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shivunin · 1 year ago

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stolen kisses while hiding away from a crowd for Maria?

Thank you for asking! This fits them beautifully 💗

(Kissing Prompts)

'Til Evening's End

(Maria Hawke/Fenris | 1,895 Words | No warnings)

Golden light spilled from every window of Hawke’s manor, reflecting on fresh snowdrifts in the courtyard beyond. Inside, the fancy crowd laughed in little clusters. Serving staff, hired for the evening, circulated with little trays of food. A discreet quartet of Ferelden musicians sat at the gallery above the library, playing soft tunes that held the strains of Hawke’s childhood.

Hawke loved people. She loved the way they spoke to each other, the way the right sort of party brought out the more amiable side of the fine lords and ladies of Kirkwall, the way a certain sort of feeling drifted into a room of people who were enjoying good food and company. She liked presiding over such things—how funny that she should agree with her mother now, after it was far too late to tell her she’d been right in this much—and knowing that their happiness was because of her.

But it was far too fucking hot in there.

Hawke stepped out of the house with a swish of skirts now, breath immediately rising in a cloud before her. Orana had hurriedly draped a shawl over her bare shoulders when Hawke had darted for the back door, but she let it slip to her elbows now. How perfect the cool night felt over her flushed cheeks, how sweetly the cold air twined about her ankles; for a moment she just stood there in the night, breathing in the fresh scent of snow and listening to the echoes of the party inside.

“Maria.”

The voice startled her—she’d neither heard nor expected him before that moment—but she was smiling even before she turned.

“Fenris! But you said you wouldn’t be here tonight,” she stepped forward, lifting her hands to him, and let him draw her into the quieter shadows beside the kitchen wall.

“I forgot, and came to see you,” he told her, running a hand over her arm. His nose was red with the cold, his fingers ice against her bare upper arms. “When I saw the lights, I thought I might make my way upstairs and wait.”

“Poor thing—you’re freezing,” she said, and cupped one of his hands between hers. His free hand lifted, tracing a curl back over her shoulder.

“I do not know how you stand it,” he said. “Especially with your shoulders bare.”

“The cold?” Hawke cupped his hand between hers and exhaled warm air over it. “I don’t feel it. It’s an oven in there; I thought I might choke on the air itself if I didn’t step outside. And here—I have been soundly rewarded for it. A lovely man, skulking about my kitchen garden.”

“I was not—” Fenris began, the sentence cut off when she took a step closer and nudged his cold nose with her own. Music drifted from the windows—something cheerful, she thought. How lovely it would be to share it with him, for she hadn’t joined the fray even once tonight.

“You ,” she murmured, her lips brushing against his, “should dance with me. We could dance.”

“It is cold,” Fenris told Maria, his eyes drifting half-closed.

“Dancing would warm you.”

Her grip on his hand shifted slightly, drawing slightly further from their bodies. Her other hand rested lightly over the armor on his shoulder.

“So would going inside,” he told her, his voice as quiet as hers.

Something about snow did that, she thought—made one want to whisper. Snow had a way of swallowing sound, making one feel like one dwelled in a world of one’s own. Fenris’s hand lifted, finding her waist easily, and rested just over the curve of her hip.

“But if you go back inside, you won’t be with me,” Maria said.

Inside, the quartet struck up a new, slower tune. She swayed slightly, taking a step back, and Fenris stepped with her. He’d told her many times that he was not a natural dancer, but battle and other, softer activities had taught them well how to read the movement of each other’s bodies. He found the rhythm readily enough, fitting his steps to hers after only a slight hesitation.

“One dance,” he told her, a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

Hawke adored the pink in his cheeks and the light snow dusting his pale hair, visible only when the ice crystals caught the light. She adored the way he sped up to match the tempo, the way his eyes wrinkled slightly at the corners when he looked at her.

“One dance,” she agreed, “and I shall steal you the finest bottle of wine to keep you company until I can.”

“Is it stealing,” he began, and the hem of her dress scattered snow when he spun her around, “if the wine is yours?”

“I think, since the wine is mine, that I should get to decide if it’s stealing or not,” she countered, smiling broadly at him. Fenris snorted, but caught her tight against him when they turned again.

They might have kissed in that lovely moment—with the moonlight soft over his shoulders and warm affection in his eyes—but just then, the door to the kitchens swung open with a bang.

“Lady Hawke? Are you out here? Messere Godfrey was just telling me the most charming story about your battle with the Arishok and I thought I saw you walk in this direction…Lady Hawke?”

As soon as her guest began to speak, the two of them darted away into the shadows beyond the kitchen, Hawke with a hand clapped over her mouth to stifle the laughter that wished to escape. Fenris left his hand on her waist, head angled to listen.

“I could have sworn I saw her—Bea, didn’t you say she went this way?”

Fenris pressed closer, knocking her arm away from her mouth, and she couldn’t help herself; this was a perfectly ridiculous situation, hiding away from her own party with her beau while her guests hunted through the snow to find her. She was going to laugh and give them both away. She was going to—

Fenris shook his head at her, his eyes widening slightly. Hawke bit her lip, shoulders already shaking, and would certainly have given them away if he hadn’t pressed her back against the wall and covered her mouth with his.

“I do say, what an odd place to be gathering, ladies,” a harsher voice came from the doorway, but Maria hardly noticed it. Fenris’s mouth had been cool at first, but it warmed as it pressed against hers. What had begun as a measure of utility had very quickly slipped into a more familiar and beloved dance.

“We were simply looking for our hostess!” One of the younger voices protested. “Mama—”

Hawke huffed with suppressed laughter and Fenris lifted a hand to the wall beside her head, angling himself more fully against her. The soft fabric of her dress caught on his breastplate, but she could not have cared less. The way he kissed her—so deeply, as if he was trying to press some hidden meaning into her skin—

“What ho,” came a fourth voice. “Quite warm in there, isn’t it?”

“Quite,” said the icy voice. “Young ladies?”

“Yes, Mama,” the first voice sighed, and after a moment the door shut again.

Hawke relaxed slightly, closing her eyes, and Fenris went on kissing her for several sweet minutes. He kissed her like he’d forgotten why he was doing it and didn’t especially care. He kissed her like they had all the time they could care to take, and he would have gone on doing it if he hadn’t shivered, just a little, and reminded Hawke that her lover tolerated the cold far less cheerfully than she.

“You should go in,” she murmured against his warm mouth, and pressed her forehead to his. “Or I shall have an icicle for a beau.”

Fenris scoffed and stole another kiss, eyes still softly closed, but he broke away a moment later.

“Perhaps you are right,” he told her, and brushed his lips over her cheek.

“It’s been known to happen sometimes,” she told him, closing her eyes. Fenris hummed in acknowledgement, dipping his head to kiss her bare shoulder. “If you—go on doing that, we are going to find ourselves in a rather scandalous situation.”

She could almost feel him considering it, mouth still pressed just over her collarbone, but he straightened a moment later.

“You promised me stolen wine,” he reminded her.

Hawke smiled at him—and thought it was a shame that he hated the cold so, for he looked beautiful in it.

“Here,” she said, and took the shawl from her elbows to drape it over his shoulders instead. The red was shocking against his dark armor and pale hair, though it almost perfectly matched the ribbon tied around his wrist. Fenris raised a hand to hold it in place, brows lifting in silent question.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, curling her hands in her skirts. A few moments later, she was back, a basket hanging over one arm.

“That isn’t wine,” he said, and she pressed a hand to her chest.

“Such accusations, messere. It is like you don’t know me at all.”

“Of course, we are perfect strangers,” Fenris said, deadpan, and extended a hand. “What have you brought me, Hawke?”

“Wine,” she said, and laughed easily at his expression. “And food, for I am certain you’ve forgotten to eat, and something to read while you wait. I shouldn’t be long. Of course, if you’ve changed your mind…”

Fenris shook his head, but he was smiling at her in that quiet way he sometimes had, as if he hadn’t noticed he was doing it.

“Not tonight,” he told her, but stepped forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “Soon, then?”

“Soon,” she promised, and kissed each of his winter-touched cheeks. “As soon as I can shoo them all away.”

“Don’t hurry on my account,” he told her, and stepped back with a last brush of his fingers against her cheek. “I will be fine on my own, Maria.”

“I know,” she said, and took a step back. “Nevertheless.”

Fenris inclined his head and turned away, snow caught in his hair, shoulders wrapped in her shawl, and she laughed a little at the vision he presented. A lonely wanderer, trudging long through the snow—she would spin him a tale later, she decided as she watched him go. It wasn’t until he slipped away to the back stair that Hawke turned back to her party and the guests that still waited for her.

It was warm in her room. He didn’t need her to rescue him from the cold or solitude. Fenris would be comfortable and entertained enough, if he did not fall asleep while he waited. He didn’t need her to hurry on his behalf. It was part of the reason why—with a house full of people who might place demands on her attention or time—she wanted to follow him immediately.

There was no reason to rush. She knew he would wait, patient as a mountain in a snowstorm, for her to make her way to him again. Even so—if the party ended slightly earlier than intended, she was the only one who needed to know the cause.

And the only one who knew how warm his arms were when she made her way to him at last.

#maria hawke #fenris #fenhawke #fic #shivunin scrivening #please forgive any typos i am pleasantly tipsy c:#i usually give it one last pass but i am far too sleepy #but to me fenris is not a fan of big parties #i think he hangs out upstairs and helps hawke out of her fancy dresses while she gives him the highlights at the end of the night #and he gets the comfort of knowing he's nearby if one of her guests tries to stab her #and also to sit with books and food and such in a room that's comfortable and not horribly drafty #which i imagine is a crucial improvement in the winter when it's so cold

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