"That rather explains quite a lot about you, I think." Fenris teases. Because that's still where his mind's been this whole time. He's been forcing himself not to linger in his glances and to focus on the pages in front of him. Rowan scarcely looks as though he's paying attention half the time Fenris looks over but that's been to the elf's benefit since it's allowed him to steal peeks of the larger man now and again.
Most often in the moments where they're holding hands damn near to turn the pages.
"I could believe you were descended from a barbarian chieftan." Tall and broad shouldered with defined musculature. Such ferocity in battle, even as a mage of all things. He'd be just as deadly with a sword. The thought makes Fenris shudder ever so slightly.
"Alamarri." He repeats, to make certain he has the pronunciation right on his tongue. "Do they still exist, do you know?"
Hawke had to grin. "Yeah? What, my bad manners and uncouth ways?" It was a return tease; his mother had taught him better than to chew with his mouth open, after all. Right now, he didn't feel like a barbarian, that was for damned sure. Not when he was sitting on the edge of his chair, right leg bouncing restlessly, almost beyond desperate for another innocent touch, another innocent glance.
So Hawke leaned back in the chair, planting both heels on the floor beneath the desk, and crossed his arms, completely unaware of how his sleeveless house tunic just perfectly showcased those nicely developed biceps. His brow furrowed in thought, trying to recall what history lessons he could.
"Well," he finally said, "Andraste was an Alamarri, and so was Maferath. But after the war with Tevinter, there was a lot of reshuffling among the clans, and eventually they split off and began to develop their own culture and tribal lore. As far as I know, the Avvar and the Chasind are the only tribes left now." The mage sighed softly, running an absent hand through dark hair.
"Among other things." Fenris had difficulty expressing himself verbally. It was not a skill necessary for the slave he once was. After years in Hawke's company and knowing the others he had slowly began developing that skill. It was slow going and rife with pitfalls. Fenris had a habit of keeping things to himself until he couldn't stand it any longer and blurting things out bluntly rather than speaking with any finesse. So outright admitting to Hawke in this moment of awkwardness between them that he saw the markings of an ancient formidable warrior people in Rowan but that this was a trait which Fenris admired???
Not a chance. He didn't have those words for himself, let alone to express the feeling of them he did have.
It is the elf's turn to barely be listening. His mouth goes dry watching Rowan's posture shift. In his thoughts, they are not in this stuffy Hightown estate but out on the Wounded coast. Each of them vying for purchase in the sand while they spar with one another. He imagines the power in those arms forcing Fenris back from pressing an advantage. Or maybe Rowan would take a glancing blow he could have deflected to close the gap in distance between them. Those broad fingers closing around Fenris' own arm--
This room is too warm.
Fenris blinks. He stares down at the words in front of him without truly attempting to parse meaning from the letters. He is too busy aware of Rowan's heel bouncing on the floor. How close his left leg is to Fenris' right. Sharing body heat. The heat of the fire behind them. He turns and looks up at Rowan Hawke. When had the other developed a flush on his face that crept up to even the tips of his ears? Gracelessly, Fenris dropped his gaze to the lip of the table and what of the man's lap he could see.
As Hawke's arms were folded over each other, the elf withdrew his own from the book and settled them into his own lap.
They could remain here and get nothing done while Fenris' attention wandered and frustration grew. Too early to suggest a trip to the Hanged Man.
"When was the last time you practiced with your staff-blade with anything other than a training dummy?" Fenris blurted out out of nowhere. "I have been sitting idle playing at scholar for too long. I need--" Hands in his hair. A mouth on his. "Some fresh air."
Hawke blinked, taken a bit by surprise at the question. "Uh..." He actually had to think about it. "...I...really don't remember." A somewhat sheepish excuse, given with a rue little laugh. "But sure, if you want to go outside and knock each other around, I'm good for it."
Maker knew it'd be better than just sitting here, slowly being tortured to death. And wasn't it just his own damned fault, too? He'd been the one to issue the invitation in the first place.
"Let me grab my boots and my staff."
No sense in getting completely geared up for a simple sparring session. Right? They weren't really going to try and kill each other. Were they? But comfortable house slippers wouldn't do for this particular exercise, so Hawke hauled himself out of the chair, fetched his boots from the foyer, returning to the library to perch on one of the footstools near the fire to pull them on.
The courtyard behind the house was nicely spacious enough for a decent workout; Rowen and Carver had used it for just such a purpose before that ill-fated expedition, much to their mother's chagrin. But she'd allowed it, as long as their shenanigans steered clear of her garden on the east side of the stone terrace, which Orana and Hawke still kept up even now.
Wiggling his foot into the second boot, Hawke grunted a sigh as he levered to his feet, then gave Fenris a cheeky smirk along with a wink, then extended his arm, hand open. Across the room, in a corner near the door, his staff had been leaning quietly, unobtrusive, but at its master's gesture, it hummed in response, straightening, a little sliver of bright magic rippling down its length. And true as an arrow, it shot across the floor and into Hawke's hand, trembling slightly as if happy to be there.
The library was spacious enough for the mage to expertly spin his stave with a touch of roguish flair, then tilt his head toward his guest, a blatant invitation. Bright blue eyes sparkled in anticipation.
Fenris turned so his hair cascaded down his face and hid the slight flush of his cheeks from view. He had no boots to don, of course. The Elven style even in Tevinter forgoes them so all he had to grab was his sword. Granted, the damn thing is larger than he is. Still, the urge had been there to step through the Fade and grab Hawke's staff himself mid-flight.
Showing off in kind.
But the risk of it snapping against his lyrium markings was too great. He had not been awash in Hawke's magic in some time. It always took a little while to adjust. Hopefully there wouldn't be much spell slinging here. Not for what was supposed to be a more physical sparring. A chance to see Hawke use that body of his--
"I am ready." He hoists his sword up onto the harness at his back and moves to follow the man of the estate out to his private grounds. "Some exercise will do us both some good. You were nearly more eager to get up and stretch your legs than I was by the look of it."
It was still early enough in the autumn for afternoons to be warm, and the sun gleamed golden across the open courtyard. A few leaves drifted down in the gentle breeze, a pretty backdrop for a Hightown mansion. And large enough for two seasoned campaigners to get in a good workout. ...provided they didn't break anything. Or each other.
Hawke stretched his upper body and arms as they headed outside, feeling the rush of blood go right to his head. "Seems like it, doesn't it?" He had to grin because Fenris was probably right, all in all. The Champion of Kirkwall had been raised as a farmboy in backwater Ferelden; he wasn't one to perch in a parlor and drink tea, or sit behind a desk and shuffle through parchments and missives for very long. He'd grown up rough, more at home in the Hanged Man or out in the countryside than he was anywhere else.
And it showed, too. Even after a decade of upper class living, Rowen Hawke still carried and maintained a warrior's physique. He was perfectly capable of chopping his own firewood, repairing his own roof, building a set of shelves for the kitchen or washroom, or even tending his mother's garden. Despite his magical abilities, he'd never lacked for physical strength - as many a tavern brawl could readily attest.
After a few kneebends and leg stretches, Hawke again took up his staff and stepped across the empty courtyard, cracking his neck this way and that. "Take it easy on me, yeah?" His scimitar grin flashed in the sunlight. "Remember, I'm just an old, weak human - try not to cut me in half."
"We are both men of action." Fenris observes kindly, rather than touching on either of their heritages. Even if Fenris hadn't been incredibly distracted by Rowen's body back in the manor he would need to get up and at least stretch a little before trying to tackle any more reading. Like any other skill it must be practiced to build any stamina for and Fenris has had the thinking done for him for most of his life. Reading is different to sitting and stewing in his own thoughts. He has to parse someone else's from page alone and then consider them.
It is tiring.
The fresh air does the elf a world of good. As fresh as Kirkwall ever gets, at least. Even in Hightown the scent of industry carries, but it's far less offensive than any of the other parts of the city. Besides. Rowen upkeeps his mother's garden still and those plants smell nice enough. Earthy and not overly pungent. Fenris lifts his sword with one arm from behind his back and produces it with a simple flourish.
His head tips to the side.
"Sorry, Hawke." Fenris murmurs with a hint of a tease to his deep tone. "Practice or no, I do not intend to hand you a victory on a silver platter." Not for what he wants.
His feet shift on the dirt before the elf takes off, lunging toward the mage with sure steps. He knows Rowen's moves as well as he knows his own, after this many years fighting at the mage's side. This is a dance he feels entirely at home with.
Hawke had learned to fight with his fists before his magic. Malcom Hawke had always cautioned his children to always keep their talents harnessed, to never strike out in anger with their magic. And as the eldest, and by far the most hot-headed and aggressive, Rowen had taken those lessons securely to heart.
Although it was decidedly strange not to use his magic to counter Fenris, it wasn't at all impossible; Hawke snapped his staff up to counter, the stave taking the brunt of the blow with a ringing clang. Hawke smirked as he set himself and shoved the elf back, then made his own advance, swinging his staff in a wide arc to drive Fenris further away, clearing the space between them.
"Oh, I never expected you to," he quipped with a crooked grin, human and elf slowly circling each other in the warm sunshine. Hawke's bright gaze never left Fenris's green eyes, though his large frame was tense and primed to dart aside at the slightest provocation. He tapped taunting fingers atop the haft of his staff. "Come get me, Fen."
Rowen Hawke could have been a fearsome warrior. Is, in fact, quite fearsome in his own right. Fenris has admired the Ferelden for as long as he's known the man, even when his emotions grew complicated by the fact that the man was a Mage. All it took was one brooding morning watching Rowen Hawke practicing his Staff-blade counters in the first light of dawn for him to know that mage or not--Rowen Hawke was a fighter first and foremost.
A man like that, Fenris had thought, he could make an accord with. Could. Did. And much more.
His steps are light on the ground but his focus is all on Rowen's towering frame. Hawke doesn't lumber despite his size. He's quicker than anyone that tall should be. Dexterous as well as strong. But Fenris doesn't have time to admire it in the moment.
"If you're not casting, then I am not stepping." Fenris replies smoothly. He tips his blade down low until the tip is nearly at the ground and darts in for a low swing arcing upward. CLANG! So swift, he hadn't even seen Rowen move to block him. Fenris leaps back before the turn of Hawke's staff could try to knock his sword from his hands. Rather than circling, he darts back in again the moment his feet touch the ground.
CLANG!
Back again. Circling. Fenris has no idea how satisfied the smile curling across his lips is.
Reading lessons were nice, but this was nice, too. Circling in the backyards, weapons at the ready, trying to catch the other off his guard. Fenris was smirking, Hawke noted with silent delight, and he knew his own grin was slightly manic, probably more than a little lopsided. Mage though he was, the fierce song of battle was a melody Hawke knew well, and he'd never shied away from its addictive music.
That could very well be due to the ancestral blood of ancient Ferelden running hot in his veins.
Whatever the cause, Hawke doesn't hesitate to give just as good as he gets, countering every move Fenris makes and snapping back with a few of his own, the late afternoon sun glinting off both combatants. There were runnels in the grass from avoidant feet, a few new scrapes along the back wall's brick, and a plethora of leaves shaken from the nearby trees as bodies rebounded off their trunks now and again.
Sweat beading his forehead and running down his temples, Hawke's blue eyes were bright and hot, and he was completely oblivious to his tunic coming unbuttoned in their battling. --at least until his inattention nearly got him clobbered when a corner of the shirt wound around his staff and he nearly failed to counter Fenris' incoming blow. Momentarily defenseless, Hawke instinctively ducked and somersaulted out of the way, rolling to his feet after shedding the offensive garment and, taking his staff in both hands, gave a sort of berseker-sounding yell and charged the Tevinter elf, catching Fenris across the chest and driving him backwards into the brick wall.
Hawke grinned, sweaty, disheveled, and grinning like a maniac. "Pinned ya," he chortled. There wasn't an ounce of give in the bunched muscles quivering beneath the mage's gleaming skin. "Does this mean I win?"
In that peculiar sort of way that didn't ever seem like luck at the time but had pulled his fat from the fire more than once before. With his tunic caught on his staff, Fenris had checked his swing--there was no desire to actually cleave the Ferelden in half. Sure, Rowen had ducked aside and not Needed the handicap but then he'd popped right back up sweaty and shirtless. Baring all of that skin to the afternoon sun and Fenris, Maker help him, had hesitated.
The traitorous part of his body that knew Exactly what it wanted to do with the man opposite him heard that bellow and went 'yes, please'. Before he could so much as find something clever to quip he was slammed back against the brick wall. Rather unhelpfully, his smalls only got tighter for that. Fenris is left hissing for the loss and the discomfort both. Staring up at Hawke with a hungry gaze.
"W...what kind of move was that?" The elf's voice was already deep. Now? It was throaty. Grit and warmed honey drizzled over a treat to be snapped up.
Hawke shrugged, still panting softly, eyes still bright. "Dunno. Just made it up." Which was true; he'd never in his life studied actual battle tactics - he and Carver had learned by flailing away at each other with sticks back on the Lothering farm when they'd been just bratty little kids. As Hawke and Bethany grew in their magic, the three Hawke scions learned to mix sorcery and steel together, proving to be quite formidable for their Templar neighbors residing at the local Chantry.
But perhaps Fenris had been on to something when he'd suggested more than a drop of barbarian blood ran strong in Hawke's veins; he'd always had the uncanny knack of getting out of a brawl without it devolving into fists, but if it did, he was typically the first to take a swing. Instinct, perhaps. Or, more of that luck that cheerfully toddled after the Ferelden mage, happy in his footsteps.
Either way, Hawke still kept Fenris pinned between his large frame and the unyielding garden wall, though the longer they remained thus, the thicker the tension became. The elf's voice curled over the human's ears like treacle, sweet, thick, and altogether delicious, making an involuntary shiver course down Hawke's spine. He couldn't have stopped his eyes from falling to Fenris's parted and so delectably-kissable lips if his life depended on it; he licked his own mouth, tasting sweat, sunlight, and...something else, the elf's breath, perhaps.
The staff's pressure eased as Hawke relented a fraction, the shaft slowly lowering between their bodies and Hawke's knuckles inadvertently drug down Fenris's chest, the unintentional touch making the mage inhale a shaky breath and stifle a telling shiver. For two eternal heartbeats, intent burned blue and bright in Hawke's wide gaze, but then he forced himself away, taking a slow, agonizing step back and lowering his staff altogether.
Offered a lopsided, slightly sheepish, altogether longing smile.
That's all. Rowen stared down at him with a hunger in him that Fenris matched in kind. This wild, reckless man took the elf's breath away even when he wasn't slamming Fenris into walls. Pinning him down with his bulkier frame. It was electric, that pull between them. Hawke would toss the staff away and then--
He didn't. Rowen Hawke pulled away as though he'd been wounded. Fenris blinked. The moment between them was broken. He didn't have to look down to know he was still achingly aroused for the sparring they'd just finished, but it looked like Hawke was just going to...what? Leave him like this?
"Are you joking?" Rowen was only doing what Fenris had asked of him. It clearly wasn't easy for Hawke to get ahold of himself enough to let Fenris go. But in the moment? The elf's blood boiled with frustration. The scent of ozone filled the air for just a half second before Fenris was gone--already pushing Hawke's staff away with one hand. The other was reaching up to grab Rowen by the back of the neck as he had no shirt collar to yank as he hauled the Ferelden mage down and into a fierce kiss.
Hawke's sheepish expression morphed into puzzlement at Fenris's response, and he opened his mouth to speak, but before the first word left his tongue, he suddenly found himself mouth to mouth with his beloved elf, abruptly swallowing the surprised squawk of being so abruptly snared and hauled downward. But that surprise didn't last long; sheer instinct had him enfolding the elf's lean body in both arms, molding hard frames together as if it'd been but hours since they'd last parted, and Hawke fell so very willingly into Fenris's kiss, his heart leaping like a wild salmon before it then began to race like a Marcher stallion, thudding sharply against his ribs.
Shaded light flooded his closed eyes, but Hawke didn't need to see, not with Fenris in his arms, Fenris's lips glued to his, and Fenris's tongue invading his mouth as if it belonged nowhere else. Unable to stop the soft, eager little moans that made their way out of his throat, Hawke gave just as good as he got, licking his way into the elf's open mouth and all but drowning in the remembered flavor of those beautiful lips.
A few unthinking, staggered steps put Hawke's back against the white oak tree that towered over the courtyard, but he didn't even feel the rough bark scrape skin. He merely gathered Fenris even closer, deftly pulling the elf astride one muscled thigh, groaning all over again when he felt the very prominent evidence of his beloved's arousal. He'd been determined to keep his own under wraps, but a pointed thrust of hips revealed he was just as needy, just as desperate as Fenris.
Even if Hawke wanted to complain, his squawk was met with a deep rumble almost nearing on a growl coming from Fenris' throat. He was waiting still somehow for the rejection. For Hawke to pull away and condemn him for his actions. But it never came. Rowen parted his lips for Fenris and suckled at his tongue as though it were something else he wanted in his mouth before devouring Fenris' mouth in kind. Stealing the very air from his lungs.
Electric lust crackled through the elf that had nothing to do with the Fade he had just stepped through. It had been so long since he'd been enveloped in Rowen's arms. So long since he'd been held so protectively and taken apart. Until he scarcely knew his own name. Until all there was was them. It had terrified him and so he'd ran. But Rowen hadn't given up on him, it seemed. Not when he was being plucked up as easily as he'd pick up the Ferelden in turn and settled against a firm thigh as thick around as both his own legs.
"Hhhhhaa--!" The rock of Rowen's hips sent Fenris' blood simmering in his veins. He craned his head upward to bite at the shell of Rowen's ear. Aching to hear something more primal from Rowen than those little moans muffled by his own mouth. "Want you--" Fenris breathed into that ear as he drug one hand down Rowen's chest possessively.
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Date: 2025-09-23 03:54 pm (UTC)Most often in the moments where they're holding hands damn near to turn the pages.
"I could believe you were descended from a barbarian chieftan." Tall and broad shouldered with defined musculature. Such ferocity in battle, even as a mage of all things. He'd be just as deadly with a sword. The thought makes Fenris shudder ever so slightly.
"Alamarri." He repeats, to make certain he has the pronunciation right on his tongue. "Do they still exist, do you know?"
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Date: 2025-09-23 11:34 pm (UTC)So Hawke leaned back in the chair, planting both heels on the floor beneath the desk, and crossed his arms, completely unaware of how his sleeveless house tunic just perfectly showcased those nicely developed biceps. His brow furrowed in thought, trying to recall what history lessons he could.
"Well," he finally said, "Andraste was an Alamarri, and so was Maferath. But after the war with Tevinter, there was a lot of reshuffling among the clans, and eventually they split off and began to develop their own culture and tribal lore. As far as I know, the Avvar and the Chasind are the only tribes left now." The mage sighed softly, running an absent hand through dark hair.
"So much has changed since those times, huh?"
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Date: 2025-09-24 03:05 pm (UTC)Not a chance. He didn't have those words for himself, let alone to express the feeling of them he did have.
It is the elf's turn to barely be listening. His mouth goes dry watching Rowan's posture shift. In his thoughts, they are not in this stuffy Hightown estate but out on the Wounded coast. Each of them vying for purchase in the sand while they spar with one another. He imagines the power in those arms forcing Fenris back from pressing an advantage. Or maybe Rowan would take a glancing blow he could have deflected to close the gap in distance between them. Those broad fingers closing around Fenris' own arm--
This room is too warm.
Fenris blinks. He stares down at the words in front of him without truly attempting to parse meaning from the letters. He is too busy aware of Rowan's heel bouncing on the floor. How close his left leg is to Fenris' right. Sharing body heat. The heat of the fire behind them. He turns and looks up at Rowan Hawke. When had the other developed a flush on his face that crept up to even the tips of his ears? Gracelessly, Fenris dropped his gaze to the lip of the table and what of the man's lap he could see.
As Hawke's arms were folded over each other, the elf withdrew his own from the book and settled them into his own lap.
They could remain here and get nothing done while Fenris' attention wandered and frustration grew. Too early to suggest a trip to the Hanged Man.
"When was the last time you practiced with your staff-blade with anything other than a training dummy?" Fenris blurted out out of nowhere. "I have been sitting idle playing at scholar for too long. I need--" Hands in his hair. A mouth on his. "Some fresh air."
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Date: 2025-09-25 02:15 am (UTC)Maker knew it'd be better than just sitting here, slowly being tortured to death. And wasn't it just his own damned fault, too? He'd been the one to issue the invitation in the first place.
"Let me grab my boots and my staff."
No sense in getting completely geared up for a simple sparring session. Right? They weren't really going to try and kill each other. Were they? But comfortable house slippers wouldn't do for this particular exercise, so Hawke hauled himself out of the chair, fetched his boots from the foyer, returning to the library to perch on one of the footstools near the fire to pull them on.
The courtyard behind the house was nicely spacious enough for a decent workout; Rowen and Carver had used it for just such a purpose before that ill-fated expedition, much to their mother's chagrin. But she'd allowed it, as long as their shenanigans steered clear of her garden on the east side of the stone terrace, which Orana and Hawke still kept up even now.
Wiggling his foot into the second boot, Hawke grunted a sigh as he levered to his feet, then gave Fenris a cheeky smirk along with a wink, then extended his arm, hand open. Across the room, in a corner near the door, his staff had been leaning quietly, unobtrusive, but at its master's gesture, it hummed in response, straightening, a little sliver of bright magic rippling down its length. And true as an arrow, it shot across the floor and into Hawke's hand, trembling slightly as if happy to be there.
The library was spacious enough for the mage to expertly spin his stave with a touch of roguish flair, then tilt his head toward his guest, a blatant invitation. Bright blue eyes sparkled in anticipation.
"Ready, Fen?"
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Date: 2025-09-26 01:36 am (UTC)Fenris turned so his hair cascaded down his face and hid the slight flush of his cheeks from view. He had no boots to don, of course. The Elven style even in Tevinter forgoes them so all he had to grab was his sword. Granted, the damn thing is larger than he is. Still, the urge had been there to step through the Fade and grab Hawke's staff himself mid-flight.
Showing off in kind.
But the risk of it snapping against his lyrium markings was too great. He had not been awash in Hawke's magic in some time. It always took a little while to adjust. Hopefully there wouldn't be much spell slinging here. Not for what was supposed to be a more physical sparring. A chance to see Hawke use that body of his--
"I am ready." He hoists his sword up onto the harness at his back and moves to follow the man of the estate out to his private grounds. "Some exercise will do us both some good. You were nearly more eager to get up and stretch your legs than I was by the look of it."
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Date: 2025-09-26 11:53 pm (UTC)Hawke stretched his upper body and arms as they headed outside, feeling the rush of blood go right to his head. "Seems like it, doesn't it?" He had to grin because Fenris was probably right, all in all. The Champion of Kirkwall had been raised as a farmboy in backwater Ferelden; he wasn't one to perch in a parlor and drink tea, or sit behind a desk and shuffle through parchments and missives for very long. He'd grown up rough, more at home in the Hanged Man or out in the countryside than he was anywhere else.
And it showed, too. Even after a decade of upper class living, Rowen Hawke still carried and maintained a warrior's physique. He was perfectly capable of chopping his own firewood, repairing his own roof, building a set of shelves for the kitchen or washroom, or even tending his mother's garden. Despite his magical abilities, he'd never lacked for physical strength - as many a tavern brawl could readily attest.
After a few kneebends and leg stretches, Hawke again took up his staff and stepped across the empty courtyard, cracking his neck this way and that. "Take it easy on me, yeah?" His scimitar grin flashed in the sunlight. "Remember, I'm just an old, weak human - try not to cut me in half."
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Date: 2025-10-01 05:03 pm (UTC)It is tiring.
The fresh air does the elf a world of good. As fresh as Kirkwall ever gets, at least. Even in Hightown the scent of industry carries, but it's far less offensive than any of the other parts of the city. Besides. Rowen upkeeps his mother's garden still and those plants smell nice enough. Earthy and not overly pungent. Fenris lifts his sword with one arm from behind his back and produces it with a simple flourish.
His head tips to the side.
"Sorry, Hawke." Fenris murmurs with a hint of a tease to his deep tone. "Practice or no, I do not intend to hand you a victory on a silver platter." Not for what he wants.
His feet shift on the dirt before the elf takes off, lunging toward the mage with sure steps. He knows Rowen's moves as well as he knows his own, after this many years fighting at the mage's side. This is a dance he feels entirely at home with.
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Date: 2025-10-05 04:06 pm (UTC)Although it was decidedly strange not to use his magic to counter Fenris, it wasn't at all impossible; Hawke snapped his staff up to counter, the stave taking the brunt of the blow with a ringing clang. Hawke smirked as he set himself and shoved the elf back, then made his own advance, swinging his staff in a wide arc to drive Fenris further away, clearing the space between them.
"Oh, I never expected you to," he quipped with a crooked grin, human and elf slowly circling each other in the warm sunshine. Hawke's bright gaze never left Fenris's green eyes, though his large frame was tense and primed to dart aside at the slightest provocation. He tapped taunting fingers atop the haft of his staff. "Come get me, Fen."
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Date: 2025-10-13 01:21 pm (UTC)A man like that, Fenris had thought, he could make an accord with. Could. Did. And much more.
His steps are light on the ground but his focus is all on Rowen's towering frame. Hawke doesn't lumber despite his size. He's quicker than anyone that tall should be. Dexterous as well as strong. But Fenris doesn't have time to admire it in the moment.
"If you're not casting, then I am not stepping." Fenris replies smoothly. He tips his blade down low until the tip is nearly at the ground and darts in for a low swing arcing upward. CLANG! So swift, he hadn't even seen Rowen move to block him. Fenris leaps back before the turn of Hawke's staff could try to knock his sword from his hands. Rather than circling, he darts back in again the moment his feet touch the ground.
CLANG!
Back again. Circling. Fenris has no idea how satisfied the smile curling across his lips is.
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Date: 2025-10-16 12:17 am (UTC)That could very well be due to the ancestral blood of ancient Ferelden running hot in his veins.
Whatever the cause, Hawke doesn't hesitate to give just as good as he gets, countering every move Fenris makes and snapping back with a few of his own, the late afternoon sun glinting off both combatants. There were runnels in the grass from avoidant feet, a few new scrapes along the back wall's brick, and a plethora of leaves shaken from the nearby trees as bodies rebounded off their trunks now and again.
Sweat beading his forehead and running down his temples, Hawke's blue eyes were bright and hot, and he was completely oblivious to his tunic coming unbuttoned in their battling. --at least until his inattention nearly got him clobbered when a corner of the shirt wound around his staff and he nearly failed to counter Fenris' incoming blow. Momentarily defenseless, Hawke instinctively ducked and somersaulted out of the way, rolling to his feet after shedding the offensive garment and, taking his staff in both hands, gave a sort of berseker-sounding yell and charged the Tevinter elf, catching Fenris across the chest and driving him backwards into the brick wall.
Hawke grinned, sweaty, disheveled, and grinning like a maniac. "Pinned ya," he chortled. There wasn't an ounce of give in the bunched muscles quivering beneath the mage's gleaming skin. "Does this mean I win?"
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Date: 2025-10-18 06:36 pm (UTC)In that peculiar sort of way that didn't ever seem like luck at the time but had pulled his fat from the fire more than once before. With his tunic caught on his staff, Fenris had checked his swing--there was no desire to actually cleave the Ferelden in half. Sure, Rowen had ducked aside and not Needed the handicap but then he'd popped right back up sweaty and shirtless. Baring all of that skin to the afternoon sun and Fenris, Maker help him, had hesitated.
The traitorous part of his body that knew Exactly what it wanted to do with the man opposite him heard that bellow and went 'yes, please'. Before he could so much as find something clever to quip he was slammed back against the brick wall. Rather unhelpfully, his smalls only got tighter for that. Fenris is left hissing for the loss and the discomfort both. Staring up at Hawke with a hungry gaze.
"W...what kind of move was that?" The elf's voice was already deep. Now? It was throaty. Grit and warmed honey drizzled over a treat to be snapped up.
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Date: 2025-10-21 11:06 pm (UTC)But perhaps Fenris had been on to something when he'd suggested more than a drop of barbarian blood ran strong in Hawke's veins; he'd always had the uncanny knack of getting out of a brawl without it devolving into fists, but if it did, he was typically the first to take a swing. Instinct, perhaps. Or, more of that luck that cheerfully toddled after the Ferelden mage, happy in his footsteps.
Either way, Hawke still kept Fenris pinned between his large frame and the unyielding garden wall, though the longer they remained thus, the thicker the tension became. The elf's voice curled over the human's ears like treacle, sweet, thick, and altogether delicious, making an involuntary shiver course down Hawke's spine. He couldn't have stopped his eyes from falling to Fenris's parted and so delectably-kissable lips if his life depended on it; he licked his own mouth, tasting sweat, sunlight, and...something else, the elf's breath, perhaps.
The staff's pressure eased as Hawke relented a fraction, the shaft slowly lowering between their bodies and Hawke's knuckles inadvertently drug down Fenris's chest, the unintentional touch making the mage inhale a shaky breath and stifle a telling shiver. For two eternal heartbeats, intent burned blue and bright in Hawke's wide gaze, but then he forced himself away, taking a slow, agonizing step back and lowering his staff altogether.
Offered a lopsided, slightly sheepish, altogether longing smile.
"...eh...sorry, Fen."
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Date: 2025-10-25 07:16 pm (UTC)That's all. Rowen stared down at him with a hunger in him that Fenris matched in kind. This wild, reckless man took the elf's breath away even when he wasn't slamming Fenris into walls. Pinning him down with his bulkier frame. It was electric, that pull between them. Hawke would toss the staff away and then--
He didn't. Rowen Hawke pulled away as though he'd been wounded. Fenris blinked. The moment between them was broken. He didn't have to look down to know he was still achingly aroused for the sparring they'd just finished, but it looked like Hawke was just going to...what? Leave him like this?
"Are you joking?" Rowen was only doing what Fenris had asked of him. It clearly wasn't easy for Hawke to get ahold of himself enough to let Fenris go. But in the moment? The elf's blood boiled with frustration. The scent of ozone filled the air for just a half second before Fenris was gone--already pushing Hawke's staff away with one hand. The other was reaching up to grab Rowen by the back of the neck as he had no shirt collar to yank as he hauled the Ferelden mage down and into a fierce kiss.
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Date: 2025-10-30 11:41 pm (UTC)Shaded light flooded his closed eyes, but Hawke didn't need to see, not with Fenris in his arms, Fenris's lips glued to his, and Fenris's tongue invading his mouth as if it belonged nowhere else. Unable to stop the soft, eager little moans that made their way out of his throat, Hawke gave just as good as he got, licking his way into the elf's open mouth and all but drowning in the remembered flavor of those beautiful lips.
A few unthinking, staggered steps put Hawke's back against the white oak tree that towered over the courtyard, but he didn't even feel the rough bark scrape skin. He merely gathered Fenris even closer, deftly pulling the elf astride one muscled thigh, groaning all over again when he felt the very prominent evidence of his beloved's arousal. He'd been determined to keep his own under wraps, but a pointed thrust of hips revealed he was just as needy, just as desperate as Fenris.
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Date: 2025-11-03 11:09 pm (UTC)Electric lust crackled through the elf that had nothing to do with the Fade he had just stepped through. It had been so long since he'd been enveloped in Rowen's arms. So long since he'd been held so protectively and taken apart. Until he scarcely knew his own name. Until all there was was them. It had terrified him and so he'd ran. But Rowen hadn't given up on him, it seemed. Not when he was being plucked up as easily as he'd pick up the Ferelden in turn and settled against a firm thigh as thick around as both his own legs.
"Hhhhhaa--!" The rock of Rowen's hips sent Fenris' blood simmering in his veins. He craned his head upward to bite at the shell of Rowen's ear. Aching to hear something more primal from Rowen than those little moans muffled by his own mouth. "Want you--" Fenris breathed into that ear as he drug one hand down Rowen's chest possessively.