“Hawke, please,” Fenris says,
decidedly not annoyed, or bothered in the slightest. There’s a smile on his
lips, and one of his hands ghosts against Hawke’s. He receives only the barest
grunt in reply, and Hawke presses his face even harder against the crook of his
shoulder. He’s stolen Hawke’s shirt. Far too large for him, it slips off his
shoulder and Hawke has no qualms in taking advantage, pressing lips against his
skin. Arms around his waist, Hawke’s wide chest against his back. He exudes warmth,
a veritable furnace all his own, a not unwelcome presence. “You should let me
finish with breakfast.”
“We should go back to bed,”
Hawke tells him instead.
“We will sleep the entire day if
we do. As well, the food is almost done,” Fenris says, turning the pan,
flipping the eggs. The hard crackle of bacon, slowly sizzling, and he lets the
eggs bask in the dripping fat – just the way he knows Hawke likes it best.
Hawke had made breakfast the day before, left the eggs slightly too long.
Fenris didn’t mind.
“Yes and it looks amazing,” he
says, reaching out and slowly pushing the pan away. He snuffs out the flame
with the barest whiff of his magic, “but there’s something far more delicious I’d
like to eat right now.” A careful bite, the kiss over it, on his shoulder. The
smile grows, and Fenris turns to face Hawke. They both still have wild bed
hair, and there are dark circles under Hawke’s eyes. Still, he looks at Fenris
brightly, warmly. Fenris reaches up, feels the stubble underneath his palms.
Hawke closes his eyes, leans into his touch, letting his hands rest on Fenris’s
hips.
“Then what are you waiting for?”
He asks in a low voice. His permission, as always. With ease, Hawke lifts him
into his arms. Settling him onto the counter, far away from the pans, still hot
elements of the stove. No matter how many times they kiss, Hawke always kisses
him the same way. As though he is lost without it, dying without it, as though Fenris
is the only thing he needs. That, at that very moment, Fenris is the most
important thing in the world. Little does he know that Hawke feels that way
about him all the time.
Hands are easily slipped
underneath that oversized shirt. Hawke’s hands are large, rough but gentle. Sliding
over the muscle of his stomach, the curve of his hips, and Fenris breathes in
the scent of him. Closing his eyes as he drapes arms over Hawke’s shoulders,
threads fingers through his hair. He feels Hawke nudging his head against his,
and without opening his eyes, leans back to accept the kiss. Drinking him in
deeply, a sharp inhale as Hawke pushes into the kiss. Hawke groans when Fenris
opens his mouth to him, and tongue presses against tongue.
His hands are still moving.
Tight against his hips. Over belly and rib, palm flat against his chest.
Circling around, fingertips moving over the ridges of his spine. Tracing
shoulder-blades, curling back around. Hawke paints with touch, and Fenris is
his canvas. He knows that if he were to open his eyes, Hawke would have that
hopeless stitch between his brows, that desperation in loving which consumes
him. Fenris leans forward, against him, teeth around his earlobe. Pulling at it
before, “bed,” and Hawke’s grip stiffens around him. Without hesitation, Hawke
lifts him into his arms again. Legs around his waist, Fenris holds tightly.
His hands are still under the
shirt. Hawke is still kissing him. Each step is sure-footed, the house a map in
his mind. Taking each step without fear, and Fenris trusts him to do so. Laying
him back down onto the bed, and it might still be warm from where Hawke had
been lying. Reaching for the edge of the shirt, and Fenris lifts arms above his
head. Hawke takes it off of him, swiftly moves forward to kiss him once again. Strange,
to think of a time when he disliked kisses. Now, he thinks he might lose his
mind if Hawke stopped.
Stop he does, only briefly.
Looking at him through half-lidded eyes, ghosting a lighter kiss across his
lips. Looking at him again, and Fenris raises his eyebrows, claps a hand across
Hawke’s mouth when he moves forward. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he
asks. Kissing at Fenris’s palm, until he moves his hand, and Hawke gives him a
lopsided grin.
“I love you,” he says, drunk on
the taste of him, the feel of him, the warmth of him. Fenris’s ears twitch
involuntarily as he lies back against the pillows, looks away from Hawke. He
hates that he can feel the heat at the back of his neck, the blush in his
cheeks.
“Hmm,” is all he can manage in
return, as wisps of white hair stray across his forehead. Hawke chuckles, a low
and happy sound. His hands move from Fenris’s ankles, down his legs, tight
against his thighs. Hawke is bending over, teeth at the soft flesh of his neck,
a kiss to the goblet of his neck. He braces himself over him with an elbow in
the mattress, his other hand gripping underneath one of Fenris’s thighs. Holding
him tight, pulling him close, and smothering him in all the love Hawke has to
give. He thought once, such a love might be suffocating. Something to drown in.
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