Okay - here’s my first attempt at actual Fenris smutfic. It’s definitely a bit NSFW, but on a scale of 1 to 10, I’d rate the actual smut at about a 5 or 6. I don’t fade to black, but I’m not overly explicit either.
This takes place in Act III, the night that Fenris comes back to F!Hawke. Yay. :) Lemme know if you like it/want more/hate it/whatever. It’s a tad mushy. Sorry about that. >_<
Rain patters against the window pane with a soft hiss. Easy for me to get lost in the rhythm of the water beading on the glass in a gentle cadence, echoed in the way the gleaming trickles catch the flickers of golden candlelight beside it.
Outside, Kirkwall is shrouded in darkness. No doubt the usual unsavory types are lurking about, but at the moment I’m not inclined to think on it. My bed is warm and dry, and I’m wrapped in the simple luxury of scented sheets against naked skin. More than enough to be grateful for without tempting fate.
A foot trails up my calf, nudging me back to myself.
“Again?” I shiver at the brush of lips against my shoulder, followed by a decidedly masculine rumble of approval.
“Making up for lost time,” he mutters. A callused hand strokes boldly down my hip to splay over the curve of my belly.
“Three years, Fenris…that’s a lot to make up in a single night, don’t you think?” I roll onto my back to catch an odd expression upon his face.
“Then perhaps we’d better get on with it.” The corner of his mouth kicks up into a rare smile, easing the bluntness of his words. His cock twitches against my thigh, already hard.
“Indeed.” My hands fist in his moon-pale hair. “Come here.” A satisfied chuckle escapes him and the sound ripples over me in a hot flush. I tug harder when he hesitates, but a moment later he lowers his head to give me what I want.
I nip at his lower lip, sliding my hands over the muscled plane of his abdomen. A hint of mischief sparks deep within those emerald eyes and he kisses me hard. It’s unexpected to find such teasing playfulness from the elf, but not at all unwelcome. I can still taste the wine on his breath, the tart sweetness of it filling me with a heady rush of desire. I squirm, letting him push my arms above my head as he begins a tender assault upon my collarbone.
“Be still,” he commands. I cock at brow at this, but my body drifts into limp acquiescence. For a few brief moments, all I can feel is the heated slide of his mouth as he works his way up my throat.
I tip my head back further in offered submission, but he only nuzzles my cheek before claiming my lips again. I wriggle impatiently, but he’s clearly in no hurry and continues the languid seduction of my senses at his own pace. He cups a breast, already pink and swollen from our earlier sessions, his thumb sweeping lazily over the nipple with smug assurance.
Gone is the frantic lovemaking of mere hours before; three years of sad uncertainty had exploded into desperate murmurs of apology and the violent shedding of clothing, resulting in a grappling dance of flesh and tangled limbs on the floor, the honeyed promise of forever rolling over us in waves of pleasure.
Now there is only the drumming of the rain on the windows, punctuated by the shuddering sigh of my breath as he slips a hand between my legs. He lets out a pleased groan to find me wet, his slick fingers parting me gently before probing deep.
I utter a muffled cry, my back arching as he captures my mouth with his, swallowing my plaintive plea for more. Impatient, I roll my hips; the inner muscles of my sex clamp down hard.
“Maker,” he gasps hoarsely, his gaze half-lidded and hot. I stroke the outer edge of a pointed ear with one hand even as I find his erection with the other. Whatever else he’d thought to say disappears as our tongues meet in a flurry of kisses.
An abrupt shift of our bodies finds him stretched out over me. He pins me to the mattress, his nostrils flaring wide as I whimper in anticipation.
The thrust, when it comes, is slow and drawn out, stretching this moment into an ecstatic sort of torture. A snarl curls my lips and he grins. My fingers dig into his back, sweeping over the lyrium markings branded into his skin. He stills at my touch, exhaling sharply.
“Fenris,” I moan. “Please.”
His hands cup the sides of my face. “It would appear I can deny you nothing, Hawke. As always.” Before I can point out that he’s been denying me for the last several years, and damnably well for all that, he begins to move.
Coherent thought flees under the rocking motion of his hips. I’m lost in the pounding of my heart, echoed in the creak of the bed beneath us and the rhythmic rasp of his groans each time he slides home.
“Deliciously…noisy…thing,” I purr, some small part of me gaping in wonder that my normally stoic warrior should drop his defenses so. Clutching him tightly, I meet him thrust for thrust, my hands grasping the curve of his ass to silently spur him on. He grunts in affirmation, his breath coming in panting gasps.
My own cries change pitch as he speeds up, changing the angle to penetrate me deeper; I waver at the crest of release, my focus narrowed down to the pulse of pleasure, the spasms playing in time. Again…again…again. The orgasm crashes over me, white hot and brilliant, leaving a delightful heat in its wake.
“Now,” I beg, biting his shoulder.
Fenris stiffens, my name dropping from his lips in a guttural growl as he comes. His limbs give a last shuddering twitch before he sprawls on top of me, his head resting upon my breast. A satiated flicker passes through his eyes.
“Not alone,” he murmurs into my neck with a sigh.
I push back the sweat-damp hair from his forehead and lean forward to press a soft kiss on his brow. “No, love. Not anymore.”
At some point I fall asleep, only stirring when some dim part of my brain notes that the rain has stopped. Pleasantly sore, I glance beside me, my heart stuttering when I realize the bed is empty.
A flashback to another night so many years ago overlays my vision, a memory of his standing before the fireplace leaving me empty. I cannot do this again. Heartsick, I sit up, only to find him naked beside the window, staring out at the night.
The guttering candlelight illuminates the golden skin to catch the luminous etchings of his tattoos. But there’s more to him than just that. I can see it in the flash of pulse at the base of his neck as he breathes, the wiry muscles made firm from rough living, the faded scars. All elements of a man trapped in a life of circumstance and battered by things he could not stop. And yet, he is still here.
And he is so beautiful.
Relief and questions flood my mind, battering at me with butterfly wings of velvet nails.
Will you stay this time? Are you truly mine?
His head cocks toward me, eyes crinkling with amusement to find me staring so openly at him. He raises a finger to his lips as though to cut short anything I might say, my unasked question hovering between us. My heart aches with it.
“Always,” he whispers.
And then he snuffs out the candle.