For DA DWC: Forehead or cheek kisses for FenHawke? <3
Thank you for the prompt!! Some FenHawke sweetness with a hint of angst for you today :)
Fenris hears Hawke sigh a little before she starts to stir. He’s been awake for an hour already, but he’s been too nervous to wake her and too hopeful to leave. All the same, he is afraid that somehow, once she opens her eyes, the spell will break. If he speaks, he is afraid that what they have done, what they have decided to be, will break like the freshly-spun ice of puddles trod upon too eagerly on winter mornings.
As she does stir, however, he decides that if wakefulness does dispell whatever this is, between them, there is no harm in indulging in the pleasure that is to be with Hawke. He rolls over to his side and covers her back with his own - to his delight, she relaxes into his touch, even humming her approval. Maker, he scarcely believes that this could last. That he deserves for this to last.
He breathes her in, drinks in that musky essence of bergamot she oils her hair with. If only the smell could be imprinted on his nostrils, so that he could drink of her forever.
To his surprise, as she blinks open her eyes and turns her head gently towards him, there is no regret, nor confusion. Nothing but light in her gaze that meets his own.
“You’re awake,” she murmurs, lips sleepily grazing his cheek. He reflexively brings his fingers to where she kissed him.
“I am usually awake by dawn.” To be true, the night’s activities had kept him up long past when he usually go to sleep. The memory of her touch on his skin is enough to awaken his desire once more, and yet...
Hawke’s gaze darkens, and now he is unsure, but she only sighs and nestles her body more firmly into the crook of his. “As long as you don’t expect me to wake up with you.”
At this, he chuckles, a quiet, finally content thing. “I doubt you’d be much suited to it, yes.”
“Mmm. What do you want for breakfast?”
“Since when do you actually store food here, Hawke?”
“Orana is fairly insistent that I keep myself fed, actually.”
“And here I thought you subsisted on pure spite alone.”
She turns to look at him once again, humour gleaming in her eyes, and brusquely takes his face between her hands. She lays a dozen tiny kisses on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, even on his eyebrows and eyelids.
“Not spite, but kisses. Now I won’t need to eat for a whole week.”
He laughs, and she laughs with him, and he holds her on this, the best morning of his life.
And just like that, they are awake, and whatever the nature of the bond that ties them together, it holds.
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