Steve Rogers, #58 forever kisses, in a fixed MCU where he doesn't go back in time because what that never happened what am I even talking about. Please and thank you😊
I was SO PROUD OF MYSELF today when I was almost at the kiss and it was 500 something words! *head in hands* Thank you so much for this request!
To Hold, Steve Rogers/girlfriend!Reader, fluff with a naughty twist, 950 words
MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS | BUCKY BARNES
Excerpt:
“Earth to Sprinkles and Captain Vanilla! Kiss or get off the pot!” Tony says.
Startled, you and Steve blink at him as if you’ve just woken up. Steve watches his friend put his wizened hand back into its sling. That’s the first time he’s seen Tony use that hand since everybody came back, and Steve opens his mouth to apologize--
“Aht! Was that a ‘yes?’ You two going to kiss or what? Consider it a gift for me, even if I don’t get to watch.” The self-appointed (and well-earned) Savior of the Freaking Universe grins at them and points over his shoulder with his undamaged hand. “It’s a warm night, I’m sure the cloakroom is empty right now, unless Strange and his pet had a fight.”
TO HOLD
The suit is uncomfortable. Steve’s not sure whether his suit jacket is a bit too tight or if he’s just too warm in such a high-importance social event. Tony’s the honored guest, Steve and the rest of the Avengers are just here for support and encouragement. Truth be told, Steve’s glad he hadn’t been the one going face-to-face with Thanos. Stark’s armor did what it was meant to, and he isn’t sure his own healing factor would have been enough.
The thought of saving the world but not being able to reap the benefits makes Steve tighten his grip on the two champagne flutes he’s carrying. He stops, pulling in a deep breath (one that tells him it’s the dress shirt that’s too tight), and when he opens his eyes, Steve’s gaze immediately zeroes in on you.
You’re stunning tonight, smiling up at something Thor’s saying to you, but he can see you’re not fully comfortable either. Your left hand is jittering at your side, squeezing and clenching as if you wish he were there to tuck it into his coat pocket.
Steve hasn’t let you do that tonight. Not yet, anyway. He smiles to think of what’s to come, and right at that moment, you look over. When your eyes meet, he holds up one of the glasses, and you nod, the tension easing out of your lovely form now that you know where he is. He weaves his way toward you without dropping eye contact, dipping his head down in a chivalrous gesture while holding out one of the drinks for you to take.
Thor reaches over and snags the other. “Ah, champagne! I haven’t had any yet, thanks, Rogers!”
You expertly suppress a laugh, opting for a deep sip from your own before you murmur, “I think Dr. Foster has just arrived, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Blast, I’ve already finished this off,” Thor expresses, scanning the room. Steve points Thor toward the bar, and while he’s distracted giving directions, you sidle up beside him and slip your hand into his jacket pocket.
Steve freezes, his whole body attuned to your gasp of recognition and understanding.
“Really?” you whisper. He looks down at you and sees your eyes swimming with joyful tears.
“Clint says he’s your bowman for hire if finding it in my pocket isn’t romantic enough,” Steve whispers, but you shake your head vehemently, wiping off your cheek with your free hand.
“No. This is perfect, and you knew that. Neither of us likes a spectacle.”
The two of you stare at each other with ever-increasing happiness for a long minute until a leather-clad male hand snaps in the heated space between you.
“Earth to Sprinkles and Captain Vanilla! Kiss or get off the pot!” Tony says.
Startled, you and Steve blink at him as if you’ve just woken up. Steve watches his friend put his wizened hand back into its sling. That’s the first time he’s seen Tony use that hand since he got back from the fight, and Steve opens his mouth to apologize--
“Aht! Was that a ‘yes?’ You two going to kiss or what? Consider it a gift for me, even if I don’t get to watch.” The self-appointed (and well-earned) Savior of the Freaking Universe grins at them and points over his shoulder with his undamaged hand. “It’s a warm night, I’m sure the cloakroom is empty right now, unless Strange and his pet had a fight.”
“Thanks, SFU,” you say, emphasizing the last two letters.
“Keeper,” Tony says in a singsong voice as Steve walks in the direction of the cloakroom.
It’s as empty as Stark had suggested, but the reality of what just happened (what will happen at some set date in the future -!) is finally sinking in. Steve pushes the cloakroom door shut and then slips his hand into his pocket where yours is still closed around the ringbox.
“Do you want me to get down on my--” he starts, but you stop him with your lips, pulling his head down to you with both hands at his shirt collar. Your lips are inviting and electric; the power of your grip translates the loving shock of the moment along every nerve ending. He can never get enough of you, the way you can be both shy and bold in moments like these, shaking in anticipation of his next touch. Your tongue against his always feels like it’s painting your love on the canvas of his heart, and he’s just so grateful you’ve found each other.
Many minutes later, when your outfit is in nearly irreparable disarray and his shirt is halfway unbuttoned, Steve pulls out the ring box. You set your hand atop his before he can open it.
“Before I see it, YES, in case you missed that part.”
“What if I told you Tony helped me pick out the ring? What if it’s an inch-wide ruby, diamond, and sapphire shield?”
“I’d wear it with pride, if it meant I could be yours,” you tell him, but your expression of mischief has him narrowing his eyes.
“Go on,” he prompts, enjoying your shiver at his commanding tone.
“Well, I know you get annoyed when Stark calls you Captain Vanilla, so I just thought…” With a wickedly enticing grin, you lean in and whisper, “I just might not always wear it on my hand.”
Steve is helpless not to picture a jeweled shield nestled between your legs, and he growls his approval, cupping your face with both hands as he takes your mouth with reckless abandon.
As you arch up, fingernails scrabbling against his biceps, he resolves to visit a jeweler the next day.
Adrien calming down an overthinking Ladybug with a kiss - commission from Lampofblob on instagram! And the sketch because I loved it too!
I originally got this for a past kiss in my ongoing Ladrien kissfic Mistakes, but this came out unique enough that I decided to add a new chapter!
This kiss is in the newest chapter (6).
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Ladrien kiss fic!
Transforming to escape the mistakes she continues to make as Marinette, Ladybug decides to make another one when she finds herself emotional and at Adrien Agreste's window.
My only incomplete fic that I update randomly when inspiration hits!
okay so i'm writing the whole "supernatural but cas can only heal people by kissing them" thing inspired by this post
and it's gonna take me a while to get it done lol BUT i am working on it more than i've worked on any writing project i've had in the last little while so i do actually expect i'll finish.
anyways here's a little excerpt covering 5x04 cause even though cas can't heal in endverse he's gonna bring it up anyways
-
In the future, everything is different, and Cas is no exception. Not by a long shot.
It’s 2014, and who knows how legit. Dean knows the angels can time travel. He also knows Zachariah can manipulate the hell outta reality whenever he wants.
Real or not, he’s got no choice but to roll with it. Three days.
Cas is a filthy hippie, but he’s funny. Or, at least, he laughs easier. There’s something empty in his eyes when he does it, though. He laughs when he tells Future Dean that he likes “past you,” and Dean has this funny little urge to ask why. He doesn’t.
It’s near the end of their briefing – him, Future Him, Cas, and Risa. They’ve talked it out, marked the map, and it’s only now, as Risa and Cas are rising to round up the troops, that Future Dean lets his guard down, just an inch.
He’s been subtly nursing a wound since he got back from wherever he picked up the Colt. Dean could tell – he carries his arm the same way when it’s wounded. Obviously. Future Dean flexes and rolls it, trying to shake out the pain.
“What’d you do to yourself?” Dean asks, nodding at his future self’s forearm.
“Nothing,” is the grumbled response. Cas and Risa both halt in the doorway, waiting. Future Dean rolls his eyes so hard Dean’s surprised he hasn’t gone blind doing the same thing his whole life.
“Fucked it up on some barbed wire in the Croat chase. It’s fine.” He turns to Cas and Risa: “Go.”
Dean never fully noticed how authoritative, how hard his voice is – or, maybe it’s not quite there yet, and this is just another change in himself to dread.
Cas, though – Cas doesn’t respond by following the directive, not immediately. He’s not easily bossed around, apparently, and Dean realizes he’s not even a little bit surprised by that.
“Dean,” Cas says from the doorway, and the both of them glance over, matching raised brows, waiting.
Cas wasn't talking to him. He's looking solely, intensely, at Future Dean, and he does something totally incomprehensible. He lifts a finger to his lips like he’s about to hush someone, but presses his lips to it in a kiss. And he winks.
He laughs as he leaves, and Risa follows him out like a storm cloud chasing the sun.
If Cas is funnier in the future, maybe he siphoned the humor out of Dean as they aged, because up until this point, Future Dean’s been all stone wall, no cracks. But one forms on his face now as the most minuscule quirk of the mouth - barely a smile at all, but something. Dean doesn’t know what to think. Before he can ask, Future Dean shakes it away.
After that, they don’t speak of finger kisses or light peaking through cracks in stone walls. Only the inevitable end.
25 + Sam x Jack for the kisses prompts. Please & thank you!
Thanks so much for the ask! :) I realized halfway through this probably doesn't exactly match the prompt, since only Sam's in the rain, but oh well. Hope you still like it.
***
Between the Simpsons and the summer rain beating down on his roof, Jack barely heard the knock on the door. When he opened it, he was greeted by the sight of a drenched, shivering Samantha Carter.
"Carter!" He yanked her inside and shut the door before the slanting rain could flood his foyer. "Where's your car? Umbrella?"
She looked up at him solemnly. "I-I have to k-know. D-do you st-still feel any-t-thing for me?"
Jack blinked down at her. He couldn't lie, not to this version of Carter. "Of course. Always will," he said simply.
She stepped right up to him, slid her arms up around his shoulders, and kissed him.
It was an open-mouthed, desperate kiss. Jack stood stock-still for a moment, and then the combination of the feel of her lips, wet from the rain, the feel of the raindrops soaking into his shirt, and her tongue licking at the seam of his lips undid him. His arms snaked around her waist and he kissed her back with everything he had, reveling in the taste of Sam mixed with the taste of freshly-cut grass and clear blue lakes that every thunderstorm brought to Colorado.
When the kiss finally ended, they were both smiling, Sam has stopped shivering, and Jack's life had just taken a hard right turn. For the better.
"Just in case you still have any doubts, I meant that I still...love you."
Sam's smile transformed into a blinding grin. "I love you too, Jack."
“breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths”
The sequel to this, another prompt from you ^_^ I hope you enjoy <33
Hawke awoke to a warm weight pressed against his chest and wondered for a minute why his mabari was on the bed with him. The next minute he spent pondering why the bed was so damn hard and stone-like and why the fireplace was in the wrong spot on the wall and why the walls of his room looked like Fenris’s. Then the weight shifted and grunted in a way that was distinctly Fenris, and the events of the previous night came rushing back to him.
“If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”
They had kissed then, Hawke sweeping Fenris up in his arms as he’d wanted to countless times over the last three years. It didn’t seem real, somehow, that now he was able to do that again or that Fenris was snuggled up against him, his cheek pressed against Hawke’s chest, his head just under Hawke’s chin. Hawke tightened his arm around Fenris’s waist, pulling him as close as they could possibly get. He twisted his head to look down at the elf in his arms and kissed his forehead. Fenris hummed but did not appear to wake. Hawke watched him sleep until his neck got a crick, and then he brushed his lips across Fenris’s forehead again and curled his body around Fenris’s as much as he could before dropping back off to sleep.
The next time Hawke woke it was to the sensation of something moving across his face. Fenris’s warmth had migrated somewhere farther away, and he frowned and grumbled his disapproval of the situation. Then the thing against his face moved again, and he realized it was Fenris’s nose, followed by his lips, nuzzling and kissing at his cheeks. He nosed back and Fenris chuckled, his lips quirking into a smile that Hawke could feel against his face.
“Good morning,” Fenris said, and Hawke heard reflected in his voice his own sense of wonderment and pleasure at being here, together, finally.
“Mm,” Hawke agreed, and reached up to wrap both arms around Fenris and tug his body back on top of Hawke’s. Again Fenris laughed and Hawke savored the flipping sensation low in his stomach at the sound. He’d missed that feeling, the pleasure of being able to make Fenris laugh like that. He hadn’t tried often over the last few years, wanting to respect Fenris’s space and boundaries, but now he never wanted to stop.
He buried the fingers of one hand into Fenris’s hair, closing his eyes and pressing his head against Fenris’s as he tightened his arms, hugging Fenris close. Fenris pressed his head back against Hawke’s for a minute, then wiggled slightly to get Hawke to relax his grip. When he did, Fenris levered himself up with one hand and looked down, a frown creasing his brow. His other hand traced the wrinkles above Hawke’s own eyes.
“Hawke?”
Hawke shook his head, knowing there wasn’t anything he could say. His words never were fully adequate at the best of times, fragile, loaded things that they were. So instead he captured the hand running across his face in his own, kissing the fingertips then the knuckles then the palm before holding it against his cheek as he sat up to claim Fenris’s mouth with his. Hawke felt the weight of the last three years begin to dissolve, yielding to the warmth seeping into him from every point of contact between their bodies. He let his hand fall from Fenris’s hair, running it down Fenris’s cheek.
“You’re here,” he said, refusing to fully break the kiss to speak, loathe to let any space separate them. “You’re here.”
Fenris laced his fingers with Hawke’s, holding that hand to his cheek. He kissed Hawke, a gentle brush of lips, and kept his eyes, wide and soft and green, open and fixed on Hawke’s soulful brown ones. “Yes, Hawke. I am here.”
I was tagged by @riverofwhispers to discuss five fics I don’t currently have the time to work on - which is basically all of them, because I’ve been having to obsess on HB3 (which is not working for me, right now).
1. Fear of the Dark
Remember that one? The one where the boys resort to witchcraft in desperation, because they’re not getting as successful as they want, quickly enough? It was my Hallowe’en fic and I was able to post two of four parts before chaos ensued? Yeah. I really, really want to work on that light, sweet fic, right now. I just got back from a weekend of Druid shenanigans at two of our most sacred sites, too, so I’m raring to write magic and meditation. At this rate, I’ll be posting it for this Hallowe’en.
2. But The Truth Catches Up With Us Eventually
This fic started from a prompt about ‘your OTP’ sharing a kiss and then having to be apart for some period of time immediately after. It’s currently set at an indeterminate time in the band’s history, and begins with a huge ‘WTF?!’ moment and then gradually moves on to a sort of study in just being happy, I guess. It’s a tiny bit angsty, initially, but involves Patrick drunk dialling Joe with his sister at his mother’s birthday party, which, I mean... how can that be angsty?
3. The World Is A Vampire
Band-never-happened AU, in which the boys get talking in the wee small hours of the morning, in a diner in Chicago, have a whirlwind romance and begin a long-distance, CHI-NYC relationship. The ship is at least 50% Patrick/Chicago. Kind of a grown up fic, I guess. It focuses more on dynamic and making a relationship work, in spite of everything, and how your physical place in the world can influence your state of mind - and vice versa.
4. Batman AU
This is largely intended to be a comic (as in funny, but also...) AU, inspired by Patrick’s involvement with Lego Batman. In all likelihood, I’ll never get around to writing this fic, but it primarily features Patrick as Batman, Pete as his ‘business manager’ who spends Patrick’s money on doomed enterprises (but is allowed to, because Patrick is stupidly rich and what’s a few million dollars for the sake of keeping your only friend?), Andy as Commissioner Hurley, endlessly put upon and tired of everyone else’s shit, and Joe as Patrick’s retained engineer (perhaps slightly Holtzmanned?), who co-designs and builds his gadgets and is massively unimpressed by Patrick’s money - which is sort of why Patrick has a huge crush on him. The more I think about it, the more I want to write it.
5. The End-Hiatus Fic
I came back to fandom a year ago today, and my first instinct was to write a story interpreting all the stuff that had happened and how it had gone down / how they’d dealt with it. That was briefly explored in Your Own Spotlight, but I wanted to go into it in greater detail, focusing almost in real-time on that famous three-hour conversation and their being reunited for that first meeting. I feel like one day, I will write this one, but it’s really a question of time with all my other commitments.
Honourary mentions:
TWNW. Chapter 22 is... mostly written, but needs some work to transition to the next phase of the story. After the next two or so chapters, for the first time in a long time, I only have a partial outline for what happens next - I know the plot, I don’t know major details.
Moving Pictures. The sister series to TWNW, I spent some time writing scenes and filling gaps, from Patrick’s perspective, but I haven’t had a lot of time to do that, recently, because I’ve been focusing on HB3. If you have particular scenes you’d like to see, hit me up.
a rare triad piece for @cullenappreciationweek and their Rare Pair day
written on the request of @gothic-princess-witch (for the kissfic prompt lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up)---I hope you like it! <3
None of them sleep well. It’s not a symptom of having three people to a bed, even if that bed is Hawke’s California King monstrosity, but simply a byproduct of the separate baggage they each bring to the table. So it was something of a miracle when the three of them crawled into bed the night before, curled Hawke into the middle, and actually passed out within minutes of arranging the covers properly. They have extra blankets on Fenris’s side; even after many years in the south, he still gets cold easy. Cullen and Hawke are both Ferelden and used to it, but the blanket on Cullen’s side is softer and perhaps just a bit more plush than the ones Hawke and Fenris use. Though accustomed to sleeping with harsh coverings, Cullen had confessed some months ago that the time he fell asleep wearing Hawke’s fuzzy robe was the best night’s sleep he’d had in some time. The new blankets showed up shortly afterward. As for Hawke, he’s happy just as long as he can stick a foot outside of the sheets. It means they can’t tuck the covers under the mattress, but that’s not the end of the world.
Now, as the early morning sun crests the horizon, soft gold light falling through the shades they usually keep open, Fenris presses his forehead closer to the back of Hawke’s neck, a low sigh rumbling through him. Hawke mumbles something in response, and Fenris wraps his arm around Hawke’s waist, finding Cullen’s hand there, nestled against Hawke’s ribs. He twines his fingers with Cullen’s, smiling against Hawke’s neck at the surprised, sleepy sound from the other side of the bed. Fenris’s affections are usually directed toward Hawke, as are Cullen’s, but in these soft, quiet moments before they have to face their separate lives, it comes easier to them to be soft with each other as well.
Cullen’s hand tightens around Fenris’s before slackening again as he falls back asleep, and Fenris allows himself to heed the call too. Sundays are their laziest day, none of them needing to go into work, so a little sleeping in is usually on the docket followed by Hawke making a breakfast that by rights should feed five people instead of three. With Fenris in the big squishy armchair and Hawke and Cullen sprawled together on the couch, they watch movies or scroll on their phones, only moving to get food or go to the bathroom. Some days Hawke and Cullen disappear back to the bedroom to play together; on rarer occasions does Hawke convince Fenris to come with him; and rarer still are the days for all three of them.
When Fenris wakes again, the sun is higher in the sky, the patch of light on the floor growing larger with each passing moment. Still he doesn’t move from his new position on his back, loathe to dislodge the Hawke that has somehow slipped farther down the bed and nuzzled his head up into Fenris’s armpit. It isn’t the most comfortable position, but Hawke has that stupid smile on his face, the one he gets when he’s utterly content, and there are few forces in the world that can make Fenris disturb that look. He presses his lips against the mat of tangled black hair stuck to his side, and the pleased little sigh Hawke lets out is enough to perk Cullen's attention from where he had curled on his side away from them.
Cullen rolls over, scooting closer until he can throw his arm over Hawke to rest on Fenris’s thigh. He nuzzles his own kiss into Hawke’s hair, and Hawke whines something that sounds like “snmrfll.” The decidedly more-than-half-asleep middle to their sandwich twists his head around under Fenris’s arm to awkwardly present his face to Cullen, who obliges the unspoken request and kisses his forehead. No one but Fenris has their eyes open, and he watches his two partners brush noses against cheeks and chins as they attempt to seek out each other’s mouth.
Hawke groans deep in his chest when their lips finally make contact, pulling an answering sound from Cullen. Fenris’s eyes wrinkle and his lips turn up at the corners. He raises the arm not lodged under Hawke and strokes his hand down Hawke’s flank, delighting in the sleepy noises Hawke makes in response and the way he tries to arch into the touch. Cullen’s fingers run small circles on Fenris’s leg.
It is...good, this not-so-early morning tangle of covers and limbs, muffled noises, and communal unspoken agreement to not leave the comfort of the bed and these bodies. Today is a good day, none of them touch-averse or fresh out of a nightmare, and Fenris takes advantage of this, moving his arm from Hawke’s side to Cullen’s face, rubbing his thumb across his cheek before settling his hand on Cullen’s neck. Cullen raises his head, and Fenris lifts over Hawke to kiss each blond eyebrow. They sink back onto the bed, both pressing up closer against Hawke between them, who mumbles something and rolls all the way over to press his face against Cullen’s chest. Cullen kisses the top of Hawke’s head and Fenris kisses the back, their arms winding around Hawke’s chest and hips from either direction.
Hawke drifts off again, snoring gently now though Fenris knows it will only get louder the deeper Hawke slumbers. Cullen’s breathing evens out, slowly; he often has trouble falling asleep, unable to rest for fear of what dreams may come. It seems to help him to be touching Hawke or Fenris when he’s attempting to sleep, as though the reassurance of their presence can drive the bad thoughts away. Fenris understands this. There is nothing that can keep his nightmares from rearing their ugly head, but the love and support he receives from Hawke and Cullen upon waking help to dispel their shadows from his waking mind. The three of them work, fit together in a way he hadn’t imagined possible when Hawke first approached him about his feelings for Cullen. They blunt the edges of each other’s trauma and brighten each moment of joy.
Fenris closes his eyes against the daylight, not tired but also not willing to leave the bed and be alone. He tugs the blanket on his side of the bed higher, tucking it over his shoulder. Eventually they will all get hungry. Until then, he will enjoy this moment as long as he can.
Dunno if you're still looking for kissy prompts, but I would adore your take on #18 for fenhawke ❤️
yesss ^_^ here’s my stupid babies being adorable, with a generous helping of angst because I’m sorry I can’t help it <3
18. kisses where one person is sitting in the other’s lapturned into laying, but it’s 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 whoever’s in the study has a clear line of sight to the top of it from wherever they are. He’s at a severe disadvantage, but that’s 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 he’s 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.
“I promise my intentions are peaceful,” 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.
“You could have said something,” 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.
“Hard in Hightown? You’ve got to be joking, Fenris, really? I’m sure I’ve something better on my shelves.”
Fenris chuckles. “Varric has been particularly insistent that I read it myself, now that I can.”
“You mean since you refused to let anyone read it to you before now.” Fenris rolls a hand and it’s Hawke’s turn to snort. “Fine, have it your way.”
“Thank—” Fenris begins to say, but he cuts off as Hawke sprawls across the couch and his lap, covering the book with his massive frame.
“Save yourself, Fenris,” Hawke says around a yawn. “Now while you still can.”
Fenris huffs and wiggles his arms out from under Hawke’s body, resting them on top of Hawke’s 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 Hawke’s 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.
“Are you quite comfortable?”
Hawke’s head is on the couch to one side of Fenris, his ass on the other, his back arching across Fenris’s legs, and his legs splayed, one across the arm of the couch and the other on the floor.
“Mm.” He’s a boneless heap, loose and content, but only here in his house, only with Fenris. This house is the closest he’s come to having somewhere he truly feels safe enough to let his guard down, and Fenris is the only person he’s 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 wouldn’t 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 Fenris’s hip and rests there; his left squirms its way underneath one of Fenris’s 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 Fenris’s 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. He’d 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. He’d 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 he’d 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 Hawke’s 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 Fenris’s 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 Hawke’s arm, laying kisses to the leather until he reaches Hawke’s 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 Hawke’s ear before soothing it with a kiss. Hawke groans, his hand on Fenris’s hip tightening.
Nearly laying down himself now, Fenris kisses Hawke’s jaw, both cheeks, his forehead, and the tip of his nose before pressing lis lips to Hawke’s. 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 Hawke’s 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 Hawke’s arm and chest, pillowing his head on Hawke’s shoulder. He lifts up to kiss him once more.
