Fic: Sharp Things
Title: Sharp Things
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1618
Warnings: Feet
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Fenris treads on something sharp. Hawke is distracted.
AN: Written for the Five Acts meme.
For all that Merrill is the one who frets that she'll tread on something unpleasant, or sharp, it's Fenris who finds the broken glass at the docks. He hisses and jerks his foot from the step, teeth working round a curse that Hawke can't translate.
There's already a spatter of blood on the stone when Hawke goes down on one knee and tugs Fenris foot onto the leather of his trousers. There's a slice, just behind his third toe, deep and bright, Hawke can see where the glass went in. Where the blood runs in a curl across the sole. Fenris grumbles complaint, but doesn't object to Hawke twisting his foot into the light.
Hawke would have expected - due to the lack of shoes that Fenris feet would be tough. He'd thought to find hard skin, calluses and scars across the bottom. He's taken Fenris miles across hard stone and rough rocks. He's seen him sprint across a shoreline laden with shells.
But his feet are nothing like he's expecting.
Fenris could dance if he wanted to. Under the dirt and flecks of sand his feet are perfect. Hawke's not expecting it, not expecting the stretch of warm skin under his fingers. Oddly naked, and touching them is suddenly, inexplicably intimate, in a way he's not sure should be allowed. The strong, fine tendons and long toes, and the skin that covers them is warm and unnaturally soft. Everything about them feels different and Hawke has no idea if it's because Fenris is an elf or because he's simply Fenris, different by desire and by design. Always surprising, a mix of hard and soft in strange places. Always defying everyone's expectations. Hawke should have expected nothing less.
Varric has more than a few words to say about not wearing shoes somewhere there aren't carpets.
Isabella stays balanced against the stone wall, sea breeze rippling her headscarf and the curling ends of her hair. She mutters quiet horror stories of the plagues that left Kirkwall ankle deep in bodies.
"I shall remember to give anything I catch to you as well then. Merrill insists I should share more," Fenris says dryly.
Fenris complains about using a potion for something so small, but they have more than enough, and Hawke can afford more. When the slice is gone he forces himself to let go of Fenris's foot, to relax in tiny increments as Fenris cautiously places it back on the ground, toes spreading in the dirt. Hawke watches the faint curl of lyrium markings twist on the pale skin.
He takes an extra minute to fix the straps on his armour, staring towards the harbour and trying to stop his hands from their determination to shake.
*****
Fenris comes to his house later, the sky's still orange and Hawke is perhaps half way to forgetting whatever madness took him, or pretending it had never been. Fenris would disapprove of pretending, Hawke knows.
It doesn't help. He suspects Fenris would disapprove of complicated too, and Hawke feels very complicated.
Fenris's armoured gloves are free, fingers long, and pale and strangely fragile where they drift to Hawke's bookshelves, then pull away, slide behind Fenris's back, as if he's not used to the vulnerability either. Breaks in his armour.
"Varric didn't convince you to wear boots I see," Hawke says with a nod.
Fenris looks down at his feet.
"Boots are...problematic," Fenris says diplomatically.
Hawke has to laugh at that, he's always liked Fenris particular brand of honesty.
"To be fair, Kirkwall's not as bad as Ferelden. Not as many piles of rusty daggers and sharp, poisoned jewellery lying around. It's probably the safest place in Thedas to not wear shoes. If not wearing shoes is your thing."
"Though, Merrill thinks I should wash my feet more often," Fenris says, mouth quirking oddly, amusement and irritation in one.
His head tilts, white hair covering one of his eyes.
"Perhaps you would like to help?"
The world tips, starts to slowly slide.
"To help?" Hawke echoes.
"Yes," Fenris says firmly, uncertainty slipping into something that sounds more like an order. "To help."
Hawke is sure there's a sensible answer to that. Somewhere.
"Fenris." That's as far as he gets. Fenris puts a hand on his elbow, smaller than he'd expected, warmer. It closes, there's a moment of quiet, strange tension and then Fenris pulls him in the direction of the bathroom.
He could pretend not to want it. He could pretend he doesn’t understand. But neither of them are stupid and Hawke doesn't want to lie to him.
There's water, the curving stone wall and the decorated floor, drain set deep and low there. Fenris steps back - and Hawke knows it would be easy, that he's been given permission, some strange form of freedom. It's simply up to him to accept, and he's not a coward.
Hawke sinks to his knees without having to be asked, and for a second Fenris's face is surprised, and then uncomfortable. But Hawke has already turned away, filling the bucket while his pulse races, listening to the rush of water. Or perhaps it's the sound of his own blood.
When he turns back, Fenris is simply watching him.
Hawke pushes the material that curves round his foot back up Fenris ankle, slides it up out of the way, on one leg, then the other. He doesn't touch anything else, but waits for Fenris to decide.
Fenris doesn't say a word, he simply stretches his foot, lets Hawke grip it and pour water in a stream along its length. Droplets rest on the skin and rivulets of water slide between the toes. Hawke spreads them with his thumbs, then wonders how he dared. He rubs soap there, fingers so slick with it, it feels obscene. A sexual act where none seems to exist, throat hot, sex uncomfortable where he's knelt as every thud of his heartbeat seems to leave him harder inside his trousers.
The quiet trickle of water sounds very loud in the silence. His breathing not quiet enough to be covered by it. Hawke's unsure if Fenris knows what he's doing to him, if he's aware of everything in this strange silence of permission and intimacy.
Hawke lets the slippery pale foot settle, just in front of the drain, lifts the left, dry under his wet hand, until he can pour water across it. It's hypnotic, and he has no idea how long he simply pulls water over Fenris's skin, rubbing the bend of his toes and the arch of his foot. Thumbs sliding along his instep.
"Hawke," Fenris says quietly and there's no way to interpret the tone as anything but sharp need, unsteady impatience.
Fenris's armour doesn't come apart in pieces, it peels like the skin of an animal, and everything underneath is paler than Hawke thought possible, marked on each side, a run of shining blue that looks like it was poured over him. More like scars than tattoos and Hawke isn't sure he can breathe, blood roaring in his veins, when he peels the armour away and opens his mouth against Fenris hipbone, sharp and wet and warm under his tongue and Fenris jumps, just a fraction at his touch, then tangles a hand in his hair and holds him there.
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 madness.
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 dampness 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.
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Pairing: Hawke/Fenris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1618
Warnings: Feet
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Fenris treads on something sharp. Hawke is distracted.
AN: Written for the Five Acts meme.
For all that Merrill is the one who frets that she'll tread on something unpleasant, or sharp, it's Fenris who finds the broken glass at the docks. He hisses and jerks his foot from the step, teeth working round a curse that Hawke can't translate.
There's already a spatter of blood on the stone when Hawke goes down on one knee and tugs Fenris foot onto the leather of his trousers. There's a slice, just behind his third toe, deep and bright, Hawke can see where the glass went in. Where the blood runs in a curl across the sole. Fenris grumbles complaint, but doesn't object to Hawke twisting his foot into the light.
Hawke would have expected - due to the lack of shoes that Fenris feet would be tough. He'd thought to find hard skin, calluses and scars across the bottom. He's taken Fenris miles across hard stone and rough rocks. He's seen him sprint across a shoreline laden with shells.
But his feet are nothing like he's expecting.
Fenris could dance if he wanted to. Under the dirt and flecks of sand his feet are perfect. Hawke's not expecting it, not expecting the stretch of warm skin under his fingers. Oddly naked, and touching them is suddenly, inexplicably intimate, in a way he's not sure should be allowed. The strong, fine tendons and long toes, and the skin that covers them is warm and unnaturally soft. Everything about them feels different and Hawke has no idea if it's because Fenris is an elf or because he's simply Fenris, different by desire and by design. Always surprising, a mix of hard and soft in strange places. Always defying everyone's expectations. Hawke should have expected nothing less.
Varric has more than a few words to say about not wearing shoes somewhere there aren't carpets.
Isabella stays balanced against the stone wall, sea breeze rippling her headscarf and the curling ends of her hair. She mutters quiet horror stories of the plagues that left Kirkwall ankle deep in bodies.
"I shall remember to give anything I catch to you as well then. Merrill insists I should share more," Fenris says dryly.
Fenris complains about using a potion for something so small, but they have more than enough, and Hawke can afford more. When the slice is gone he forces himself to let go of Fenris's foot, to relax in tiny increments as Fenris cautiously places it back on the ground, toes spreading in the dirt. Hawke watches the faint curl of lyrium markings twist on the pale skin.
He takes an extra minute to fix the straps on his armour, staring towards the harbour and trying to stop his hands from their determination to shake.
*****
Fenris comes to his house later, the sky's still orange and Hawke is perhaps half way to forgetting whatever madness took him, or pretending it had never been. Fenris would disapprove of pretending, Hawke knows.
It doesn't help. He suspects Fenris would disapprove of complicated too, and Hawke feels very complicated.
Fenris's armoured gloves are free, fingers long, and pale and strangely fragile where they drift to Hawke's bookshelves, then pull away, slide behind Fenris's back, as if he's not used to the vulnerability either. Breaks in his armour.
"Varric didn't convince you to wear boots I see," Hawke says with a nod.
Fenris looks down at his feet.
"Boots are...problematic," Fenris says diplomatically.
Hawke has to laugh at that, he's always liked Fenris particular brand of honesty.
"To be fair, Kirkwall's not as bad as Ferelden. Not as many piles of rusty daggers and sharp, poisoned jewellery lying around. It's probably the safest place in Thedas to not wear shoes. If not wearing shoes is your thing."
"Though, Merrill thinks I should wash my feet more often," Fenris says, mouth quirking oddly, amusement and irritation in one.
His head tilts, white hair covering one of his eyes.
"Perhaps you would like to help?"
The world tips, starts to slowly slide.
"To help?" Hawke echoes.
"Yes," Fenris says firmly, uncertainty slipping into something that sounds more like an order. "To help."
Hawke is sure there's a sensible answer to that. Somewhere.
"Fenris." That's as far as he gets. Fenris puts a hand on his elbow, smaller than he'd expected, warmer. It closes, there's a moment of quiet, strange tension and then Fenris pulls him in the direction of the bathroom.
He could pretend not to want it. He could pretend he doesn’t understand. But neither of them are stupid and Hawke doesn't want to lie to him.
There's water, the curving stone wall and the decorated floor, drain set deep and low there. Fenris steps back - and Hawke knows it would be easy, that he's been given permission, some strange form of freedom. It's simply up to him to accept, and he's not a coward.
Hawke sinks to his knees without having to be asked, and for a second Fenris's face is surprised, and then uncomfortable. But Hawke has already turned away, filling the bucket while his pulse races, listening to the rush of water. Or perhaps it's the sound of his own blood.
When he turns back, Fenris is simply watching him.
Hawke pushes the material that curves round his foot back up Fenris ankle, slides it up out of the way, on one leg, then the other. He doesn't touch anything else, but waits for Fenris to decide.
Fenris doesn't say a word, he simply stretches his foot, lets Hawke grip it and pour water in a stream along its length. Droplets rest on the skin and rivulets of water slide between the toes. Hawke spreads them with his thumbs, then wonders how he dared. He rubs soap there, fingers so slick with it, it feels obscene. A sexual act where none seems to exist, throat hot, sex uncomfortable where he's knelt as every thud of his heartbeat seems to leave him harder inside his trousers.
The quiet trickle of water sounds very loud in the silence. His breathing not quiet enough to be covered by it. Hawke's unsure if Fenris knows what he's doing to him, if he's aware of everything in this strange silence of permission and intimacy.
Hawke lets the slippery pale foot settle, just in front of the drain, lifts the left, dry under his wet hand, until he can pour water across it. It's hypnotic, and he has no idea how long he simply pulls water over Fenris's skin, rubbing the bend of his toes and the arch of his foot. Thumbs sliding along his instep.
"Hawke," Fenris says quietly and there's no way to interpret the tone as anything but sharp need, unsteady impatience.
Fenris's armour doesn't come apart in pieces, it peels like the skin of an animal, and everything underneath is paler than Hawke thought possible, marked on each side, a run of shining blue that looks like it was poured over him. More like scars than tattoos and Hawke isn't sure he can breathe, blood roaring in his veins, when he peels the armour away and opens his mouth against Fenris hipbone, sharp and wet and warm under his tongue and Fenris jumps, just a fraction at his touch, then tangles a hand in his hair and holds him there.
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 madness.
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 dampness 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.