After some years spent with Fenris, romantically and otherwise (mostly romantically, to his immense joy), Hawke has come to two conclusions about elves and their trademark ears. The first is that they absolutely do twitch in response to emotions. Not a lot, but enough. When Fenris gets agitated, his left ear tends to dip back further than the other and it’s adorable.
The second is that they are immensely sensitive.
Hawke discovers this one rather by accident. He and Fenris are spending an evening in, splitting a bottle of Orlesian wine in front of the fire in the study. Fenris is working his way through a book with Hawke wrapped around him, looking over the elf’s shoulder and following his progress in the least helpful manner possible.
“Excellent work as always,” Hawke murmurs. He lifts his head with the goal of pressing a kiss to Fenris’ temple, but the alcohol affects his aim and he ends up kissing the top of Fenris’ ear instead. It’s an innocuous enough mistake. Hawke wouldn’t have particularly noticed if it weren’t for the way that Fenris tensed up immediately in his arms and made a tiny, but distinct, noise low in his throat.
Hawke is briefly alarmed, but Fenris relaxes without saying anything and returns to his book. If it had been a negative reaction, Fenris would have said so, so the other option is …
Hawke can’t help a mischievous smile as he dips his head and, purposefully, kisses the bottom edge of Fenris’ ear. This time, it nets him a genuine response, as Fenris squirms ever-so-slightly.
“Hawke,” he says, and the man in question gives his best expression of innocence to Fenris’ disapproving look.
“What?”
“You’re being incredibly distracting.”
“Who, me? Nonsense.” In a show of how non-distracting he is, Hawke reaches for the bottle of wine and takes a long swig. As soon as Fenris returns his attention to the book, however, Hawke sets the wine aside and leans back in. He draws his lips along the straight line of Fenris’ jaw, kisses his earlobe, and leaves a trail of featherlight touches along the bottom edge of his ear. Fenris gasps, and is wriggling in earnest by the time Hawke reaches the tip of his long ear and finishes the journey with a tiny flick of his tongue.
“Hawke,” Fenris says again, his voice strained. His fingers are tight on a page of his book, crinkling the parchment.
“Hm?” Hawke hums innocently, nosing past Fenris’ snow-white hair to kiss the dip behind his ear and jaw.
The book is abruptly flung five feet away. Hawke laughs as Fenris turns and all but tackles him to the floor. This new discovery will definitely be put to good use in the future.
“I want to speak to a manager,” the middle-aged woman said in her stern I-used-to-be-a-soccer-mom-ten-years-ago voice, looking down at me over the top of her Gucci reading glasses.
A wicked grin split across my face and the gates of Hell opened up behind me, releasing a gust of hot wind that whipped my apron around my body and forced the woman to shield her face. Demons came forth, dancing around in flames with songs of, “She wants to speak to a manager. Did you hear that? She wants to speak to a manager!” before erupting into earsplitting shrieks of laughter, none louder than my own cackling.
I took in the woman’s look of utter horror before my eyes rolled back into my head and I growled,
I like to think, if romanced, Alistair loved the Warden from the first. (i’m sappy like that)
and okay, maybe not LOVED loved. But just that he remembers the first moment he caught sight of her. After that ridiculous argument with the mage at ostagar, Alistair saw her there, sunlight in her hair, and that wry bit of his brain he can never quite turn off sort of flippantly goes: now there is something worth dying for.
But then she meets his gaze, fixes those clear eyes on him, and when she does not look away, something much quieter, much deeper, just whispers: Oh.
Delicious Fish 