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wildercrow · 2 years

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Happy Friday!! For your smutisfaction, how about something involving fingertips brushing against the inner thighs in public places 😉😎 happy writing!!

HEYYY I finally managed to keep a smut prompt under 1k words! First time that's ever happened! Here, have Isabela and Fenris having a good time in an alleyway~

For @dadrunkwriting

~*~*~

Rating: Explicit Characters: Isabela, Fenris Relationships: FWB Isabela/Fenris Genre: Smut Word Count: 772 Content Warnings: Explicit sex (which is somewhat rough and in a semi-public location), Strong language AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36731866

~*~*~

Isabela isn’t expecting the brush of calloused fingertips across her inner thigh. Not out in the open when Fenris is the only one within arm’s reach. They’ve talked about this – that she likes to be teased in public like this. That it’s okay for him to do things like this. But he’s always been shy about it, so she hasn’t pushed the matter.

But now his hand is covertly (or at least, he seems to think it’s covert) tucked under the hem of her tunic, rough fingers teasing at sensitive skin. Pressing on still-tender bruises from where he bit her the other night. He’s looking back at her with a slightly feral smirk.

Her body’s reaction is immediate. Slick pools in her smallclothes and she has to bite back a moan.

“Holy fuck, Fenris,” she whispers, “what’s gotten into you, today? Not that I’m complaining.”

“Just wondering if you wanted to step away to the alleyway for a moment before we go our separate ways for the evening,” he rumbles.

She can’t think of any reason not to. Mo and Merrill already split off to head home, and the alleys are so much cleaner (and at least marginally less hazardous) here in Hightown. So she nods and returns his mischievous grin, plucks his hand from between her legs with an affectionate squeeze, and leads her friend to the nearest alley.

As soon as they’re in the semi-privacy of the alleyway, Fenris pins her to the wall and reaches between her legs again, fingering her through her now damp smallclothes. Up close, she can tell the telltale signs of anxiety just below the surface of his confident demeanor. He’s shaking just the tiniest bit, and his breathing is quick and shallow. She suspects he’s been planning this for days, rehearsing it in his head over and over before attempting it for real. She was the same way when she first started trying this kind of thing with Zevran many years before.

“Look at you, buttons! Trying new things all of your own accord,” she praises. “I like when you get all feral like this.”

His muscles relax a bit. “This is alright?” he checks, just to be sure.

“More than alright,” she confirms.

“Aright,” he says, then presses her a little harder against the wall and cups his hand between her legs, pressing the side of his head against hers as she grinds into his palm. Then, once she’s wet enough that she’s sure slick has oozed through the fabric and onto his hand, he pushes her smallclothes out of the way and pulls as much slick as he can up over her clit before plunging two fingers into her, hooking them towards himself, and starts fucking her with them.

She bites her lip to keep quiet and grinds against the heal of his hand. After a while, she feels a familiar pressure building deep inside her as she nears her climax. “You okay with a bit of a mess?” she asks in a strained voice.

“I am,” he grunts. “Are you? You have a longer walk home.”

“Can I stop by your place to get cleaned up?” she asks breathlessly.

“Of course,” he confirms.

“Then yes, go for it.”

He lets out a deep chuckle and works to regain his rhythm after the distraction. Soon, pressure is building inside her again and she can feel herself getting close. She focuses on the feeling of her friend’s fingers inside her, forcing herself to take deep, even breaths. She bears down just as her vision starts to blur at the edges, and before she knows it her whole body tenses as fire fills her gut and, finally, a small gush of liquid spurts onto Fenris’ hand, trickling through his fingers and onto the ground below.

She melts against him as soon as she’s done. “Fuck. Wow. That was nice. Very unexpected and very nice. You want anything, buttons?”

Fenris just chuckles as he slowly extracts his fingers from her, “No. There’s no way I could stay hard with all these people nearby. I’ve had my fun.”

“Well then,” she says, straightening her posture and attempting to put her clothes back in some semblance of order, “how about we head back to your place so I can get cleaned up and grab some dry smallclothes? I also wouldn’t be opposed to snacks and a round or two of Wicked Grace before I head home, if you’re interested. Since I’m in the area anyways.”

“That sounds like a fine way to spend the evening,” he says, licking the mess from his hand with a satisfied smirk.

#isabela #fenris #fenbela #lemon #da drunk writing circle #nuri writes

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solasan · 4 years

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🌾 for gwyddien !!!!! bc im a sucker for hawke/varric content

🌾 describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them

There are parts of Hawke that don’t make it into The Tale of the Champion. Now, don’t go slinging slander his way, alright; he has his reasons. Turns out that committing Gwyddien Hawke to page? Not nearly as easy as it sounds.

He goes through six drafts before they get anywhere near publishing. His editor’s tearing her hair out by the end; there’s a couple weeks where Varric’s fielding reports about her considering putting a bounty on his head for his crimes, which is a bit of an overreaction, sure, but hey, he gets it.

It’s the ending he’s struggling with. Everything else — all the laughs, the glory, the valiant hero planting her foot on the Arishok’s head with a toothy grin and then immediately eating shit as her legs give out — is covered. Everything else is finished. The ink’s dry, the pages are dog-eared and annotated and finally settled on. But the ending’s got him stuck.

The last he heard, she was somewhere near Rivain. Apparently, it’s hot as balls there. I mean it, Varric, hot as balls, big and sweaty and hairy as a mabari’s backside, I’m dying out here. Isabela’s a tyrant, too. She’s got absolutely no sympathy. What does an apostate have to do around here for a little bloody sympathy?

Her letter’s still out on his desk. He didn’t recite that. Andraste’s ass, who do you think he is? A romantic?

He heaves a sigh, turning back to his draft and reading over what he’s written.

Hawke laughed, her mouth red as an open wound, teeth flashing like knives in the sun. Her neck was long and pale in the brief glance of it he got as she threw her head back, and when she met his eyes again, hers were dancing. “Don’t tell me you’ll miss me. Oh, you’ll miss me, won’t you? Come on, tell me you’ll miss me, or my heart won’t go on.”

“Of course he’ll miss you, poppet. Who wouldn’t, with a backside like that?” Isabela slapped the backside in question lightly on her way past, heading for the ship with one last jeer tossed over her shoulder: “but make sure you get that backside moving, won’t you, or you might just lose it.”

“Lose it,” Hawke repeated, blinking rapidly like something monumental had just occurred to her. “Do you think the templars are hunting down my arse? Oh Maker, Isabela, they can’t have my arse. Think of all they could do with it. They could end wars, start them— that’s too much power for any one person to have.”

Somehow, Hawke managed having it herself just fine.

She turned back to her fine dwarven companion with a dramatic sigh, eyes big and green as emeralds in a particularly petty noblewoman’s necklace. There was still a stripe of blood slicked across her nose, and the right side of her face was beginning to swell into a bruise, but her chin was raised high and her jaunty little grin refused to disappear. The sun was just beginning to set at her back, the last dying rays of day caught up in her black hair and trapped there, and when she shifted a leg, popping out a hip and placing a hand on it, the shadow she cast was the biggest one in all the Free Marches.

“You’ve gotta move, Hawke,” the dwarf said, because it was true, even if she didn’t want to admit it.

“Not until you tell me that you’ll miss me,” she parried, stepping forward with an imperious look that might’ve worked, if it wasn’t for the shameless, half-feral smile still cutting across her mouth. She was very tall, he realised. He’d known, but it was a whole other thing, having all that height dropped over you, her long arms wound around his neck, his face pressed just below her breasts.

She smelled of blood and sweat. She smelled of something floral but sharp, a little earthy, and he’d be able to focus on it a lot more if he wasn’t suddenly faced with a whole lot of Hawke-cleavage.

He scowls, dragging a hand through his hair and tugging loose his hairtie. Screw it. It’ll keep. He needs a drink, and— and he needs to think.

Endings are always the shittiest part of the job.

#thank u tay for my life #lavellane #answered #im holding my head in my hands in fear over how ive written varric but what can u do #ch: gwyddien hawke #my writing #this is so long how did this happen

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