Hawke bites at the skin, bites harder and Fenris hisses and twists his hand, drawing Hawke to the side. His grip loosens then, just a little, as if unsure whether to bring Hawke's mouth close enough to pleasure him.
Hawke decides that disobedience will solve the dilemma, he opens his mouth around him, awkward without his hands, but greedy enough to try, body thrumming with the daring of it. The taste of him, strange and familiar, movements awkward at first, and then less so when he sinks forward, a slow pushing slide before the length in his mouth is wet and Fenris's hand clenches in his hair. It hurts and it's perfect.
The elf is all control, but Hawke knows it's a lie. He knows Fenris well enough to know there's a maelstrom inside him. He's not afraid of it, not afraid to be under it if that's what Fenris wants. A strange sort of trust that feels like recklessness.
His hands spread on the wet floor, fingers trailing Fenris toes where they shift and twitch on the tiles. He spares his fingers just long enough to tug at his own laces, to leave him unrestrained and aching in the cool air of the bathroom. A heavy weight of need that he can't quite touch - doesn't need to touch.
Fenris says his name, slow but certain. Then harder, a plea, or a demand.
Hawke, for once, is nothing but obedient, until Fenris loses language altogether. There's just the quiet depth of his voice, and the ache in Hawke's jaw, and the smoothness of his ankle under Hawke's hand.
Until Fenris breaks, and then so does he.
The water has soaked through the leather under his knees, and he's fairly sure the slick mess he's rubbing against Fenris toes is not water. It makes him shiver and curse under his breath because he's mad. He has to be.
There are fingers, fine and sharp, in Hawke's hair, cautiously pushing at the dark untidy mess of it.
Hawke can't breathe, he certainly can't look up, though judging by the gentle tug Fenris wants him to.
"Isabella," Fenris says quietly. It's half confession and half apology.
"Isabella," Hawke repeats in the tone he saves especially for her. When he doesn't know whether to kiss her or kill her, or both.
Because of course she's responsible for this, beautiful, infuriating woman that she is.
YOU ARE MY FAVOURITE PERSON. Oh god, I still don't know why foot fetishism does it for me so much, but this is absolutely glorious and perfect and hnnnnnngh - I've been dying for this since the second I first realised Fenris is virtually barefoot throughout the game, and I love you forever for satisfying that need.
Btw, this line: Fenris's armour doesn't come apart in pieces, it peels like the skin of an animal <- one of the hottest things I've ever read. Thank you <3!
Thank you :D I'm very happy that you liked it. I really wanted to have a go at something Dragon Age 2 for you. And Fenris does have distractingly bare feet.
Hawke decides that disobedience will solve the dilemma, he opens his mouth around him, awkward without his hands, but greedy enough to try, body thrumming with the daring of it. The taste of him, strange and familiar, movements awkward at first, and then less so when he sinks forward, a slow pushing slide before the length in his mouth is wet and Fenris's hand clenches in his hair. It hurts and it's perfect.
The elf is all control, but Hawke knows it's a lie. He knows Fenris well enough to know there's a maelstrom inside him. He's not afraid of it, not afraid to be under it if that's what Fenris wants. A strange sort of trust that feels like recklessness.
His hands spread on the wet floor, fingers trailing Fenris toes where they shift and twitch on the tiles. He spares his fingers just long enough to tug at his own laces, to leave him unrestrained and aching in the cool air of the bathroom. A heavy weight of need that he can't quite touch - doesn't need to touch.
Fenris says his name, slow but certain. Then harder, a plea, or a demand.
Hawke, for once, is nothing but obedient, until Fenris loses language altogether. There's just the quiet depth of his voice, and the ache in Hawke's jaw, and the smoothness of his ankle under Hawke's hand.
Until Fenris breaks, and then so does he.
The water has soaked through the leather under his knees, and he's fairly sure the slick mess he's rubbing against Fenris toes is not water. It makes him shiver and curse under his breath because he's mad. He has to be.
There are fingers, fine and sharp, in Hawke's hair, cautiously pushing at the dark untidy mess of it.
Hawke can't breathe, he certainly can't look up, though judging by the gentle tug Fenris wants him to.
"Isabella," Fenris says quietly. It's half confession and half apology.
"Isabella," Hawke repeats in the tone he saves especially for her. When he doesn't know whether to kiss her or kill her, or both.
Because of course she's responsible for this, beautiful, infuriating woman that she is.
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YOU ARE MY FAVOURITE PERSON. Oh god, I still don't know why foot fetishism does it for me so much, but this is absolutely glorious and perfect and hnnnnnngh - I've been dying for this since the second I first realised Fenris is virtually barefoot throughout the game, and I love you forever for satisfying that need.
Btw, this line: Fenris's armour doesn't come apart in pieces, it peels like the skin of an animal <- one of the hottest things I've ever read. Thank you <3!
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