For a kinkmeme prompt asking for a possible gangbang, with Fenris being fucked so hard and so much he passes out and comes to finding himself still being used.
Tonight he might break. He sipped his wine. His veins, true and false, had begun to flow like rivers in the stinking taproom where the old man died, and the torrent had not since ceased. His nails were lined with blackness, old blood. Shared blood. He sipped his wine, poured it until it flowed into his mouth to match his blood's pace, slopping. His throat and chest were wet, and he was not even granted the courtesy of drunkenness. Only the appearance. The affectation.
Rivers from the corners of his mouth. The wine was wrong, would not be enough, would never be enough, and Hawke was staring from the door.
Hawke, who coughed away the silence.
Fenris remembered the days before Hawke. The body leaned against the doorframe, in his periphery and never peripheral. A bitter awareness.
'You want to put that down?'
Fereldans and their imprecise boundaries between questions and statements. Or perhaps it was just Hawke, who had no boundaries.
'Come for a walk with me?'
A greater confidence. 'You need a distraction. I'd like you to come home with me.'
'No,' and Fenris threw the bottle against the wall. His chest heaved, once, but it hurt.
'Fine,' the voice broke, too. 'Stay here, then, and slit your wrists.'
Under his hand was the table, and Fenris watched his fingers curl until the filthy nails caught against the grain. The false veins itched and burned, begging for freedom.
'Why order me now when it is meaningless? Why not order me then, when it would have meant something. When you could have stopped me—'
Learning I am not fit for freedom. Something he had suspected all this life. Because it was not his life.
He could not separate the elation from the grief. Her from him, himself from them. Only hours since his life had changed and not changed. He could see the disappointment yawning, this river plunging him towards the darkness. He wanted to fall.
'I asked, Fenris. I thought you could use the company.'
'I am not fit company.' Apology. Three years. Was it not enough to show him? There would be hurt, spread and shared with someone Fenris did not want to hurt. Kirkwall's nights had proved sufficiently armed and open to satisfy the darkest thirst, his worst of manias.
'You know Aveline won't let Donnic bail you out again.'
Whether the implication was moral or economic, Fenris did not want to discover. His heart thudded painfully.
'Will you insist on my company,' faint.
'I— worry about you tempting fate in a dark alley, not knowing whether you want a fuck or a fight.'
A twist of shame, he bore no secrets.
'I can give you what you need,' insistent, colour in pale cheeks, 'until you pass out. Whether that's alcohol or no holds barred, or sex until you forget your own name.'
'I have two names.'
'So I'll try harder. Please come home with me, I won't let you go on a tear alone.'
Fenris placed the term. To consume or destroy. Yes. He wanted to tear. This hungry tangled knot of mouths he was.
'Won't let?' Except he had already decided by the time his eyes raised from his hands, and Hawke knew, from the mouth twitching to one side, a pained smile. 'I do not want to talk about today.' Or three years ago. Let it be a night.
'Good, because I don't want to listen.' Gentle. 'Do you want to get high?'
'It will not be enough.' Reluctant, 'You will not be enough.'
'I wasn't thinking a quick roll would do it. You should see your eyes. A stimulant would like as not have your heart beat out of your chest.'
That unholy flutter against his palm. Her flutter. His palm. Fenris dug his fingernails in and scratched away the memory.
Hawke crossed the floor. With slow deliberation Hawke took the hands away from the opposing palms and put his own hands in place, to stop the gouging.
Hawke's touch was no longer hostile. It stroked. It said, this can be more seductive than with a stranger, intimacy better than false intimacy, as hard or as gentle as you want it. It said, it can be as it was before, my hands between yours.
Fenris always feared it was an illusion. A trick of his twisted nerves.
So it seemed they were going together over the broken glass, through a Hightown which continued without their involvement, past black flies collected on the limbs of a corpse yet to be claimed by the guard for Kirkwall's crematorium, the functionless houses. Had they burned her yet? Hawke did not touch him, and Fenris did not walk behind or beside him, and being shadowed made his skin twitch and crawl.
In the anteroom, the lamps were already dimmed. Hawke locked the door behind him.
'Do you fear I will run?'
'It's not the running, only where you might go.'
Fear and curiosity. 'And if I leave out the back door, or the window?'
Long breaths shared as their eyes caught, held.
Hawke said gently, 'Armour off. Use the chair, there's no stand.'
The tone was Hawke. The order was not.
Anticipation thudded high in his throat. Catches and buckles, the utilitarian order of ceding vulnerability which must be followed each time. Something calming in the familiarity. That he knew where this would go. Gauntlets first, and the padded bracers from beneath. The last plate settled to the chair, sleeveless jerkin stained and stinking across the back, leathers atop the lot.
'You look thinner with it on. Is that strange?'
Fenris shifted in his undergarments, vest sticking to the sweat on his chest, along his spine. The scrutiny did not assist. 'It is your observation.'
The eyes roamed. 'It's easy to forget how solid you are. How much damage you can take.'
The heat went straight to his groin.
The main hall was chill and dark, fire dampened, but Fenris could not feel the cold except as distance. Hawke turned and locked the door to the anteroom as well, arms and armour in the space between.
'I could put my fist through the lock.'
'If you do, I'll know you want to fight.' Hawke closed their distance, looming head and shoulders over. No tongue in the kiss, only pressure in three places at once, hand behind his head and cupping his balls, and Fenris swayed when Hawke stepped away. 'What were you drinking, vinegar? Go clean your mouth properly, have a bath. I don't want this butcher stink all night.'
The shame stung. Fenris could see the moment when Hawke wanted to soften. When he turned away instead.
Fenris wiped his mouth.
'As hot as you can stand. I'll join you soon.'
Hawke climbed the stair.
The emotion which made him want to strip immediately, in the hall, had his hands clench and pull. I will tear like cloth. Worn fabric ripped from throat to unravelled hem, along the soft places where his armour rubbed; the rolled waist of his undergarments, each short leg to unhemmed edge. The muscles in his arms bunched with force and speed, aching.
Shreds. Hawke had not turned. Fenris' chest was heaving, shudders. His eyes stung.
The bathroom's boiler proved stoked, steam leaking from the seams. He knew I would come. As hot as he could stand, more, hurt his hand when he tested the flow, filth flaking from his fingers. At the basin, the first rinse of his mouth came stained dark with cheap wine, powder grating between his teeth. The second came clean, then Fenris suddenly drank the jug meant for rinsing, the real thirst buried. He was thankful the bathroom had no mirror, no shining surface beyond the glossy panels to show him more than his shadow. He climbed into the bath to break the reflection, teeth clenched against borderline discomfort.
Hard to think, his hands tight on the sides of the bath, holding himself in as much as firm. With no one else to kill, he was afraid. There might be moments he wanted to kill himself.
'I wish I could say you look better already.' Hawke wore his houserobe, sleeves rolled to the dip of thick muscle in his upper arm, bearing linens and a scrubbing brush. He dragged a stool from the corner of the room and sat by the bath. 'Your hands.'
The brush prickled and burned over the lyrium in his palms, Hawke brisk and uncaring. But it got him clean, even if his knuckles reddened, stinging as he clenched and flexed. The stool nudged to the bath's foot and his legs lifted one at a time by the heel, soles and ankles, his calves, every surface swept to sensation with equal briskness, until he was aching, the sensation consuming. Dick and balls handled with impersonal strokes only slightly gentled, which had Fenris flinching despite himself. Hurts. Not enough to stop Hawke. Not enough to cry out. The bristles across his nipples left him burning and hard.
On his face, Hawke only used fingers and water, no soap, sweeping rough thumbs across the bone under his eyes, the twin scars, his eyelids. Fingers worked a lather through his hair, kneading hard, the rinse adding another skim of substance to the water. Burning again on a scalp raw from rubbing, a cap of tight heat.
Never touched so thoroughly. Only Hawke could handle him like this. Abusing his skin, the sensation it held. Fenris felt the secret knowledge in every pulse against his too-taut container, one tear, and I will burst. The heat made each stroke so much deeper than surface, each bristle isolate from the other. The circular motion across his shoulders, down his back, arms turned and nudged to reach even the sensitive skin. The brush chafing across his buttocks, swipe across his anus had him clench, his penis hard, already hard. Always hard. The backs of his knees stung.
Hawke had him turn and soak, watching through the steam. The sleeves were damp, water spotting the robe. His pulse flicked fast at his throat, lips bright.
'What do you think I was doing?'
Fenris lifted his hips and arched, cockhead broaching between hot water and cold air. The contrast so great it felt like a hand. 'Or I will finish it.' Thrusting into air like a limp-eared youth. A bitterness, at what rage and grief brought him to.
'So soon,' Hawke licked his lips. 'We're not even to the main event.'
Hawke checked his sleeves were secure before plunging both hands into the bath, palming Fenris' balls, his other hand working in a slow, even stroke, perfect. Fenris spread his legs wide, trapped by the bath. The same mundane motion of shoulder and arm, plunge and twist, as a washer at a tub. The dark hairs on Hawke's forearm lifted in the water, slicked on the return. Expert handling, with no especial emotion on the face. He could have been a prostitute.
Fenris never asked how many Hawke had bedded before him. The number would be prodigious, and also so far below his own account it could only hurt to know. Especially to share. Fenris wanted to come at the thought. The pressure. All thoughts were pressure. Better not to think at all. Now. Now.
Hawke stopped suddenly and stood. A brief grin at Fenris' glare. 'Not yet, I said.' He offered a dripping hand to help Fenris stand, who was inclined to refuse until he felt the tremor in his legs when he straightened them.
'Just stand there. You need a rinse.' Hawke quickly filled a bucket from the secondary sluice.
'That's—cold, no, Hawke—'
Ice, on superheated skin. Fenris almost screamed, throat tangling the sound before it could escape. An uncontrollable shiver, incongruous for the pounding heat still clenched around his feet and calves.
The ensuing struggle to— get Hawke, to do something to him, to feel flesh on flesh in recompense had the bath almost tip as Fenris lunged, bucket and stool scattering casualties of Hawke's evasion. They clashed together at the wall, Fenris pushing cold hands into the houserobe. He found Hawke's nipples hard, and heat rushed back into his ' hands like a blow, a moan. The strength went out of him.
Hawke laughed and wrapped him in a towel.
Those big arms around him, chafing fine weave against raw skin. Fenris let his head touch the chest, let himself be rubbed and coddled and cuddled under the pretence of drying, his arms pinned against his sides by the fabric. His head engulfed, hair wrestled about against the linen, Hawke just shy of rough enough to hurt his ears.
'You're cooked. So hot.'
His weight was against Hawke, one hand moving in circles over his spine. The other spanned his buttocks, counter motion. The mouth gentle on his lips, this time the tongue lazy, dipping cool and bright. A hum of pleasure.
'You taste,' familiar, 'strange.'
'It's all right, Fenris. Not enough to madden, just enough to be enough.'
Shame and delight at once, contrary to the heat boiling through him demanding thrust and fill. Fenris stroked the beard. Caressed. Oh, Hawke. For me. When I am nothing.
The eyes skittered away. 'Do you want some?' A vial pulled from the robe. 'Just a drop.' Hawke took a small sip, and his lips were wet when he leaned in. Fenris opened, the warm taste passing along his tongue, distracted as Hawke chased the swallow along his throat, nibbling.
'Not so bad, is it.'
'If you don't mind drinking piss.'
Hawke grinned into his mouth. 'Better than vinegar.' Fenris felt the hard cock against him, against his own, but Hawke showed no urgency in the gentle kisses, moving to lick his jaw, his throat. Fenris reached for the other's erection only for Hawke to pull away.
'Mm, all right.' Hawke went to his knees, graceless, but so sure. 'Impatient. I'm impatient, too.'
The big mouth always took him easily root to head, sloppy. Hawke widened his jaw and licked around, cock teasing at the back of his throat, deep enough to lick his balls as well. A cough, Hawke starting again, deeper. He could take it all at once, Fenris thought. If I pushed him.
Closer than a sheath, once the rhythm and the suction was established. Fenris widened his stance for the finger tapping along his hole, which rubbed but did not enter. Orichalcum. What else could it be? The wetness on Hawke's finger was gritty, stinging.
Hawke pulled away before Fenris could come, but he was too close. He watched his flesh jerk into the air as if it belonged to a stranger, painting trails along Hawke's averted cheek, and the shoulder bared by a slip of the robe. His knees wanted to fold, catching Hawke's arm as the other stood.
Transient relief. Not pleasure, not truly. He could not let go.
Hawke collected the spill with his fingers. 'Yours, I believe.'
Fenris slapped the hand away from his mouth, and Hawke shoved him, hard. He nearly went over, catching himself on the wall, the recoil sending him into Hawke's arms. He mouthed the wet trail on the collarbone instead, heard Hawke's breath speed. Come tasted better than orichalcum. Better than piss. The wet hand touched his belly, clammy, rubbing his spend back into him.
'I want to fuck you against the wall.' The hand rubbed, Hawke's mouth on his neck, then his nipple. The sticky and and dry hands raised his arms, pinned his wrists together under a single freckled paw. Hawke licked from underarm to elbow, a surreal sensation.
'You have a bed upstairs.'
'It's not a bed you want.' Hawke's breath was so hard. 'Not yet.' Now he was biting his underarm, the sensitivity making Fenris arch. 'Where would you have gone? The docks? Sailors fuck hard. Would you let a shoulder slip bare? As far down as here?' Pinching a nipple, hard. 'How many would you pull in a night to fuck off a mood like this?'
Too close. Fenris twisted, but Hawke shifted his mouth to the other arm.
'Is this it? Maybe you only ever wanted the one, not many. A fight to see who would face the wall.'
And Hawke stepped back, sharp and sudden, the robe more dishevelled than Fenris would have credited. He took it off. A hard body, practical if not sculpted. Hard cock. A young cock, ruddy and lifting on its own, that one clear, perfect tear. No need to suck the life into it first. Each time, each sight struck Fenris with surprise, his mouth filling with water. He wanted that cock. He offered his back, keeping his hands above his head, elbows and the length of his upper arms against the wall.
Clasped his hands behind his head. He pushed his heels out.
'No fighting. I am— I want. I want it.'
The cock brushed against his backside. Nothing else. Stroked side to side.
'It. Not me.'
There were times Fenris had to remind himself never to let Hawke know the extent of his fantasies. I would crawl on hands and knees for you.
Fenris pressed his eyes closed, tight enough the darkness spun with stars.
The gritty wetness again, a disembodied finger broaching the darkness. It was orichalcum, not intended for this purpose. Unexpectedly, Hawke's hand closed on his ankle, and Fenris' whole body jerked.
'Who do you imagine with your eyes so tightly closed?'
The echoes threw the voice, made it hard to know it came from behind, below him. The hand left his ankle, and without even a breath of warning closed on his nape, kneading. A second finger twisting in, then out and away all together, leaving him hollowed. His nape released.
Alone. No. Fingers touched his lips from the side, the orichalcum piss stink. Fenris let them in, passive, big fingers sliding rough against his tongue. Could be anyone.
'Sebastian?' He scoffed around the mouthful, Hawke chuckling against his shoulder. 'No, you wouldn't tempt him. Anders. Punishment. To prove him weak to your seduction? Weak to his own will? Oh, now you suck me.' Harder to scoff around that, even when the fingers slid free of his suction. Hawke's mouth was against his left buttock, mouth and tongue and teeth. Not Hawke's. Anyone with a beard. 'Your punishment or his would be the question. His cock is bigger than mine.' Hands kneading, spreading him. 'Imagine how much come he has after all these years of abstinence. You would shit spunk for a week.'
Hawke, Hawke's beard prickling against the back of his balls, tongue drawing a long, steady stripe over his hole, wet and warm and instantly cool. Again, then in, teeth and beard and worming tongue. Fenris heard himself moan.
Abandoned again. Hawke sounded shaky. 'I coated my cock in orichalcum. I don't think it was a good idea.'
Tangled. Torn. Fenris muffled the laugh against his arm.
Stopped, when the slick head pressed against him. Hawke did not hold him, did not thrust. Waited.
'You would make me—'
'Depends how much you want it,' a trace desperation, 'I have no compunction against a night wanking off the high. I might break my wrist doing it, but it's up to you.'
Fenris braced. Pushed back, feeling his cock lift with the pressure. There was no slickness, but the liquid gave something, and his body was well trained and generally well behaved.
The weirdness did not start until he was broached, head nestling right at the muscle's tightness.
'I know.' Panting.
The darkness spun. Fenris tried to pull away, but Hawke reached for his hips, held him on the penetration, the most awkward point, where his arse did not know whether to reject or accept the intrusion. Fire without burning, cold and hot at once, and he was writhing on it, the small motions not enough. His jaw clenched on the moan, the desire to beg. Hawke spread his hand across Fenris' belly, beneath the navel, a hot weight pressing in where Fenris wanted to press back. The heat increased, Hawke rocking his hips now, still such small motions, until Fenris heard worse than the moan from his own mouth, a sob, his breath raw. Overwhelming. Impossible. The sensation doubled, tripled. Hawke groaned, 'Can't,' and suddenly Fenris was pulled down, the shock of being filled sending him over.
Hawke's hand was there, cupped around his cockhead, no pressure. Catching. Fenris shook as he clenched helplessly on the intrusion, wanting it to move forward, back, each involuntary pulse of orgasm increasing the strangeness, the strange heat, until he was panting, great wet breaths he did not believe were his, wanting it to end. No. Never end. He forced it, trying to chase the pleasure.
Then Hawke came, no motion, just a long, throaty moan. Fenris felt spread on that cock, the base thickening, so hard. The ejaculation he felt too, a spreading warmth reaching for the hand against his belly. His cock lurched against Hawke's palm, wanting more.
Hawke slumped, did not withdraw. He did not soften. Fenris shifted his arms to better hold the other's weight. His eyes were open, but still he saw stars.
Twice in mere minutes. Hawke rubbed come against his chest this time, lazy strokes which sparked and stung.
'You didn't finish, did you.'
Fenris went to answer. Yes. No more. Stopped. He was still hard, full and yet wanting, he could—
Hawke gripped his hips and withdrew fully, thrust in again. Twice, three times, four. Fenris spent again with no spend, a low, shocked cry.
The strokes when Hawke continued were took much. A whine closer to a whimper. Fenris caught against the wall and clung. Too much light, too much touching. He twisted away from the hand on his spine. Sweat stung all over, his scrubbed skin raw.
Hawke was still hard. Still in him. This was terrifying.
'How are you?'
Such a tangled lust and longing, he felt almost sick. Fill a man up to a point, he would spew it out again. Fenris shook his head against the panelling, side to side, cool against flaming cheeks.
'I'm pulling out, but I want you to hold that inside. We can go upstairs, to bed, but don't you dare drip. I changed— I changed the sheets for you. Real silk.' The sweetness would always startle, a boyish earnestness. 'Are you ready?'
No. Disembowelled, unravelling. Fenris fought to clench and close, his knees giving. Hawke caught him, pulled him close.
'The light—' His voice was not his own, soft and weak.
'It's all right. Just moonlight upstairs, the lamps can stay unlit.'
He let himself be moved by Hawke, draped and half carried up the stairs. The sheets were neither cool nor warm, but felt alive on his skin. Fenris opened his eyes to silver and shadow. Hawke knelt over, cock curving a silhouette against the sky. Comfort. Familiarity. He closed his eyes.
'Do you want to keep going?'
Hollow and wet. He could feel his come flaking on his front, the slick tickle where Hawke was spilling out of him. Prickling down his spine, where sweat stuck him to the sheets. He was confused and on fire, unable to keep still against a fabric like someone's supple skin.
Fenris rolled to his stomach and thrust against the sheets. His nipples burned with the motion. He could come — he would come, without a hand on him.
'Not convincing enough,' but Hawke's voice was rough, awed. Liar. Fenris knew what he looked like, rutting against sheets, the scars underlining his intent. No one who saw him like this would leave him unused. It was a pleasant, anxious fantasy, pretending Hawke might walk away. Fenris reached back his hands and held his cheeks apart. Spreading his knees let the come out of him, a ring of wet around his balls. Heat raced from the bared part to his forehead, flaming blush hidden by the dark.
Hauled to the bed's edge, Fenris pushed his knees wider. Hawke entered him immediately, slicked with something better, so cool and beautiful the contrast against the heat and burn pooled in his belly. Entered him and waited, wetness seeping where they joined.
'Hawke—' Fenris clenched, the ache from the quick fuck before so perfect. His cock clamoured for attention delivered from behind, the simple pressure of being filled not enough.
'Stop moving. You'll make me come again.' His body tensed in response to the voice's strain. Hawke swore and withdrew completely. 'Act like that and I won't give you any.'
'Please.' He felt himself gaping. So far beyond shame he pushed into the strange sensation, a mix of relaxation and strain. So that was how— 'You give me everything. No one else ever—'
'Fill me. Want you in me.'
The first fumbled thrust sent come spotting along his back, his spine. The second thrust forced inside, his cock swinging heavily at the brute sensation. Penetrated only for Hawke to come inside him, gasping, like using a pot. Abandoned again, withdrawn with a sucking sound. Oh, but he gaped.
'I should have gagged you.' Wry.
'I need you so much—' He was not saying that.
Hawke slid a calming hand along his back, turned him over. Took his mouth again, a long kiss. 'We can try again in a minute. Let me get my breath back.'
Fenris wrapped Hawke's hand around him and pulled, steadily. The touch stung even as Hawke refused to address his urgency, foreheads touching, tasting the breath.
'This is not as I planned.'
Fenris felt the words brewing, not yet ripe. A questioning sound was all he could manage, distracted by the rough palm.
'I want to make it so good for you. I keep coming— I want to fuck you all night.'
Nodding. Fenris let his eyes close again, nudging closer. Hawke's hand kept the steady pace, his own fingers around the grip too tight, and Hawke resisted him.
'I should have brought others.' Serious enough Fenris opened his eyes, the edge of orgasm shocked to distance. Hawke did not look away. His voice dropped. Uncertain. 'That was what you wanted. To be taken relentlessly. To hold yourself firm through it all.'
Close. But not close enough. Risk and danger and fear, loathing, but Hawke could brutalise him all night without ever broaching those boundaries. Fenris wove his fingers through Hawke's. Such big hands.
'Who would you have wanted?' Almost a whisper. 'Big men? I see who you've been going with, these years since. I know what you like better now than I did then.'
Fenris shook his head, dizzy.
'Tell me who, then. Queuing to fuck you at my direction—'
But could he honestly not know? It would be so different if Hawke was there. 'Soft men. Not fat, just soft, delicate.'
Honest confusion. 'I thought—'
'Men with long hair, beardless. No hair on their bodies, not beneath the arms or at their groin. Fine skin on their hands, like the silk sheets, clean nails. Perfumed.'
'Even if you blindfolded me, I would know you from all of them.'
A heartbeat. Dryly, 'Such a flatterer you are.'
But the calloused thumb rubbing over the slit was raw and perfect, and nothing else could be close. The rough hand which caught and stung on sensitive skin, the skilled twist of wrist. Slut, Fenris wanted to call Hawke. Wanted to call himself.
Hawke knelt between his legs. 'Don't come. Not until I'm in you.'
So raw even with the slick, the come pushed out of him, deeper into him by a slow, unforgiving thrust. Fenris felt the head, the length of shaft. Thick and hard as something foreign, enough he spread his legs, held his knees wide trying to push himself closer. He had to move but Hawke's weight pinned him. Fenris hooked a leg over the shoulder, ceded the weight to Hawke, his heel tapping urgency on the spine.
Hawke lifted his other leg to a matching position, and he was suddenly so deep, the weight and strength holding Fenris knotted. He had no leverage.
The discomfort of stinging and being stretched was enough that Fenris did not immediately come when Hawke moved. Panic at being held open, splayed and vulnerable with his belly bare. Fenris knew exactly what he looked like against a wall, bent and presenting himself, knew the evidence of strength in his back and shoulders. None of it availed him in this position. His stomach cramped, breath shallow.
'You want to come. I can feel you getting so— fucking tight!'
He wanted to sob. The pace Hawke kept was steady, relentless. So stern. Would this be three or four? In a night not so much. In such a short time, though. He would come apart, and he wanted it. To see if he would pass out, he thought he might. Fenris set his shoulders and shifted, against Hawke's weight and Hawke's hold, around Hawke's cock, enough to bring the steady thrusts against the part clamouring for attention.
There. Fenris put his arms over his head. If I am to be vulnerable. Without prompting, Hawke put a hand over his crossed wrists, pressed him into the mattress under full weight. The grip gave Hawke better leverage, more depth. The posture made Fenris arch in defence. An existing bite was licked under Fenris' arm, where no lyrium crossed, then Hawke clamped his teeth over the same bruise.
A jolt of sensation like electricity, crying out. A vague denial. No, I was not ready.
What registered next was the sound.
Sloppy fucking, wet and sucking. The silk moved against his cheek, forward, back. A cock slipping into and out of him from behind, moving him. Tallying every bite and rubbed-raw skin anew, the smell of so much come, acrid and sweaty. Oh, that cock.
He was blindfolded.
Only the hands spreading him stopped him from panicking. Rough, familiar. The fingers threatened to penetrate too, where he was already stretched so wide.
'There were no pretty boys available at this time of night.' Hawke sounded like Fenris thought he would sound if fucked beyond endurance. 'You have to make do.'
He could make do.
Only hands and cock, the strokes shallow and fast, not even the brush of pubic hair crinkling against his arse. If he imagined, it could have been anyone.
'Oh,' Hawke said, and it would have been laughable if he had not withdrawn completely and stepped away, the shock of abandonment making Fenris flinch and groan. 'No curling up into a ball and crying, pet, there's the next in line yet,' this time the hands gripped his thighs, hauling him over the edge of the bed and his hips up, the erection in once and grinding, almost no withdrawal, just circling, as if trying to stretch him further.
The next, as if from someone shorter, and Fenris imagined he could not hear Hawke's knees creaking to stay bent so long, a fist held around the base of the cock so Fenris could only get the head, which made him beg for more, pushing back against the fist as if he could take that too.
The sudden withdrawal made his anus gape again, that strange feeling, air where he was not supposed to feel air. Thrust into briskly, withdrawn, thrust, withdrawn, until he could only hold himself open and cease to anticipate, sounds rocked out of his mouth unwilling. He burned, inside and out. He could not get hard, but felt as though he was, prick hanging heavily. Reaching to pull himself, he was pulled off the bed in turn by his ankles, manoeuvred, still blinded, to face against the wall, where Hawke lifted him fully from beneath the knees and lowered him, rendered helpless and raw, while palms and feet caught sought handholds in the wall's plaster to at least take some of his weight from Hawke's shaking arms, and found nothing.
Turned, his back to the wall this time, his arms finding and clinging to the sweating shoulders, his legs spread by hands pressing his knees apart until the stretch itself sent warning pains stabbing along his thighs, his hips grating, the cock sliding so loosely in him. Thrust, grind, withdrawal, lazily, sloppily.
The blindfold slipped further with each thrust, his skull sliding against the wall. He kept his eyes closed, tight.
The knot unravelled completely, silk fading away.
It was inadequate.
'There is so much come in you. I can barely feel you.'
Fenris clenched, which made licks of pain chase over him. Torn. The small of his back was killing him.
'Yes. Like that, harder. I want you to finish again, Fenris. One more, please, for me this time.'
For him. Fenris opened his eyes.
Hawke was a ruin. Sweating and ragged, the pulse leaping high in his throat, eyes black in the dim light. The thick muscle quivering, shaking, hair soaked flat. Fenris untangled himself gently. Pushed Hawke away, gently. Gently. His legs had forgotten how to walk, only how to spread.
'Lie back,' and Hawke lay back, clutching the pillow over his head. The new sheets were pale, maybe cream or white, and Fenris suddenly wished they were dark, that he could make Hawke spread his own paleness against something richer than this, that his eyes could drink and end the thirst. Hawke was broad even at the hips, hard to straddle with legs quaking from overuse.
He was leaking.
'It's only me,' Hawke said, before Fenris could apologise. Rueful. 'A baker's dozen worth of me.'
He could not get close enough to Hawke, even threading that rigid cock into himself with sticky fingers, both gasping at the sting. Not close enough, sinking to seat himself and rocking forward until the angle was right, a painful lightning stiffening his reluctant cock. He stroked Hawke's chest.
'Come closer,' Hawke reached.
Their fingers tangled, palms clammy. Maybe this was it. Holding hands. When there could not be enough sex, there was this.
Fenris repositioned himself slowly, trying to avoid the cock slipping out, until his chest could press against Hawke's chest, hearts beating openly and together. There would be a wretched morning of veins running dark, shared poison, too much salve. His prick cradled against Hawke's belly, hips between Hawke's hips, feeling the breaths as Hawke made room for him. He rolled his hips, gasping.
'I will faint.' His mouth was gravel.
'You fainted before. It's all right.'
'Will you—' He did not know what he wanted to ask. Will you be with me when I wake? In me?
Hawke touched his hair, stroked. 'I don't have to. The need is not so much now, I can hold off if you're truly done.'
'I think I want it. To wake with you taking me.'
'Did you like it?' A thread of anxiety. 'I worried you would be angry. Or scared. You could kill me so easily.'
A fist through the chest. But the fear and pain was far away, his palms did not itch, the immediacy of the body against his more important.
'I knew it was you.'
The hand tightened around his.
'Yours. I am yours. Whatever you want of me. Never fear me, Hawke.'
He was beyond his limits, certainly. But in a life of enforced boredom and other people's needs, that had always been his definition of pleasure. He was well beyond pleasure, but the cock inserted inside him was alive and hot, and the rawness let Fenris feel the quick, strong beat of the pulse inside it. Hawke's breathing slowed, deepening under him, until he gave a long, low moan, warm as the hand crushed his own.
It did not take much for Fenris to come. A few moments of rest, tension, a focus of mind to the sensation filling him, the creaking hips and the heartbeat thudding against his ear, where he rested the side of his face against Hawke's chest. It ended when Hawke's hand wormed between their bodies, one flick of a calculated thumb, and he was giving way, giving up. Dry spasms, as painful as retching, the pleasure that came with it shocking in contrast. Throwing his head back with a hoarse moan, slumping forward again, feeling his mouth open dully, spit spilling as the blackness whirled and shook him. A dream, the clutch of a hand and a dying cry.
He came to, feeling himself rocking in time with the upwards thrusts. A convulsive reaction when he woke and realised the invasion again, shock flaming and cooling, Hawke smoothing his hair close and murmuring at the pleasure his shock imparted. Then there was no distraction from his own body after that, the body all vessel, all Hawke's, detached by the overload of sensation. Speeding thrusts, the slippery sound. Fenris lingered on the sensations of Hawke's painstaking build to the orgasm his body did not want to give.
The surge of feeling that came over him when Hawke whimpered, tightened his grip and came.
Long silences. The cock slipped out first, a warm, wet flow after. Hawke wormed free eventually, even as Fenris did not want to let him go. The jug of watered wine he brought back was shared and drained eagerly, droplets licked from the rim. Their fingers tangled again after the jug was set aside. They lay facing each other.
Hawke smiled too sweetly for a man so strong.
'But I am not eager for tomorrow.'
Stroking his hair again. 'Don't say that. It gets easier. I still wake some days thinking Bethany is just around the corner.'
But Fenris had meant this night, his body, the pain in time with his pulse.
'I had forgotten.' His small voice. The shame of this child he could not remember being.
A pause. 'Then it was a good night.'
'Should I have forgotten my name? Or your name?'
'Such class you have, Leto.'
It struck him like a fist.
I killed my sister.
It was a fierce and hateful thing and he would have said it in a voice that did not tremble. Because he was a fierce and hateful thing, and perhaps he should be feared. Reviled. Used. Surrendered.
Hawke opened his eyes, cupped his face. Kissed him lazily, because this night had been born in murder, but his eyes were clear as mirrors.
'Go to sleep, Fenris. I'm here.'
He slept without dreams, which was more than he expected.
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