Discover Top Posts Tagged with #time for sin

Here’s some smut! Getting over my embarrassment and posting by the request of y’all thirsty mfers! I wouldn’t have you any other way, my loves ;-*

As usual, it isn’t proofread (Because if I allow myself the time to proofread my stuff, I will convince myself it is horrible and won’t post it) so I hope there aren’t too many errors or weird phrasing/pacing issues.

Faye and Fenris... again... because for whatever reason, I am way into this pairing right now and they are just sparking a flood of inspiration. (I’m not gonna question a good thing.)

Tagging @shiobookmark, @katalyna-rose, @buttsonthebeach, @solemis (rip it won’t let me tag you for some reason), and @ladylike-foxes because they all convinced me to post it in the first place. Please please let me know what you think??

Takes place after this and this. (The context isn’t NECESSARY - but it makes it make more sense I think?)

Fenris x Faye Amell - First Time (NSFW) 4,527 Words

She came to him. He stands in the doorway, looking for all the world like a hopeless idiot as he blinks, blinks again, squints as if he believes her to be some figment of his fevered imagination, still on this half of the sleeping world. She gives him a nervous smile, looks at her feet, and he realizes he is still staring at her in his doorway.

He shakes his head and steps aside, wishing he had combed his hair and changed out of the shirt he slept in, somewhere near four sizes too large and hanging off of his shoulder. “S-sorry,” he rasps, voice still heavy with sleep. “Please, come in,” and as she does, he is too aware of how dusty the house is... how bare. He never was one for frills – still isn't – but now he wishes he had at least done something to make it more welcoming. Then again, the only company he receives is Hawke. He's claimed only one room for himself, leaving the rest in disrepair. He looks around with a grimace, rubbing the back of his neck in what reminds him is embarrassment.

“I'm sorry I woke you,” she says suddenly, pulling him from his musings. She won't look at him, and he thinks he sees color on her cheeks, though it is hard to tell in the meager light from the open door. He shuts it, curses quietly at how dark it is when he does.

“No, no. It is fine. Would,” he pauses and clears his throat, “would you like something to drink?”

“Please,” she breathes, jumping slightly at the drag of his hand down the back of her arm. He takes her wrist and brings it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the fluttering pulse point. He feels the way she tries to suppress a shiver at the contact and he smiles, tugging her gently so she will follow him through the dark. He doesn't need to see, the steps made familiar by habit, but she does not know them – does not know his home and the way that board by the stairs threatens to crack every time someone so much as looks at it, or the way a few of the stairs wobble when stepped on, or the location of the overturned candelabra that he still hasn't righted after all these years, or that hole in the floor of the upstairs hallway.

No, she knows none of these things, and so he guides her as gently as he can even as she grabs his arm a little too hard in response to a haunted sounding creak, prompted by the wind outside. The house makes many such noises as they climb the stairs, and he smiles at her audible breath of relief when the firelight shining through his open door comes into view.

His is the only room in the mansion without cracks in the walls and windows, or fading wallpaper, or dust and grime and broken things. It is warm and clean... well, mostly. There are clothes on the floor, open books and loose pages scattered on nearly every surface, that spilled inkwell on the table he forgot to pick up, and that one wine stain on the rug by the fire from a night of overzealous drinking.

But it is nice enough, he supposes, his haven from Kirkwall and the world. He might say welcoming, but he isn't sure – so used to it by now, that he has no real way to describe it. She is looking at his bookshelves when he closes the door, continues looking even as he walks past her to the small table by the fireplace – the one where he and Hawke sit and drink wine. He pours her a glass, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, wondering why his heart pounds. After a moment of thought, he pours a generous glass for himself too.

He turns to offer it, a small smile on his face, and she takes it with a nod of thanks, eyes roving over the rest of his space. They linger on his bed, the dusky purple sheets still wrinkled and tossed aside from when she had roused him. He doesn't know what to say now that she's here, still reeling from being caught unawares, by her strange behavior, by the way she won't look at him. He wants to take her in his arms, wants to lose himself in her kiss, tell her he missed her, that he's glad she's here... something. But whatever nervous shroud hangs over her keeps him from doing any of those things. He leans against the table and quietly sips his wine, waiting for her to tell him what is on her mind – why she came.

She downs half of her glass in one greedy swallow, and his brows furrow in concern.

“Are you alright?” He asks, setting his glass aside and pushing away from the table. She tenses as he draws near, and he stops himself, clamps down his instinct to reach for her, to ease away whatever is causing her to tremble.

“I'm, ah...” She takes another hefty drink before setting her own glass down on the chest at the end of his bed just a little too hard. She turns to him with a shaky smile. “I just... I wanted to see you. I wanted to-” She trails off, eyes roving over him as she takes a step closer. “I wanted-”

He feels his blood go molten at the way she looks upon him as she moves even closer, but he holds back, clenching his hands at his sides – lets her decide – hopes he is not reading too far into her words and the way she stumbles around them. It's suddenly hard to breathe, and he sucks in a sharp breath as she lifts a hesitant hand to caress the bared skin of his shoulder.

Don't, he warns himself as her gentle touch rips through him with all the force of a hurricane. He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, resists the urge to take her face in his hands and take her lips until she is panting with need, to push her back until she falls into his bed and begs him to have her. What would her hands feel like on the rest of him? How would her skin feel beneath his hands, what would she taste like? What sounds could he coax from that pretty mouth – would she sing for him?

“You wanted to...” he prompts, voice already husky with want. He needs to hear her say it. He needs to know. He is already leaning over her, mussed hair falling against his forehead as she looks at her fingers in fascination – as though she can't believe what is beneath them.

“I-” she whispers, turning her face toward him, those bright eyes falling upon his for a moment before dropping to his mouth. She follows her gaze an instant later, surging on to her toes to meet his lips with bruising force. He groans as she presses against him, one hand reaching to tangle itself in her hair while the other grips her hip and pulls her taut against his body. She makes an indistinct sound, fingers wrapping into the fabric of his shirt as she meets the demands of his mouth with wanton abandon. It is a surprise when her teeth sink into his bottom lip, and he feels rather than hears the rumble of pleasure in the back of his throat.

It seems to embolden her, and this time she is the one pushing him back, demanding entry with the press of her tongue even as the back of his knees press against the bed. But he isn't ready to break away from her lips, not yet, and he demands more – wants, needs, begs. His fist tightens in her hair and he greedily swallows the noise that rises from her. She is so soft, and he can feel the warmth of her skin burning through the simple dress she wears.

She burns as he does, knowing nothing but the fire that spreads through his blood, the uncomfortable press of his need against the thin cotton of his pants. It is for her, because of her, and he still can't quite believe she is really here, that this isn't another fevered dream like the others that have plagued him for far longer than he would care to admit. Too long he had wanted this - wanted her – with an intensity that left him aching until he was forced to bring himself to completion simply for the ability to breathe in her presence.

So often. Too often. He should feel ashamed, but he can't bring himself to care. He kisses her harder, deeper, until she is trembling and a needy whine forces its way from her lips. Her bravado has gone, overwhelmed by the intensity of his desire as she clings to him like a lifeline. She lets him take control, breaking the kiss on a gasp as he turns them, pushes her just enough to fall back into the downy mattress. He hooks her leg around his hip as he crawls over her, trailing heated kisses down the length of her jaw. The scent of her sends another spike of lust straight to his aching cock, but he ignores it, nudging her chin with his nose until she tilts her head back. He latches on to the tender skin of her neck, shuddering slightly at the response her small cry prompts in him. He sucks the spot, reveling in the way she whimpers and presses against him. He feels her hands bunching in the fabric of his shirt, but in a different way – trying to pull it up, to do away with the barrier that keeps her hands from him.

He is all too happy to oblige, soothing his bite with a languid stroke of his tongue, pulling away just enough to allow her to tear it from him. She makes a noise of satisfaction as he hovers over her, taking him in with hungry eyes. A ragged groan is torn from his throat when her hands are finally upon him, exploring his skin with fascination. He trails kisses along her collarbone, suckles another spot, bites another one, and she rakes her nails down his back. He grunts, arching into her fingers, bites harder just so she will do it again.

He reaches back for the leg she has wrapped around him, sliding his hand up the smooth line of her skin, pushing the hem of her dress up with it. She gasps at the contact, head falling back with each inch of soft skin he explored. But when his hand slides to the top of her thigh, he feels the way she tenses beneath his fingers. The amount of effort it takes to freeze, to push back just enough to see her face is nearly painful, but he manages.

“What is it?” he asks, breathless and a little strained. She is chewing on her lip, and that nervousness is back as she looks off to the side.

“I don't... I've never-”

He utters a harsh curse in Tevene as he pushes himself off of her, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. He turns and takes a few steps, trying desperately to regain his composure, to steady his breathing.

Of course. He should have known. He should have recognized the signs of her innocence, but he had been so blinded by his own desire, his own want, and he had practically forced himself on her without knowing explicitly if it was what she wanted. How could he do that to her? To her?

“Fenris,” She sounds so small, so confused.

“I'm sorry,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “ I wasn't thinking. I should not have-” He squeezes his eyes shut, rakes his hand through his hair again. He can hear the whisper of her movements against the sheets.

“No,” she says softly, and he can feel her draw up behind him. “Please don't apologize. I want... I want you to be...” she pauses and takes a breath, and he tenses at the hand that rests on his back. “I want this,” she whispers, and damn if the desire in her voice doesn't nearly unravel him.

He turns quickly enough that she looks startled, and he buries the heat within him long enough to pin her with a serious gaze. “We do not have to,” he says, forces a promise into the words so she knows. He will stop right here. He will fix her hair and hold her close and let her fall asleep in his arms, but he will not go further. “I need-” he takes a shuddering breath, bringing his hand to cup her cheek tenderly. “I need you to be sure.”

“I am,” she whispers, and the fear in her eyes is gone as she covers his hand with her own. “I want this. I want you.” She seems to sense his hesitation and begins to back away – right back to the bed. She peers up at him through her lashes with a shy look – and flicks open one of the buttons on the front of her dress.

He forgets how to breathe.

She lifts her chin as she grows a little bolder, pinning him with a look that he can only think to describe as sinful. She flicks open another button. A third. A fourth, teasing him with the glimpse of freckled skin she exposed. She parts her lips and reaches back to free her hair from the confines of its braid, shaking her head until her locks fall loosely around her face and shoulders.

“Please,” she breathes as she shrugs to let the dress slide down one smooth shoulder.

He is back on her in an instant, diving into her mouth with renewed fervor. She moans into him, canting her hips up until she rubs against him, and his hips jerk into the contact of their own accord. It drags a ragged sound from him, and she does it again with more intent, taking his hand and placing it back upon her thigh. His fingers clench as she brushes against him again, and he can feel his nails digging into her tender skin. She hisses, but rolls her hips again, gasping when his hand abandons her thigh to press her into the mattress with a growl. A breathless laugh bubbles from her lips at the reaction, and she struggles against his hold – struggles to continue her teasing.

He smirks and dips his head to taste her newly exposed skin, pressing lips and teeth to each freckle until she is nearly writhing beneath him. He noses at her dress until it reveals the top of a full breast – the rest hidden beneath those damned taunting buttons. He leaves a harsh bite on her skin that prompts a stuttered cry, immediately wrapping his lips around a rosy nipple through the fabric before she even has a chance to realize.

It seems she doesn't know what sound to make, a strange garbled mixture of several bursting forth as she clutches his shoulders with a grip of steel. He hums his approval, stroking the flat of his tongue against her until the fabric is soaked and pliable. She arches into his mouth, nails digging into his skin, whimpering when he pulls back. He wants to see her, to watch her face as she falls prey to him, but he won't – not just yet. He turns to her other breast, mimicking the attentions he head just given her other, and he groans as he feels her nails pierce his skin.

He breaks away with heavy reluctance, leaning back with a slight smirk as she whines and reaches to pull him back. He doesn't and waits until she looks at him, eyes wide and desperate for something she does not have a name for. He lifts the hem of her dress until it is in her sight, trying to find the breath to speak.

“May I?” he asks, voice hoarse and shaking from want of her. She nods and makes to reach for it, but he bats her hands away, gazing upon her as he slowly slides the fabric up over her knees. She shivers at the teasing caress, head falling back as she lifts her hips to allow him further. He obliges, moving his hands at a tortuously slow pace that drives her mad. She reaches again, and again is denied as he finally slides the fabric over the curve of her ass. He stops, eyes drawn by the silken lilac lace of her smalls – and it is the last thing he expects, so unlike her quiet practicality that he is stunned for a moment. She lifts her head to glance down at him in confusion, cheeks coloring prettily when she notices the focus of his gaze.

“They're- I wore them for you,” she manages to say between panting breaths. He shakes his head briefly, then surges forward to capture her lips again in a searing kiss, breaking away only long enough to tug the dress the rest of the way. He groans again, deeper, as their skin finally meets and she is soft and hot, searing him where they brush together. He feels something spark within him, and he lets out a strangled gasp as his hips stutter, grinding into the damp lace between her legs. He is only very distantly aware of the faint glow emitting from his markings, lost in the sound she makes.

He squeezes his eyes shut so hard it almost hurts, and he has to pull away just enough to grind down into the mattress once, twice, thrice, just to take the edge off. It is nearly painful the way he strains against his confines, but he ignores it, marking a path down her body with his lips until he brushes against the edge of that lace.

“What are you-” she tries to say, losing the words as he inhales with a satisfied growl. She makes a noise of embarrassment, reflexively trying to close her legs, but he won't allow it. He will not let her feel shame – not her, not about this. She is divine, and he swears he will make her see it. He flattens his tongue against the fabric and drags it up slowly, cursing low at the taste of her nectar. She bucks against him with a surprised moan, and he has to grind down into the mattress again. He is already addicted, and he has to rein in his eager fingers – tempted to tear the lace from her just to be rid of the barrier that much quicker. He manages – barely – to peel the garment from her body without destroying it, tossing it aside so he can see her.

He is stricken by the sight.

He drinks her in with greedy eyes, thrilling in the marks that mar her skin – his marks – and the way her breasts tremble with each breath. His gaze rakes lower still to the glistening curls at the apex of her thighs. His fingers clench where he holds her legs, hard enough that she will surely bruise, but she is uncaring, watching the way he watches her.

“You,” he gasps, nipping at the tender spot just below her hip. She moans. “are,” the other, another moan, “beautiful.”

He buries his face between her legs, drunk on the scent of her as he nudges her lips apart with his nose. He can feel the way she tries not to grind into him, how she doesn't quite know what to do – how to react. He gives her an experimental stroke with his tongue, the barest brush of it against that sensitive pearl of flesh, and her reaction is explosive. She can't – doesn't – fight the urge to press into him now, hands flying to his head to tangle in his hair as she cries out.

It is music.

He drags his tongue again, more deliberate, hissing slightly at the harsh tug on his hair. She is so responsive, and he loves it. He sets a steady rhythm, trying not to finish at the taste of her alone. She sings, a litany of moans and whines and please, Maker, yes. He can feel the tenuous grip on his control slipping from grasp, and he wants nothing more than to plunge into the wet heat of her body, to mark her, take her, claim her – to know that he is the cause of her unraveling. He craves the sound of his name on her lips, crying out for him, begging, until the entire world knows she is his.

And though he is wild with need, he doesn't want to – can't – hurt her. He slides a hand between them, pressing a questing finger at her slick entrance. He hears the way she gasps and almost thinks to stop, but she presses further against him until his finger slides in with no resistance. He curses again, a harsh, broken thing that tells of how close he is to losing himself.

Not yet.

He returns his mouth to her sex, setting a grueling pace with his lips and tongue as his finger curls inside her, hitting a spot that nearly causes her to arch right off of the bed. He grunts and lays a heavy arm over her middle, holding her steady as he continues his ministrations.

“Fenris!” she cries out, her legs trembling around his head. She is close, he can tell – but he wonders if she might not know quite how. She is a prisoner of her mind, and he knows how difficult it can be to simply let go - to feel it instead of force it.

He slips in another finger, groaning at how easily she takes it, at the needy moans that spill from her lips. He doesn't know how much longer he can withhold, the pain of his arousal nearly overwhelming. He hisses through clenched teeth and lifts his head, pulling his fingers from her. She lets out a truly piteous whine as he cleans her juice from his fingers.

“Please, Fenris, please. I need- I want- please.” She sounds wrecked, desperate, and it sends another lance of heat straight to his cock. He climbs back over her.

“I know,” he gasps, pressing a kiss to her temple as he fumbles with his pants, moaning in relief as his aching cock is freed from its confines. He kicks them off, distantly hoping they don't land in the fire as he takes himself in hand, stroking his length with a guttural sound. “Are you ready?” he manages to ask through the haze, and her eyes meet his, glazed with need.

“Yes,” she moans, “Yes, please, yes.”

“Look at me,” he whispers as she tilts her head back at the feel of him pressing against her. When she meets his eyes again he begins to push forward – a long, slow, torturous drag. She seems unable to make a sound, eyes rolling back in her head until he is fully hilted within her. He manages to keep his bearings just enough to search her face for any semblance of pain or discomfort.

He finds none.

And Maker she is tight and slick and warm, and he didn't expect for it to feel like she was made just for him, but he fits like a fucking puzzle piece and he has to remember how to breathe. He presses his lips against her temple, her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose, chasing her mouth as he pulls back, holding there for a moment before he snaps his hips and thrusts home. She throws her head back with a sharp cry and wraps her arms around his back, pulling him flush against her. He groans as he thrusts again, struggling to find a rhythm as he is overcome.

He finds it after a moment, dizzy with the way she clings to him, the way her sex flutters around his cock with every movement. He can hardly see with the pleasure that fogs his vision, but he can hear, and oh the sounds she makes are glorious. She is utterly soaked, the evidence of it in the obscene noise they make as he thrusts into her again and again and again, harder, faster, Maker.

Any hold he had over his control has long since fled, and he slams into her, chasing his release, chasing hers. His teeth claim her neck, marking her with single-minded purpose. Mine, he thinks, finally.

She is crying out, her entire body trembling beneath him – around him – tossing her head back and forth as she drags her nails over his skin. She is overwrought and she is right there but she can't find it. He takes her earlobe between his lips, nips at it before growling in her ear.

“Let go,” he says, and he can feel her try but it's not quite- “Let go.”

And just like that she shatters with a keening cry that he's sure can be heard in Lowtown. He can't withdraw – doesn't even have time to consider it – the force of her orgasm tearing through them both. She clenches around him in powerful waves, causing his hips to stutter as she yanks him over the precipice right behind her with a ragged cry of his own. He closes his eyes, grunting as she continues to wring him dry with each spasm. Finally, he is spent, and he struggles to remember how to catch his breath as he comes back to reality.

He lifts his head just enough to seek her lips, taking them in a tender, languid kiss that speaks of all he doesn't have the energy to say, resting his forehead against hers when they break away. She runs her fingers through his hair and hums in lazy contentment, eyes heavy with the threat of sleep. He feels the exhaustion settling in as well, and with a concentrated effort he rolls off of her on his side. She moans quietly as he slips from her, and snuggles close at his insistent tug.

This, he thinks, this is it.

He is flooded with love, with happiness and hope and peace as he tucks her head beneath his chin. He wraps her in his arms, pulling her closer and smiling into her hair as she tangles her legs with his own. He manages to pull the blanket over them without disturbing her, and as he drifts off he knows.

This is what makes everything worth it.

And for the first time in as long as he can remember, the nightmares don't come.

#time for sin

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#time for sin