#another excerpt of a still incomplete fanfiction of mine ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[perlen-gold]

Twenty-Four Hours

@14daysdalovers

Prompt: Day 9 - Breathless Kisses

Pairing: M!Hawke x Fenris

Fenris bristled at the hunt, then slew the creature with accurate efficiency. As Hawke approaches him his viridian eyes detach themselves from the shadows like pair of bright emeralds, even before the sheen of silver of his man-high greatsword reveals him in a deluge of darkness as a stranger and not just another shadow, no, less than a shadow and so much more than one.

“I am unable to fathom why we, you agreed to this.”

Hawke knows, of course.

He feels his vibrating self gravitating towards those eyes, hypnotized by their intensity, a fleck of dark color within a mass of charcoal blackness.

Under the shade of the hedgerow – trimmed with a masterful and punctilious, hence preposterous hand – Hawke joins him. The chateau courtyard is lit by a handful of adroit golden lamps. The warm spring air filled and skittered with the sprinkling of a white marble fountain in the center, light bathing every lane in the Orlesian garden. But this corner is swathed in utter darkness. Fenris has chosen wisely; his grafted spirit hide melts into the shadows, obsidian scales blending with the gloom.

A wild smile, a grin, Hawke feels it lifting the edges of his mouth, stretching his lips, causing his beard to prickle pleasantly.

“I do love to dress up,” Hawke tugs at the Orlesian silk stretching down his chest, light lilacs and an inkling of pink and folds of fabric billowing around his thighs, his arms swollen by creases like puffed up clouds, “Why, you cannot deny Orlesians their sense of style. I have always wanted to look like an immensely important fool.”

Fenris retorts with a grind of his teeth, however, Hawke can sense it like a sunbaked fragrance in the very air, he is also trying to hide something beyond the gentler corner of his lip.

“It takes a fool to trust this elf woman.”

Fenris averts his gaze, lours at the rarefied conglomeration of Orlesian and Ferelden nobles the Duke has wheedled into clustering in the outskirts of his pompous chateau. Fenris’ eyes are alert. Unlike Hawke he has assumed a watchful stance, that habit of his to peer around while looking behind his back repeatedly even more pronounced than usual.

“Why steal a jewel?” The dun hedge swallows Fenris’ deep voice that is fretting from his lips and askant head, roughing out the edges, the low, rich, rasping sound seeping away in the blackness until no more than a deep rich rumble remains. Of course, Hawke knows.

Then Fenris voices it. “You flirted with her.”

Neither offended nor thunderous. A statement. Fenris’ words pause over the blackness of his armor, void of allegation. A mere statement of the facts. The obvious. An question and none.

Everything in him floating and excited, on his lips Hawke’s smile has settled into a more arch and softer one. Eventually, when Fenris tears his eyes away from the festivities it is to see that, on silent feet, Hawke has stepped closer in a way that, indubitably, could never fool Fenris and his straight and frank eyes in the perseverant mass of blackness. Indelible. Indissoluble.

“Just a bit of teasing,” there is an amber laugh in Hawke’s eyes along with a wink on his lips.

A softer spark ignites within the darkness.   “I wonder who it is you tease.” The crease above Fenris’ nose deepens and multiplies while lending, maybe for the first time, an edge to the gravity of his voice … or is it just Hawke imagining things?

Fenris looks away again, eyes drawn out of the guarding shade’s darkness. A faint glow from the ascending crescent moon above them trails the arch of his brows and jawline with silver-stained fingers, a light more shade than anything, a smidgen of darkened silver trembling on his cheekbone. Closer still, hands almost touching, Hawke finally follows his gaze. To Duke Prosper, grandiloquent in his teal and golden costume complete with a snow white creature’s fur and scarlet feathered helmet (living up to his name well enough), to the ladies sumptuously gossiping away their stark lipsticks, who have by now flung unambiguous allusions at him with hungry eyelashes, and eventually to the auburn-haired elf woman waiting anxiously for him.

Underneath the vibrant armor and sable tunic in Fenris’ chest an apprehensive breath is caught in is lungs, it fills them to bursting, and then storms out again. Hawke draws closer to the hedge.

In his own chest Hawke’s breath is even, air flowing and streaming in and out with ease and leisure. Well does Hawke know it, he knows it now, this polarity of breaths; tranquility and agitation, unwound and vigorous. Familiar now. Already familiar within so short a time.

So little time and so much life, a life’s worth of breathing in it.

“How is it,” he suddenly whispers into the black shadow of the high hedge, “that the Duke guffaws even at the most boring words of mine whereas I cannot win you over to crack the tiniest smile for me today?”

At his whisper Fenris’ head snaps around, moves away again while Hawke watches his emerald eyes dart to the other side through the shadows, and Hawke’s heart warmly swells as if flooded.

It has been a delicate twenty-four hours since.

As early as now Varric is eyeing them – perceptive as ever – shooting them side-way glances with the air of someone who will not have anything hidden from him (even though this is the one sole thing Hawke never tells him) – and Hawke is eying his dwarfen friend in turn, waiting for him to give in to his itching fingers, pen and imagination running wild.

Twenty-four hours …

An evening of bitterness. A day of betrayal. A year of hope. A life of obedience. A moment of fear.

And an hour, sixty minutes, three thousand and six hundred seconds of kisses, of embracing, of muted pain, solace, avowal and bravery, of wild hearts, of a desperate, defenseless thing called love.

 No sooner, after waiting, so much waiting and hoping for him to find his way back to Hawke, no sooner had Fenris arms and lips come away from him than Hawke breathlessly gripped his trembling hand in a haze, to drag him with him onto the nocturnal streets of Hightown, to meet a waiting and disgruntled Varric at the appointed place. Pretending nothing had happened – heart ripe with explosion, madly grinning, almost giddy with joy and overcome by an adventurous recklessness.

That was when Tallis appeared. Hawke can see her thin face contorted with impatience and the same bravado which fills him. From a roof she sprang and fought and killed and smiled, telling stories of jewels and burglary.

When Fenris does not answer immediately, Hawke leans closer to his face, his voice rough and daring. “Maybe I should practice with other elves first.”

Then Hawke produces a small bronzen key from the ridiculously tiny pocket of his lustrous jacket, cocking his head. “You do not want to know what I had to do to gain this.”

His eyes twinkling with the reflections of amber lamps Hawke moves out of the dark shade of the evergreen hedge. “You and Varric keep an eye on our impressionable Duke and” – his fruity voice assumes the throaty Orlesian accent with gusto – “ ’is deer pet.”

Just before Hawke leaves, just before Varric’s prying eyes finally detect them from the other end of the garden and just before Tallis hisses “Hawke! What are we waiting for?”, Hawke’s fingers brush and linger for a brief moment on Fenris palm.

The redolent odor of some magnificent flower swims in the warm evening air.

Fenris, by contrast, still smells of the hunt. Of steel and blood, of apprehension, of wood leaf and tree bark, untarnished by the revelries and pretentious silk.

And then, all of a sudden, Fenris hand shoots forward and lungs for him. Behind the gloom-swathed hedgerow in the melting obsidian shade Hawke feels himself pulled, his mouth met by hard lips, terse teeth. The kiss is hard and short-lived, the whisper following in its wake a gnarling grunt. “You do look even more ludicrous than you sound.”

Before he can pull away again, Hawke takes Fenris’ hand and impulsively puts his wrist to his mouth for a kiss. Under the charcoal-dark armor, Hawke can feel Fenris’ heart almost give way at the touch. His laughter, rich and low, vaporizes against Fenris’ skin.

And then Fenris hands are all over his face, as though led by a desperate need to feel Hawke’s skin, fingers touching the curve of his cheekbone, the arch of his abundant brows, following the lines of his hairline. Whilst Hawke knees buckle at this, he kisses the patches of night shadows and inklings of silvered light upon Fenris’ face.

“This is stupid,” Fenris mutters softly, his delightfully low voice almost an evaporating whisper, “not stupid in the sense of silly but the most unwise and imprudent thing you have ever agreed to, Hawke.” Hawke, however, kisses each word, breathless and elated, until his name dissolves into a indissoluble smile of dark and silver.

Hawke’s answer is immediate: “Na via lerno Victoria.”

Incredulous, Fenris’ eyes widen. This Hawke observes with studied scrutiny, enjoying the effect his self-taught Tevene produces immensely. To his own amazement, then, he feels Fenris rising on his bare feet. His lips trace around his jaw with their breath, down Hawke’s chin and up the other way to his cheekbone, not kissing, plainly touching, tactually, sensing. With a soft groan Hawke captures Fenris’ hand in his. He presses first one to his mouth, then another, with exquisite tenderness, first palm, then the inside of his wrist. Tasting, desperately, underneath his skin, Fenris’ pulse which flutters and throbs.

Anew, all at once, Fenris pulls his hands out of Hawke’s grasp and pushes him out from under the shade of the hedge.

“Do not get caught, Hawke.” he growls hoarsely, note quite capable of banishing that tender, delicious gentleness out of his rumbling voice.

Hawke thereupon gives a wild laughter, replete with bliss and joy, sending a flutter of nightingales skittering into the warm, velvet night.

His lips streak with a pulsating grin. “Come and find me when I do.”

As Hawke turns back he fetches Fenris’ gaze, their eyes lock. Fenris is feeling suspicious. So is Hawke.

Fenris will not abandon his irritation and disagreement, not even for Hawke, neither his bristling at what he thinks is utter foolishness and venture. Hawke would not have it otherwise.

But.

But that daring, foolhardy, audacious, temerarious, roguish recklessness has not quite worn off yet.

Not yet.

Not yet.

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A thousand thanks to the amazing @14daysdalovers aka @scharoux for hosting this delightful event and pouring all her efforts, dedication and heart in it! Thank you so very much for your time and commitment, dear!  💗 You’re one awesome girl! 💗