Dunno if you're still looking for kissy prompts, but I would adore your take on #18 for fenhawke â¤ď¸
yesss ^_^ hereâs my stupid babies being adorable, with a generous helping of angst because Iâm sorry I canât help it <3
18. kisses where one person is sitting in the otherâs lapturned into laying, but itâs the spirit of the thing, right?
The night is late by the time Hawke makes it back to the estate, leaning his greatsword against the wall in the foyer as he racks his armor, waving off a sleepy-eyed Bodahn who shuffles over to help. Orana and Sandal must still be asleep in their rooms, and he moves a bit slower, a bit softer on that assumption. He eschews the silk weave of the house robe his mother bought for him when they first moved in, preferring to move about in the light leathers he wears under his armor. The fire in the grate has burned down to a subdued flicker, and as he passes through on his way to the stairs up, his eye catches the glint of light from the library. He draws the knife from the inside of his boot carefully and slips through the doorway, crouching low.
The light is coming from the upstairs study. Possible angles for attack are few: the only way up is by the single staircase set against the bookshelves and he knows from experience that whoeverâs in the study has a clear line of sight to the top of it from wherever they are. Heâs at a severe disadvantage, but thatâs never stopped him before. He flattens himself as best he can against the stairs, creeping up them one at a time, as silent as he can. Stealth has never been his forte and heâs never needed it to be; his large stature and intimidating demeanor work just fine for tools of the trade. So his ascent up the stairs is somewhat less than quiet, and he tenses, preparing for a fight, when he hears a throat clear.
âI promise my intentions are peaceful,â Fenris says. Hawke lets his head drop against the stairs, groaning. He can hear the smirk in that tone, knows what face the elf is making, and sure enough, when he stands and looks over, Fenris is half-looking at him, one eyebrow raised, lips just slightly curled. His finger is pressed against a page in the book open on his lap, and he returns his gaze to it as Hawke finishes climbing the stairs, setting the boot knife down on the small table next to the sofa Fenris has installed himself on.
âYou could have said something,â Hawke grumbles, sitting down heavily next to Fenris and working on pulling off his boots. Fenris just snorts and turns the page. Hawke rolls his eyes. He sets the boots together at the end of the couch and looks over at the book Fenris is reading.
âHard in Hightown? Youâve got to be joking, Fenris, really? Iâm sure Iâve something better on my shelves.â
Fenris chuckles. âVarric has been particularly insistent that I read it myself, now that I can.â
âYou mean since you refused to let anyone read it to you before now.â Fenris rolls a hand and itâs Hawkeâs turn to snort. âFine, have it your way.â
âThankââ Fenris begins to say, but he cuts off as Hawke sprawls across the couch and his lap, covering the book with his massive frame.
âSave yourself, Fenris,â Hawke says around a yawn. âNow while you still can.â
Fenris huffs and wiggles his arms out from under Hawkeâs body, resting them on top of Hawkeâs chest instead. The book he abandons as a lost cause for now as Hawke lies on it, blinking up at him. He runs his hands lightly along the leather covering Hawkeâs body, loosening some of the laces on the sides as he goes. Hawke hums and closes his eyes, abruptly relaxing, his deadweight sinking both of them a little farther into the cushions.
âAre you quite comfortable?â
Hawkeâs head is on the couch to one side of Fenris, his ass on the other, his back arching across Fenrisâs legs, and his legs splayed, one across the arm of the couch and the other on the floor.
âMm.â Heâs a boneless heap, loose and content, but only here in his house, only with Fenris. This house is the closest heâs come to having somewhere he truly feels safe enough to let his guard down, and Fenris is the only person heâs let close enough to see him like this. Even Carver, when they served together in the army, only ever saw him alert and ready to fight. Bethany and his mother, once they made it to Kirkwall, could only ever see him as a guardian and protector; he wouldnât allow anything else. His friends, Aveline especially, have seen more, though even to them he is the Champion first and Hawke second. There are parts of himself he keeps hidden from everyone, except...
There is nothing hidden from Fenris.
Hawke makes another happy, sleepy sound, seeking for Fenris with his hands, his eyes still closed. His right hand bumps against Fenrisâs hip and rests there; his left squirms its way underneath one of Fenrisâs as it tracks across his chest, and Fenris grips it, holding tight. The way Hawke can go from absolutely alert and prowling the house for a potential threat to eliminate to nearly asleep across Fenrisâs lap in less than a minute has always saddened Fenris. Early in his acquaintanceship with Hawke and his friends, they had gone to the Wounded Coast, camping along the hills as they tracked a mercenary band. As they set camp and debated the watch rotation, Hawke was awake and sharp, quick to notice a flaw in a tent setup or point out a logistical error in the watch schedule. Heâd helped Bethany cook their dinner, sharpened his sword, and traded barbs with Varric. Fenris remembers wondering why Hawke had elected for second watch instead of first if he was so obviously still awake, second watch being one of the tougher shifts. Heâd watched, carefully, out of the corner of his eye, as Hawke spread one flap to his tent wide, leaving the other down to cover Bethany as she slept, and dragged his bedroll half out of the shelter, removing only a few small pieces of armor before laying down, hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and near immediately falling asleep. A true sleep. Fenris is keen enough to know when someone is feigning sleep in order to trick him, and heâd stared openly at the warrior once he knew everyone else in their camp was also asleep.
Still, all it had taken to rouse him for watch was his name, and Hawke was bolt upright and making his way to the small fire Fenris tended. The army, Hawke had said, was where he learned to sleep like that. When you knew your sleep could be interrupted at any time for any reason, you either adapted or you died. Fenris had nodded, understanding; it was much the same for any slave.
Now, Fenris leans over, lifting the hand that holds Hawkeâs to brush a kiss against his knuckles, then a few more up his wrist and still-leathered forearm. Hawke sighs softly and cracks one eye open to watch. He can see the curve of Fenrisâs lips though his eyes are obscured by his hair, white strands swaying gently with each movement. Fenris slowly makes his way up the rest of Hawkeâs arm, laying kisses to the leather until he reaches Hawkeâs throat. He traces down the veins there with his other hand, and Hawke swallows and flutters his eyes closed, tilting his head to allow Fenris greater access. Fenris makes a pleased little humming sound and nips at the flesh just below Hawkeâs ear before soothing it with a kiss. Hawke groans, his hand on Fenrisâs hip tightening.
Nearly laying down himself now, Fenris kisses Hawkeâs jaw, both cheeks, his forehead, and the tip of his nose before pressing lis lips to Hawkeâs. The kiss is gentle and sweet, neither of them moving to deepen it. They just...kiss. When Fenris finally pulls away, he brushes a thumb across Hawkeâs cheek then along one eyebrow. With great care, he slips out from under Hawke, allowing the book to fall to the floor, and stretches out beside him on the couch, nestling in between Hawkeâs arm and chest, pillowing his head on Hawkeâs shoulder. He lifts up to kiss him once more.
They are both asleep in seconds.