AN: And now, a series of shortfics I did for the kiss meme on Tumblr.

w0rdinista asked: TWENTY TWO. F!HAWKE AND FENRIS. GO!

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Characters/Pairing: F!Hawke/Fenris
Rating: G
Word Count: 700
Prompt: 22. Then there's tongue—

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The thing is—

The thing is, if Hawke is desperately, embarrassingly honest with herself, is that she is an idiot. She knows this. She's very well aware of this. And yet, half-drunk on Anderfels white wine and listening to Fenris read her the latest letter from Charade, she can't even pretend to listen to his words in the light of her abrupt obsession with Fenris's mouth. His lips keep doing the most—interesting things around his Rs, and the muscles of his neck and throat move so nicely around some of his vowels, and then he reads I hope to see Gamlen with you soon and the tip of his tongue flicks between his teeth just so on the with, and Hawke barely tamps down her sudden urge to remind herself of exactly how that tongue would feel flicking somewhere else.

"Mm," she says belatedly into an expectant pause, slumping a bit further into her armchair. "Wonderful. Go on."

Fenris lifts an eyebrow from where he sits on the sofa. "Are you listening?"

There's that R again, and those lips pursing around you, and a pleasant shudder ripples down Hawke's back as she lifts her wineglass to her mouth. "Avidly."

"What did I say?"

She is, now that she thinks of it, perhaps a little more than half-drunk. "'Are you listening?' Which I am. Like I said."

His lip curls. She loves that expression on him, loves it more when she's been the one to cause it; Fenris's mouth is one of his most expressive features, the twist of it or the thin-pressed lips or the slight, almost-gone curve of a smile conveying more to her than a hundred words could from someone else. And it's not just his voice, though she loves that, too, especially when it drops low and rumbling in her chest; rather it's the way he deliberates over every word, each syllable chosen thoughtfully and carefully over many others, as if now that he has won for himself the freedom to speak his mind he is determined not to cheapen it with thoughtless sounds.

Then Fenris says, "Hawke."

Her eyes fall shut as a hopeless, besotted laugh slips free (appropriate, says the Aveline in her head, considering she's doing a rather good impression of a sot at the moment), the tingling of her skin seeming to coalesce into something rather hotter at the pit of her stomach, coiling there in dark, heady promise. "I've been listening," she says, hearing the words trickle out of her like wine, like honesty, and then, with only the slightest struggle to extricate herself from the armchair, she manages something like a standing position and makes her almost-steady way across the room.

Fenris rescues the wineglass from her hand—empty, she realizes, and hopes that it's because she finished the glass rather than dribbled a trail of white wine across the carpet—and places it on the polished endtable with Charade's letter. Then he looks up at her where she stands above him, that rare, sweet, half-smirking curve to his mouth, and Hawke touches the corner of it with clumsy fingers before she pours herself into his lap. His hands come to her waist automatically, sliding around to the curve of her spine as she settles atop him, her knees on either side of his hips, her chest against his, her mouth brushing over his wonderful smiling mouth. "I've been listening," she repeats, not at all sorry for the wine she knows is on her breath, not at all hesitant as she cups that strong jaw in her hands, encouraging his lips to part just enough for her tongue to slip between them. "But," she adds eventually, nipping his full lower lip as she draws back just enough to speak, "I can't say I've heard a word."

Fenris laughs, low and rumbling, and she grins at the eager stroke of his hands down her back. "Then allow me to repeat myself," he murmurs, voice dropping delightfully on the last word, and proceeds to put his clever tongue to a much more satisfying use than her cousin's letters.