bakerstreet | Massage Meme

Massage Meme

Massage Meme

Everyone could use a good massage now and again right? Well it's time to let you characters lay back and relax-- or maybe treat someone else to a little skin therapy. ;) Break out the oils and scented candles, it's time for a good rub down.

How to play:
❧ POST with your character (list their name & canon in the subject if you please)
❧ Others can reply giving the massage or recieving it.
❧ Use RNG to pick from the numbers below, or pick your numbers, or make something up!
❧ Have fun!

Type

001. Shoulder and Neck - the basic of the basic. Perhaps a strained shoulder, been sitting too long at their desk. Or maybe something even more strenuous. However, it's time to work out all those accumulated kinks.

002. Foot - It's time to give those yapping dogs a rest and treat them to a little TLC.

003. Hand - Hey don't forget about the hands, overworked constantly they could use a bit of a break.

004. Arm - Time to loosen up a bit and rub out those arm muscles.

005. Leg - Perhaps you're looking for something a bit more specific and intimate. Calve massage? Thigh? It's your choice.

006. Back - Considered a coup de grace of massage, the back massage, when done right, can bring extreme relief to those who receive it.

007. Scalp - Wanna feel those tingles down your spine? Maybe a little oil to help add health to the hair?

008. Full Body - Maybe it’s not just a specific area you want treated, but your entire body.

009. Wild Card - Anyway you want it. Mix and match, maybe I forgot something you want.

Relationship

001. Friend - getting a massage from a friend can be a wonderful bonding experience. And exacerbate already existing tensions ;D

002. Lover - Whether a show of care or a prelude to something more intimate, a massage from a lover is a very welcome thing.

003. Service - Hey some of us aren't so lucky. We gotta pay for this service.

004. Wild card - Whatever you want. However you want.

Credits shall be given to

lone_defender on LJ. Here's the original post

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Normally, Fenris had no problems staying in the old mansion when the weather was bad. The building had other rooms, ones without holes in the ceiling, and really, there were worse places to be. He'd been in a few over the years. But recently, he's been allowing himself to be convinced elsewhere on days the fickle coastal weather decides to be particularly nasty. So when the rain gets cold and the wind picks up and it threatens to turn the whole of his living area into one large puddle, he finds himself at the Hawke estate, warm and fed, armor and weapons set aside for the luxury of being somewhere safe, with someone he trusts.]

[The evening had ended them in Hawke's room, a shared bottle of wine between them, and with Fenris perched on the edge of his bed, one leg folded under the other, and Hawke seated on the floor below him. Dark, tattooed fingers dig into thick muscles that have always been less bookish mage and more country commoner, strong and, apparently, woefully knotted.]

Do you stretch? At all? [A grumbled complaint, borne from the effort he's having to put into even making headway on what might as well be a rock wedged between Hawke's neck and shoulder.]

[ He's always enjoyed the darker side of Kirkwall's steady, sometimes too warm climate. There's, of course, the likeness to Lothering and its nipper weather, all of which bring about fond, reminiscent memories of happier times, but as of late, Hawke's found a certain joy to the cluster of dark clouds and the bite of low temperatures. He likes to think he doesn't need the help, however, he has to admit it's less... time consuming to coax Fenris into his estate, his room, his bed if there's the clatter of rain acting as a backdrop to his words. Even if they have to trudge around in mud and watered down filth for the entirety of the day beforehand, as long as Fenris comes home with him, then Hawke is happier for it; hey, considering he's waited however many years for the elf to come around, he'll take any advantage he can get.

Somehow, his luck is a bit better on this particular evening however, and he's ended up on the floor. Granted, that's normally not a good place to be, but bare from the waist up and sitting there on the rug, legs stretched out before him, as body hunches over his lap to present the whole of his back to dexterous fingers...? Yes, this is quite lucky. Or will be, once Fenris works out the majority of those knots.

The play of fingertips is nice, very nice, over his shoulder blades, his spine and the base of his neck, each push and roll teasing his senses until he has trouble focusing his eyes on the slim line of the bottle resting between his hands and his thighs... but every so often, Fenris will find a damn, blasted knot and see the need to destroy it. Unsurprisingly, tension, tight muscle being worked and worked and torn apart is not relaxing in the least. He can only set his jaw and narrow his eyes as he clutches tighter at the bottle, strangling the neck in some useless attempt of transferring his discomfort; even so, he has his humor and he steadies his voice for a flippant-- ] Occasionally. [ He bows his head and smiles as he squirms, barely, just to make it more difficult for the other to keep attacking that pressure point. ] But I've found my body doesn't bend... or reach... or move very far. It rather enjoys doing nothing. [ Like right now; sitting here, letting those pretty, elven fingers dig and prod for him... he doesn't see much need in stretching when he has Fenris to take care of him. ]

[By contrast, all of Fenris' life before running away had been spent in the warmer northern climates and coming south had been an exercise in acclimatization. And still he knew Kirkwall had nothing on the Fereldan weather. He's since stopped being surprised to find that most of the human residents, former or current, seemed to be built like boulders.]

[Not that it excuses the state of Hawke's shoulders. He snorts dismissively, clearly unconvinced.] So he says. [His squirming is reduced by a strong hand on the base of his neck, the fingers of his other hand pinching that knot against the heel of his palm, trying to ease some blood flow back into the muscle.] You traipse about half of the Free Marches and all of Kirkwall, so you'll pardon me if I find your excuse to be... lacking. [There's a faint smile in his tone, easing some of the bite in the reply.]

And I've seen you move quite spryly before. Of course, arrows tend to be involved...

[He's not trying to lecture him; there's just something comfortable about the banter, the back and forth he so rarely gets with others in the city. He could count on one hand the number of other people he knew who he could hold a decent conversation with and for the most part that doesn't bother him. It's nice with Hawke, though.]

[ All right. Admittedly, he is quite active; there's no getting around that. And for whatever reason, hearing Fenris take the opening to pick apart his shallow excuse and tell him without outright saying it, that he's a blighted liar, has his lips tugging hard on a grin. Briefly anyway. The upwelling of amusement is squashed a moment later with the continued pinch and he exhales, shaky and heavy, to compensate for the need to squirm. Lungs empty, he settles in for the burn, stalls and then sucks in another breath, turning his head, just enough, to get a side glance of Fenris' diligence. There's another beat and he flicks his gaze higher to catch sight of the elf's face; a smile blooms and just like that, he jerks his head forward again. No more squirming, no more peeking; he can sit here and be good.

But. What had he been saying? Something about arrows? Wrinkling his nose, Hawke taps his fingers against the wine bottle and then squeezes, adopting a rhythmic pulse to match the the rub of that palm. ] That's hardly the same. Dodging arrows doesn't require much skill. [ He would imagine, if he must, that his dodging is more akin to flailing. There isn't much grace in tucking, arching, sometimes even jumping into a roll to get out of the way of a pointy-tipped barrage.

Nice to hear Fenris enjoys watching his so called agility in avoiding possible death, though.

It's right around this point, that the coiled muscle begins to loosen, and seduced by the building play of pain and pleasure, Hawke momentarily loses sight of the punchline to his joke. However, blinking lazily down at his bare feet, or more specifically, the way his toes curl into themselves, a hint of recognition weaves back into his mind. Abruptly, he breaks away and leans over himself as he outstretches one hand. ] But touching my toes? It cannot be done. [ His fingers make empty, grasping motions as though to punctuate a silent see? for the quite obvious inches between his hand and foot. He can't stretch. His body isn't meant to bend. Satisfied, Fenris? ]

[He catches that sneaky little glance and it's absolutely impossible to stop the little grin that answers his smile, such a small, private moment in the middle of an already private evening. He has no idea how Hawke manages it.]

[He eases off the hard pinch when he can feel the muscle start to give a little more than before, an incredulous 'mm-hm' his only reply to Hawke's defense. He could continue to tease him, but for the moment, his attention is focused more on his work, fingers moving up closer to his neck, feeling for any tightness with the pad of his thumb. Which is about when Hawke yanks himself away and there's an irritated moment where Fenris' hands are empty and he could probably go back to grumbling.]

[But he doesn't. Instead, he just laughs, a short, deep chuckle. Because the ridiculousness of Hawke trying to touch his toes is worth more than having his work interrupted.]

That just means you're turning into a fat nobleman. [He nudges the bare expanse of his back gently with his knuckles.] Move forward for me.

[ There it is. The laugh. The accumulation of all his hard, nonsensical work. He loosens the reach of his stretch and smiles to himself, basking in the sound for all its worth, because as soon as it's over, they'll be back to square one in their routine of absurdity. It's a merciless job, to keep the elf smiling, but Hawke doesn't mind playing the fool…

… At least, until he calls him fat.

He scoffs and then lets it fade into a chuckle as he follows the nudge of those hands. Grasping the wine bottle and placing it to the side, he presses his hands to the floor to half lift, half scoot his weight forward; he can't say exactly what Fenris is intent on doing, but he supposes it's in his best interest to listen, even though it puts him further from the other's perch.

Now, about square one-- ] I suspected as much, but I didn't want to believe it. [ He flops down and keeps his palms pressed, stretching his legs out once more. He may have put on a few extra pounds here and there – blast Orana and her baked goods – but quite obviously, he isn't anywhere near becoming that. At least not yet. Still, it's a perfect way to throw everything back on Fenris and maybe drag one of those sultry compliments out of him. ] … Do you still see me attractive, despite the… [ He wavers on amusement and then shakes his head, spitting out what he hopes is a pathetic-- ] … grotesque, misuse of my body?

[He'd intended it as a harmless jab- anyone with eyes could see that it wasn't true. Although Fenris couldn't say that fine food and a comfortable house had left the man untouched either. He'd earned it, though. For all that he had done, he deserved a little softness and Fenris was content enough to let him have it with only the occasion needling. This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? The comfort?]

[When he scoots forward as instructed, Fenris unfolds himself from the edge of the bed and slides down into the space Hawke has vacated, fitting himself easily between his back and the bed, legs tucked neatly under him. His hands are immediately on Hawke's back, palms flat, a simple touch to let him know where he was.]

[He doesn't answer right away, leaving him hanging on that question while his hands move, drifting down his back until he can press his thumbs lightly into the muscle on either side of his spine. He drags them up slowly, following the strong line of his back and abandoning the force he'd been using earlier for a pressure that's closer to a caress than anything else.]

The only grotesquery here is your fishing for compliments. [But he leans in and presses his lips to the back of his neck anyway, because they both know it's all just toothless words they use to circle each other.] Which I shall pay you anyway because despite your inability to reach your toes, you are still a man capable of turning even the most... jaded eye.

[He tilts his head then, to murmur against his ear, his voice colored with more amusement than usual.] Although I suggest you leave the 'misuse' of your body to me.

[Someone should probably limit his exposure to Isabela for a while.]

[ Hands and lips tempt him into a foggy in-between of feeling, and he's content to curl his back with the press of thumbs and hum along to that hard-won compliment, but then there's a very slight shift in their lazy pace and... – no no. Exposure to Isabela is grand and Hawke fully endorses it as long as he continues to be the one reaping its benefits. Wetting his bottom lip, he draws it in and bites gently, rolling it between his teeth as he focuses on keeping his breath steady. Hawke has always been... enthusiastic for Fenris' affections and over the years, he's fallen for every hook, line and sinker of the elf's occasional propositions; he's learned, but not much, so he's already itching to turn around into those hands and encourage the misuse, but...

Maybe he can try being coy for once. Coy by his standards at least. Which, honestly, doesn't change much of anything. ] Oh. [ He smiles and hunches forward, ducking his head just so to escape the teasing puff of breath against his ear. ] Here I was planning on adding a run up Sundermount each morning, but if you want to help me sweat off these extra pounds...

[ Lifting a hand, he blindly reaches behind to find a leather clad thigh and sensually – more so clumsily – he strokes his fingers down the length, only to end at the hard-press of his knee. Fingers find purchase and pinch playfully as he tilts his head to glance and grin at Fenris. ] But consider yourself warned. It's a big commitment. [ His voice edges on seriousness, but his mouth is stubbornly set on that grin, so he inevitably faces forward once more. Drawing his hand from the behind him, he cups his chin instead and rubs thoughtfully at that strong, bristled jaw. ] I'll require the exercise once a day. [ And why quit when he's ahead? ] Maybe even twice.

[Time and familiarity (and certain friends) have made him bolder with his feelings when it came to Hawke, but always in private. Not that he thinks Hawke minds; he's always been eagerly receptive but not so much that it's overwhelming, which is more encouragement than he perhaps realizes.]

[His hands reach the top of Hawke's spine and flatten out against his shoulder blades, another kiss pressed against the space between his neck and shoulder than he had so recently been working on as he keeps talking and Fenris really only half listens. The fingers trailing over his thigh get a low hum that he muffles against Hawke's skin, muscles tensing under the contact. And when he glances back at him, he meets his gaze from across his shoulder, eyebrows rising in a clear 'is it now' response to the (intentional or not) innuendo.]

[But he smiles anyway, drawing back and lowering his head a little to see where he's putting his hands as he moves the back down to the bottom of his spine.] I hope you don't expect me to feed and water you as well. [He repeats that first drag of his thumbs, his lips returning to the back of his neck.]

Edited (I hit post and then changed my mind. blaugh. sorry. :|) 2012-12-11 03:02 (UTC)

[ Fenris is making fun of him, and Hawke knows, he knows even if he nods along and urges him, Fenris will never coddle him to that extent, but even so, he's half-tempted to, well, tempt. Feeding is amusing enough on its own, but watering...? Could he twist that enough to make it equivalent to helping him bathe?

He softens on the potential joke and smiles around a quiet, content sound caught in the back of this throat; in the end, he strays from the expectant and keeps with simple. ] I think I can manage. [ He can feed himself quite well, thank you; too well, apparently, hence the reason they're on this tangent to begin with. But even as he knocks down one joke, only to have a new one quickly replace it, he keeps his humor at bay, choosing instead to let Fenris' touch set the tone. He's already distracted himself enough from this with his faulty punchlines and for now, he sighs to release some more of the tension, bowing his head a little more as his lashes flutter low over his eyes.

There's something very sweet, indulgent, to Fenris' attention, and like any other moment as of late, Hawke has to thank the Maker that they've somehow managed to finally get it right. Tingling and thrumming with little thrills, his skin feels warm, his body useless, under the slow trail of those hands and now with his tongue stubbornly tied from rambling off needless jokes, he puts it to better use with a sigh. A hum. And a punctuated moan. Yes, no feeding or watering required; Fenris only needs to spoil him like this more often. ]

[That he doesn't keep pushing is something of a surprise. Far be it from Hawke to let such an opening pass him by, but it's probably for the best. They didn't need to get carried away with it and the Maker only knew that Hawke's humor could go to some strange places sometimes. Fenris much prefers the moment like this, unspoiled and uninterrupted.]

[He slides his hands outward, over the flat of Hawke's shoulder blades, and rolls his thumbs along the muscles under the edge of the bone once, twice. The third time, he continues the motion up over the tops of his shoulders, just touching now, drinking in each sigh and soft noise, breath ghosting over the nape of his neck. He follows the curve and dip of strong muscle down to his biceps, fingers kneading in as he shifts in closer, enough to slide his knees around on either side of Hawke's thighs and brush up against his back.]

[He slips his hands under Hawke's arms then, encircling him with his own, palms flat and fingers splayed against his chest. It's something he's still working on learning and being comfortable with: this gentleness. For as long as he's known, Fenris' hands had been for gripping weapons or crushing flesh. Not this. There was nothing tender in his life until this- not anything that he could remember anyway. A touch meant control, not comfort; obedience instead of affection. And for all that he knew how to force a knot out of a muscle, never before had it come tinted with passion.]

[Rising up on his knees by a fraction, he cranes his head and nudges under the corner of Hawke's jaw, mouthing the soft skin there. It's been a long, hard road coming to this point together, but now that they've made it, Fenris finds himself at last willing to stay.]

[ On rare occasion, Hawke can appreciate the lull between conversation for the extension of nothing more than twin puffs of breath and the faint, inconsistent sounds of their surroundings, say for example, the pop of burning wood in the fireplace. It's a quirk, his habitual need to talk, to joke; there's a whole mess of reasons, of course, from his personality to a shallow defense mechanism, but when it comes down to it, it has a great deal to do with control. He feels more in control of a situation if he's busy running circles around someone else with his oddball humor and leading them here and there with tangents that usually serve no other purpose than to confuse. He likes it. He likes thinking he can fix anything if he keeps on talking, but there's nothing to fix here anymore, is there? He's not in control and that's okay; Fenris can touch and take and coddle and whatever else he wants, and Hawke is more than happy to let him lead. So he does.

Lips sealed shut, Hawke tips his head to the nudge and inhales deeper, expanding his chest to press further into the splay of fingers. And for a time, he's content to hang there, propped up and held, as lips tease his jaw, but two breaths in, three... he draws his hand up to find the flat press of Fenris'. Lazily staring off to the side at the flicker of firelight, Hawke trails the tips of his fingers over the elf's to trace a nail, round a shape and follow on the edge of a lyrium line to the knuckle. He strokes idly, merely biding his time as his other hand inches around and bends to grasp for a thigh, no, up further for a hip. He flexes his grip for a meaningful squeeze and then he's leaning more into the hard-press of Fenris' chest against his back, all the while pulling, angling, that hip closer, as though to somehow fit them together more than they already are.

Even now, there's something habit has him yearning to say, but he doesn't want to, out of fear that it'll nudge something out of line and this slow, burning attraction will fizzle out. Instead, he offers another sigh and releases his hip in favor of questing higher. He threads his fingers through Fenris' hair, and lightly scratches at his scalp, as his thumb presses against the shape of a pointed ear; no pushing or pulling this time, just the encouraging weight of his hand holding on. ]

[It might be some kind of record, as the quiet stretches on and Fenris can't help but wonder just how long Hawke will be able to take it. Whether he would finally give in or let it keep going. For however long that lasts, he's content to bask in it, letting his other senses have their fill of Hawke when it's usually his voice that reigns over all else.]

[His fingers bend up, drawn by Hawke's and curling loosely around his, threading together where he can as he shifts closer at the bidding of his other hand, the tug and squeeze on his hip understood. It presses him flush against his back, the warmth of his bare skin seeping easily through the leather and linen of his clothes. He leans in counterpoint, cradling the mage's larger frame against the curve of his own and lazily marveling not for the fist time at how they've somehow manged to make all their awkward edges fit so well against each other.]

[He hums with the feeling of fingers sliding through his hair, the pressure against the edge of his ear sending a shiver down his back. He tilts his head in response--or maybe retaliation--and nips at his earlobe, a careful scrape of teeth before he closes his lips around it, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. Too often it's Hawke slipping his way under Fenris' defenses and warming his blood, but there's something.. satisfying about a moment like this, where it can be his turn for once.]

[ It's more the shock of it than any actual pain, and Hawke gives into it, stuttering his breath out on a near silent gasp, that almost immediately stretches into a chuckle. Enduring the play of teeth and lips, he stays as he is and smiles along; fingers curl and enclose though, sliding higher to find the point of that elongated ear. Pinching at the tip, he rolls gently for a silent warning – no biting, no teeth – that, honestly, holds no genuine meaning behind it, other than a need to meet that retaliation with his own.

The fingers at his chest squeeze in turn and he indulges in the tangle of their hands, finding the loose clasp more significant in that moment than it probably is. But he's happy. Relaxed, despite all those stubborn knots still hidden away beneath his skin. He could stay like this for awhile, maybe even let an hour roll by or until the heavy complacency of his worked muscles tempts him to close his eyes and let Fenris' gentle attentions loll him to sleep... but Fenris would certainly find offense in him falling asleep on him, wouldn't he? Hawke muffles a quiet, amused sound at the very idea of it and brushes it off, instead choosing to go in another direction.

After all, he's played along long enough now, right? The silence has been fun, but— ] Fenris... [ The smile is quite plainly in his voice, as well as a thick, slur to the syllables; content as he is, his usual spunk isn't as potent, at least in the beginnings of him regaining his humor, but he compromises that with a squirm and a chuckle. ] Did you know... there is a large, comfortable bed behind us? [ It's nowhere near as funny as he thinks it is, but the floor is hard and vaguely chilly despite the steady fire; he isn't the only one who thinks crawling under the covers and letting Fenris finish massaging the rest of his body there is a good idea, is he? ]

Edited (..... Don't say anything.) 2012-12-13 03:41 (UTC)

[The pinch of his ear has him releasing Hawke's almost immediately, a short, clipped noise in the back of his throat, something that might have been a warning of his own if he didn't trust that it was no reprimand and more than his teeth had been. But he acquiesces and draws back to rest his cheek against the back of Hawke's shoulder, where he lingers for a moment, the solid comfort of his body and the clasp of their fingers anchoring him in stillness. There's still a part of his mind that whispers of the weakness here, that tries to tell him he's a fool for wanting this, but he closes his eyes and shuts it out. He doesn't have to listen to it anymore. Hawke has taught him that.]

[He's brought back by the return of his voice, his own smile kept private at the sound of it. Ah, the sarcasm. He couldn't resist forever apparently.]

Is there? Thank you, Hawke. I must have completely missed it.

[The floor doesn't bother him in any great amount and he's loathe to move, but he supposes that the same cannot be said for Hawke. His free hand slides out from around him, palm light and flat low on his back- permission to do as he will.]

[ And now that the grip is slack and he's free to move? He wishes he hadn't said anything. A sore arse is worth the tangle of dark, designed limbs clinging tight and molding around to fit him as a second skin. But the moment is lost, and while he hesitates on the feeling of that palm lying low on his spine, he inevitably accepts his blunder and scoots away. Their fingers are still caught, however, and he doesn't get very far before shifting his weight, curling his legs and twisting around to mirror Fenris. He cocks his wrist then and stretches his fingers, pressing them in closer, tighter, to fit their palms together. It's nothing, really, sitting there on the floor, and squeezing at Fenris' hand, but he softens on a smile anyway, drinking in the sight of strong, angled features bathed in firelight.

Though, now that he's making up for that quiet lull, the moment of peace doesn't last long. ] There's a dress code. [ Has Fenris completely missed that too?

His smile stretches, the mirth written all over his face and he makes a point to trail his gaze downward, over leather and linen and stubbornly kept clasps. ] Minimal clothing allows one access to the sheets. [ And he snaps his gaze up, chuckling around a— ] They're very nice sheets. [ In case Fenris needs further incentive to strip. ]

[Did he expect Fenris to hoist him up and toss him in? There are many things he's willing to do for this man, but the line must be drawn somewhere. And unfortunately for Hawke, picking him up is well on the wrong side of it. There's a moment of confusion when he keeps their hands linked, clear in his eyes when Hawke turns to face him, that fades when he presses them together. The gesture is.. sweet, in that way he has.]

[Of course, it doesn't last for very long simply because it's Hawke and Fenris meets his humor with a facade of being wholly unimpressed with his chosen tactic and wandering eyes. The truth could not be further from it, hidden in the way he shifts under that look, unconsciously presenting himself.]

I know they are. [Alright, he can't quite stop the little flicker of a smirk there.] I trust you'll tell me, then, when I've met your requirements? Should I decide to comply, of course.

[ He doesn't buy that casual disinterest, especially with the twitch to Fenris' mouth, but this is another one of their games and of course Hawke wants to play. So he nods and untangles their fingers, mimicking along— ] Of course. [ He almost stays. He almost feels compelled to sit there and wait to see if Fenris will yield with a few, quickly unclasped hooks, but instead, he relents himself to climb to his feet.

Rolling his shoulders back as he straightens up, he sighs quietly at the still velvety, relaxed thrum of his muscles; pausing then for only a moment, he offers an amused quirk of a smile down at the elf before breezing by toward the head of the bed. It's important, he thinks, to give Fenris a breather, an interlude here and there, as though to perpetuate the idea that yes, he's very much in control, and while Hawke will shamelessly encourage, it's still Fenris' choice in the end whether or not they keep pushing forward.

So he doesn't say anything further or even turn expectant eyes to the edge of the bed; instead, he focuses on peeling back the heavy quilt and ruffling the neat fold of the sheets laid underneath. And after he's smoothed them back, he might just be fluffing a pillow or two, but that's more to keep his hands busy and his gaze locked than any silly need for such comfort. ]

[Oh, they could sit there and stare at each other until one of them gave in, they were both stubborn enough to do it, Fenris knows this. He almost expects it, but Hawke stands up and Fenris lets him. He doesn't make any immediate effort to follow, though. No, he's quite happy to take his time being harmlessly contrary.]

[Instead, he unfolds his legs, stretching out stiff joints, and takes up the abandoned wine bottle. Let Hawke fuss with the covers and pillows for a bit. He could be patient and Fenris knows he's watching. He takes a drink from the bottle, savoring the taste before indulging in a second one, and only then does he set it down and decide that maybe he should put himself in line with this 'dress code'.]

[Forgoing the small talk, he finally pushes himself to his feet, fingers working on the first set of clasps down the front of his tunic. He's half tempted to just crawl under those sheets without heeding Hawke at all, just to aggravate him or to prove that he still won't abide anyone telling him what he should do even if it involves stripping for his lover, but the fabric opens slowly but dutifully under his hands.]

[He shrugs it off his shoulders once it falls open, baring the lean torso underneath and long, curving lines marking it.]

[He lifts an eyebrow and looks at Hawke, a sort of guarded mirth in his eyes as he folds his tunic absently between his hands.]

Am I to keep going?

[ He's fluffed and refluffed the same pillow a few times now, enough so that the stuffing has thoroughly been worked over, but he fiddles with continuous ease, stalling for the cooperation that will surely follow soon, right? All in all, it doesn't take particularly long and while he does keep his face ducked low to watch the workings of his hands, Fenris' shape edges on his vision, and it's a temptation he can only resist for two, three... – He tilts his head at last, peeking for one discreet glance before he straightens up to face him fully.

One of these days, he's certain he'll be used to this. Not tired. Not unaffected, but put well enough together that his gaze won't immediately dip and follow the carved, curling lines down that narrow torso to the flat definition of his belly. Fenris is gorgeous and tempting and everything Hawke has ever wanted for years upon years, so he's... weak for him, really. So easily seduced with the show of bare skin, that it's close to embarrassing. They've been together for some time now, so the newness of their resumed romance should have begun to fade little by little, but he still thinks, for whatever reason, that each moment is as precious as the last. He just can't find it within himself to take any of this for granted, even though most, if not all, of his reservations of Fenris ever leaving again have been stomped out.

His gaze finds its way back up at the question and with it, Hawke lightly clears his throat, mustering up a smile, because that's always safest. ] If you'd like.

[ He pinches the edge of the sheet and thumbs it thoughtfully; as usual, he has a number of things to say. There's a joke about how soft the fabric is and how it would feel marvelous against bare legs, bare skin, bare everything. Or there's a nonsensical punchline that they're awfully warm and too many layers might result in heatstroke, so best to strip down. But in the end, he tries to adopt Fenris' aloof casualness with a promising— ] I'll take off mine, if you take off yours.

[The first time he'd bared his skin to Hawke, things had been.. clouded, muddled by too much pent up emotion struggling for an outlet and he hadn't given himself the luxury of really thinking about what he was doing. Of course it had all come crashing back down on him and somewhere in the turmoil of his head and his heart after that night, he'd felt ashamed. He hated the cruel lines carved into his skin and in a way he'd hated Hawke for not hating them, at least not in the same way he did. It hadn't been easy for him to move past that, and even now, as Hawke's gaze moves heavily over his body, he has to swallow and force the emotion down.]

[There is no shame here and Hawke's stare is not cruel or mocking.]

[It's a fight he wages quietly within himself, away from the worry of others, even Hawke, and when he speaks, Fenris can answer him with a subtle, curving smile.]

I should hope so. It's improper to be breaking your own dress code.

[He hangs his tunic over the end of the bed and and gives the laces of his leggings a loose tug, enough to loosen the fabric around his hips. He make a valiant effort to keep up that casual air Hawke was also struggling to throw back at him, but he has to admit, he rather enjoys the lack of Hawke's clothes almost as much as he does the presence of them (the leather and steel and fur of the armor he's taken to wearing recently is more than sufficiently flattering in his opinion). There's a vitality about him that he finds hard to ignore, a thickness and a roughness about his body that is very... human.]

[The leather is peeled from his legs and set to join the other half of his outfit, leaving him in his smalls--grey, so Isabela can keep guessing--and he moves up alongside Hawke, taking possession of that corner of the sheet he'd been so recently fiddling with.]

Am I allowed in now?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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Garrett Hawke | Dragon Age II | ota

hello again :3 1 - 2 (late act3 I assume) now with 95% less angst!

oh. c: hello. I STILL worry about the 5%. it will find some way to taint everything. watch :|

That 5% can go sit outside and think about what it's done. It's not allowed in here. :|

What if it sneaks back in, when we're not looking? :|

Then I will tell it to fuck right off!

woah woah. yelling at it will only make the 5% angst more. it'll become stronger.

Curse my foolishness! Do you think it would go away if it was given cookies? :<

Oho cookies. Very clever. That will surely do the trick :| Then it can be as fat as Hawke.

We can roll it right out the door!

Best. Plan ever. Btw. What number edit is that? Like the 15th?

I'm sorry. ;-; I just.. I have no excuse. It's been a whirlwind affair with the edit button recently

but my poor inbox. it can't take being caught in the middle anymore. :C

auuh I promise I'll try to nip it. I'm not normally this neurotic, I swear.

well. you've gone two tags now without editing. you're on the road to recovery. i'm so proud :c

I am sitting on my hands. I am sitting on them for EVERYTHING.

YOU BETTER BE. Infected me with your typos :|||

You have no idea how hard it was not to edit when I saw some in my post. X[

Now I feel bad for forbidding you from editing.

YEAH YOU SHOULD. I mean. I should probably just proofread better. :|

Oh. Yeah you're right. I don't feel bad anymore. :|

/Geeze/.