and stutter, and she slides a hand between them to circle her pearl again, circling in time with his increasing pace. Fenris’s long fingers find one of her nipples, teasing softly at first, but then twisting , and she tenses as another climax rises, trying to hold on as long as he does.

Then Fenris moans out something that sounds like her name, hissing on the end, and one last deep thrust as he finishes, pressing his lips to her desperately once more.

And it’s all nearly too much until she’s coming with him, feeling like every muscle in her body clenches and releases . She moves her legs around his waist, holding him in place even as he relaxes over her.

 

 

After a while, Fenris rolls off of her and to the side. Hawke pulls a blanket over them both and curls up against him.

She’s a good hand and a half taller than he is, but she likes the way his arm wraps around her shoulders and holds her to his chest. She tosses a leg over one of his so they’re tangled together and sighs, content and comfortable for the first time since she left him behind.

One of her hands rests on his chest, idly brushing at his skin until he wraps his own fingers around hers.

“I love you,” she says, yawning.

“I am yours,” he replies, and the familiar words warm her from within.

They fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other in Hawke’s new quarters, not caring that it’s still daylight or that there’s an army preparing for war just beyond the room.

 

 

A few hours later, Hawke sits up on the bed and stretches.

She crosses the room to the mirror, and wardrobe, where Montilyet had thoughtfully provided fresh clothes. There’s a pair of dresses, which she ignores, but also breeches and a tunic that fits well enough. With a smile, she catches Fenris’s eye in the mirror and begins combing through her tangle of ginger hair.

“So,” Hawke says, “I was thinking…”

“Always dangerous,” replies Fenris, still stretched across the bed. She pulls a face at him, but continues.

“How do you want to be introduced to people?” Hawke asks. “I mean, I can’t exactly say ‘oh hello, Inquisition soldiers, this is Fenris, the elf from Tevinter who can put his hand through your chest and with whom I make passionate love as often as I possibly can.”

She pauses for a moment, considering. “Or, I could, but I have a feeling that Ambassador Montilyet might implode if she overheard it.”

He chuckles as he rises from the bed, the sound low and rich. “I suppose not,” he says. He retrieves his own clothes from the floor, and Hawke turns to face him as he dresses.

“So do you want a title?” Hawke asks. “They made me an ‘official adviser,’ I’m sure if you want to help, they’d be glad to have you.”

“I will remain at your side,” he says, and the intense look in his eyes makes Hawke want to pull him right back down on the bed.

She smiles when he crosses the room to her, looping her arms around his neck as his hands find her waist. “Alright,” she says, and kisses him softly. She leans into him, lingering for a little longer while it’s just the two of them.

“They’re probably waiting for us,” she says, not really wanting to leave just yet. “Varric’s probably telling them all outrageous stories about you already.”

Fenris chuckles again and steps away. She follows him up the ladder and they leave her quarters together, her arm looped around his and holding him close.