museboxings | once upon another time

once upon another time

She never felt remorse over killing other mages if the situation called for it. Hawke had lost her distaste for killing long ago back with the Red Iron, once she had realized that she would do anything if it meant keeping her family safe. But that seemed so long ago now, a different part of her, one that had been poor and scrabbling for anything if it meant feeding those she cared most for. That was someone whose brother was free from the Wardens, carefree. That was someone whose greatest fear was running out of coin. Things had changed since then. She had changed.

But she wasn't entitled enough to believe or espouse the idea that those who practiced blood magic or those who kept slaves should be treated with respect. Those who hurt others were put down. There was no gray area there. And it had been woefully easy for her to go with Fenris to kill Hadriana, and though he broke his promise and killed her, she found it very difficult to feel sorry for the woman. If anything, the reality of a magister's cruelty weighed heavier on her and reminded her just why mages were hated and feared.

I'm not like that, she would say and others would agree. But everywhere she turned, there were more reasons to hate people like her, to curse her magic. It was a wonder that some of her companions didn't accuse her of practicing blood magic by now.

She ran her hand over her face, tired, and finished tying the sash of her robe closed. She shouldn't think about it now. She was home early and she intended to rest that night after the trials of the day.

"Messere," Bodahn called from the stairs. "A visitor for you."

Leaving her room behind, Hawke descended the stairs and met her dwarven manservant. "That's fine, Bodahn. You and your son can turn in early, you know. I'm not heading out tonight." He nodded and she made her way to the entryway, where she saw someone sitting on the bench there. Her eyebrows shot up when she realized who it was. "...Fenris?"

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She snorted softly. "Maker, no. I think I have enough on my mind without needing to consider grotesqueries under my bed." Her smile was crooked when he threaded his fingers into her hair and she hardly winced when they caught on the metal pieces of his gauntlet. "It's okay," she reassured him, stepping back to allow him to remove them.

Hawke had never seen his hands or his lower arms before, not while they were covered all the time. She began to reach for his hands and then paused, stopping only to pull off the gloves she wore. Even if they had been cut specifically so her fingers were bared to grip her staff, she wanted to have the entirety of her hand to use, to feel. When she stepped forward to return to him, it was with some care that she touched his hand, brushing their fingers together once more.

Fenris' hands are one of the most sensitive areas of his body, his tattoos more dense there than anywhere else. Even when in more casual clothing - a rare occurrence - he prefers to keep his hands covered. He has always assumed that it was functional rather than purely aesthetic choice made by Danarius, to ensure that he would be able to phase through flesh with his hands.

He hesitates at the first contact, barely hiding a flinch, then loosely links their fingers together.

It has been a long time since he has touched anyone without leather or metal between skin. Hawke's fingers are less callused than his, but he expects that. They are rougher than the silky smooth skin of most magisters, though he wishes that did not calm him. She may be a mage, but she has known a different life to them. Nor would she care to spend excessive amounts of coin on the latest salves.

Trying to distract Hawke - and himself - from his hesitation he moves to kiss her again, this time with gentle open-mouthed presses against her jawbone.

Hawke's more surprised that while she offers contact, he seems to be more focused on making the decisions with some degree of finality. Despite the few hesitations she can see in his muscles and in his eyes, Fenris is just as willing as she is to continue. Even though she's a mage.

It's humbling in more ways than one to know she is possibly the only mage he would ever allow this close, to show his affections to, without harming them.

She tilts her head into the press of his lips, her free hand coming around to rest at the small of his back. The kisses are nearly feather-light, enough to make her toes curl, and she squeezes their hands briefly. Carefully turning her head, she brushes her lips against his cheek when she has the opportunity to reciprocate.

Fenris had not allowed himself to imagine how it would feel, to hold Hawke against him and press his lips to her skin. It is simultaneously thrilling and frightening to have exactly that now, the fear that he may yet act incorrectly nagging at him.

Boldly he steps closer, his free hand resting in the small of her back to push their bodies together. Layers of cloth and armour still separate them, but the closeness is intoxicating nonetheless.

"No one is awake?" He murmurs against her throat. He is hesitant about remaining in the living room. It is late, yes, but if someone should wander through the house to fetch a glass of water...

He's impossibly warm, she realizes as he nudges them flush. Or perhaps that's her, and in either case, she's not going to complain. Her fingers find the opening in his armor, the sole open line that rests against his spine, and somehow resists the urge to touch that bit of skin.

"No," she breathes, surprised to hear herself. Hawke presses her hand to his back once more in reassurance. "No, they're all sleeping." But Sandal is prone to wandering in the middle of the night, and somehow that makes staying where they are rather unappealing.

She turns her head and kisses near his jaw, catching his gaze. "We can go upstairs, if you'd like."

Even in something as small as deciding whether to move upstairs, Hawke is offering him a choice. Something so trivial should not make him pause, but it does.

"I would." His heartbeat races at the thought, and Hawke can probably feel it. Moving to her bedroom implies other activities will follow, and his anticipation is both positive and negative.

There's a little thrill at his consent and Hawke doesn't try to fight her smile. She turns and kisses him again, just a brush of her lips against his, and then pulls away just enough that she can take his hand again. With a gentle tug, she backs up toward the stairs, and that gets the attention of her dog at the fireplace.

She stops and looks over, putting a finger to her lips. "You stay right there, okay?" He doesn't seem particularly put off at the suggestion and curls right back up. Hawke gives Fenris a brief look, her smile sheepish. "Come on."

Hawke's room is bathed in the same warm glow as the rest of the estate, and he idly wonders why his own rooms seem grey and inhospitable even when his fireplace is filled with a roaring fire. Maybe it is imagined, the heat in body casting an illusion.

Fenris quietly closes the door behind them, his hand still in Hawke's. He is not a blushing virgin but he would forgive Hawke for thinking as much. He is hesitant, desperate to please and certain he is balancing on the edge of disaster but driven by desire to ignore the danger. He leads her to the bed, sits and pulls her to him again, a hand twisted in the front of her robes to tug her down into a kiss. The stretch of the fabric paired with the angle allows him to see the swell of her breasts. Most female mages in Tevinter wear robes exclusively, carefully pulled in to show the curve of their hips and often leaving little to the imagination - particularly at parties. Hawke wears armor and heavy fabrics that hide the shape of her body and don't shout mage. It feels sacred to be able to see her without that.

If there's any trepidation, Hawke takes care to hide it, every step only further solidifying that this is happening. Further still, that Fenris is as willing and takes as much initiative as she, as he pulls her into the room and to the bed without prompting or much in the way of hesitation.

She carefully props a knee beside his hip as she bends to accommodate his tug, the hand in the fabric of her robe coaxing a brief smile out of her. It's not very apparent to her what he sees but it occurs to her, belatedly, that he's only been in her home a paltry handful of times when she hasn't been wearing armor, ready to duck out to the streets or coming home covered in blood and Maker knows what else. Now she has no armor to keep between them. And that's fine with her. Hawke carefully deepens the kiss, one hand settling on his shoulder for leverage, the other resting gently over the back of his neck. It takes a bit of care and cautious maneuvering, but she eventually brings herself down to his level, both knees on either sides of his hips and using them to prop herself up instead of resting in his lap just yet.

His fingers dig into her shoulderblades when Hawke touches his neck, but the desire to freeze in place passes quickly when he meets her gaze. He has seen ill-intent on Hawke's face before, but not now. There is only warmth. His hands roam carefully down her back, as if trying to commit her shape - or what he can feel of it with fabric covering her body - to memory. When he reaches the belt fastened around her waist he pauses.

"May I?"

Hawke is attentive to his reactions, wanting to strike a balance to what Fenris wants and what she wishes without crossing certain boundaries neither of them may be comfortable with. Her grip eases as his fingers find her shoulders until he relaxes, and she meets his eyes with a smile on her lips. Her hands knead carefully at the tension in his shoulders, at the knots he must carry from his blade and from his caution, their foreheads nearly pressed together as she looks down to watch him.

With a nod, she tilts her head up and brushes her lips against his temple. "Of course." She moves back just enough to accommodate him, so he can see what he's doing.

His shoulders ache when she gently massages them, but it's a pleasant ache. Her hands are warm and clever and know when to press and when to back away. After the initial pain comes a looseness in his muscles that he rarely feels, and he sighs unconsciously, simply leaning against her.

It is only when she takes a small step away that he remembers he asked her a question. He unclasps her belt at the back, and lets it fall to the ground. He grasps the fabric at her waist, then pulls the tunic over her head, letting that fall as well.

That leaves her in her skirt and underclothes, her hair mussed from tugging the fabric over her head. Fenris seems stunned by his own forwardness, wetting his lips as he looks over her body. He wants to tell her that she is beautiful, but the words are lodged in his throat.

She wants to tell him how open her looks right then, how his eyes say so much more than his silence. He leans against her, warm and inviting, and she sighs with him. This is the most contact she's had with anyone, anyone, for fear and self-loathing because of her magic. And he doesn't care.

Hawke smiles at the look her gives her and dips her head to press a brief kiss to the side of his lips, her hands finding his breastplate. Fingers skirt to the sides in search for the straps that hold his armor in place, and once she finds them, she pauses.

Meeting his gaze with a boldness that wasn't there when they were downstairs, she asks, "Can I?"

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once upon another time

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hdasjkd do you mind if I switch to present tense, my past tense just sounds so clanky and hfff

omg I totally DO mind............except I don't. go wild!

<3

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... oh my gosh my last tag was bad, I'm sorry. Writing should not happen when I'm sick.

it wasn't bad at all!

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