they'll rip you apart, i swear that they will.

[vengeant]

[ by the time the shadows have lengthened across the ground outside the double doors, hanging open on their hinges from the last grateful family to leave, the clinic has all but been emptied out. it's a strange sight, only tempered by the image of people huddled in ragged clothes not far outside the dooryard. if darktown ever stopped harboring masses of refugees, or smelling of mildew and effluent, he'd have to — well, pick up and move shop elsewhere. it would be quieter, but no-one needs a clinic where there are no people.

anders doesn't nudge the doors shut when he walks back from leaning out of them. the lanterns are enough to write by, but the cast of the sunlight across the bare floors could almost make him believe that there isn't miles of rock situated threateningly above his head. maybe if he squints.

he can't forget where he is, or what it is he's doing. it's a stake stuck in the soft earth inside of him, in the heart of him. the heart is just another part of the body. physically, he knows what he is, who this flesh and blood and bone belong to. the rest, he's not so certain. but they share a common goal, one they might — must — achieve. a basin of lukewarm water is resting on the floor beside anders' desk. he kneels to heat it with his fingertips just breaking the surface, and scrubs his hands clean after with a stiff cloth. he leaves the cloth to dry over the rim and wipes his face with his damp, pink hands, rough stubble scraping his palms, before he pats them dry against his trousers. a message, an idea, can't be destroyed as easily as a body. nor can a spirit. but they've reconciled their differences.

tucked in the back is a clean cot, and he eyes it after he draws himself up from the floor, but somehow the chair tucked under the desk with its hard wooden back ends up presenting itself as the more inviting choice. so he sits, bent forward, and doesn't write, thumbing the pages of an unfinished manifesto, plucking at the feathered end of a worn, ink-stained quill. ]

Comments

[havik]

[ hawke huffs a soft laugh against anders's throat where his skin is wet beneath his mouth. it's hard to imagine that they were having such a fraught conversation only minutes ago. he'd give anything to be able to make anders secure in his place in the world. he knows that thedas itself hasn't done much to make anders feel like he belongs. and it's not that he's helpless. it'shis own choices as much as anything else that have led him to where he is today.

hawke can't say that he would've done anything different in his place. he doesn't have the experience of most mages. it took coming to kirkwall to realize how sheltered he's really been, all those years. how much their father really did for them.

he's managed to undo all that work in a matter of years. him together with kirkwall. hawke likes to think of it as a joint effort.

but he has anders now. here with him. hawke fought for that and he's not about to let anything make him change his mind. ]

I'm not sure I make such a stellar example.

[ it bothers him, a little. that he can't be conventional, that he isn't as cut out maybe for domestic life as what anders deserves. but they're both fairly off-beat. hawke was attracted to the strangeness in anders, the ways in which he already failed to conform to normal society. they both feel most comfortable on the fringes of things. hawke's not sure he'd be able to live with anyone else. when he thinks about the people he's surrounded himself with over the years... well, it's self evident, isn't it?

he is far from a normal man.

but he jolts just like any other when anders pushes their hips together, making him squeeze anders's knee between his thick thighs. ]

I think there's less chance of the bed collapsing, this way.

[vengeant]

You won't hear that from me.

[ hawke makes as fine as an example as he's ever known. granted, he hasn't known many. he's seen families torn apart, children taken from their parents, lovers left broken, brothers and sisters growing without knowing they ever had siblings until some sad story makes its way home. he could have a brother or sister he doesn't know about somewhere in thedas. it's an odd thing to confront, but it's not something he hasn't considered. he was young when he was taken, both of his parents still living. although it wouldn't be a shock if they'd given up after the disappointment of having a mage for a child.

when he was first brought to ferelden, he used to pray for repentance. he asked for forgiveness from the maker knelt before blank-faced statues in candlelit rooms, surrounded by chantry brothers and sisters. now who does he ask forgiveness from? their god is gone. they only have other people to depend upon.

hawke has told him over and over that he has his support. even if he hasn't always said it, he's shown it. he's learned how to communicate both in contact and in gesture so reverent it could be devout.

what they're doing right now is both, to anders.

anders nudges upward firmly before lifting both of his hands and sliding them down the length of hawke's back. his hands find purchase around his thighs to spread them apart so he can move again, so his cock is hot and heavy resting against the soft crease of his hip running up from his thigh. hawke's duvet is soft against his back; the contrast isn't lost on him. it's going to stick when he starts to sweat. he aims a bite at hawke's ear and misses, grazing his teeth against thin cartilage instead. ]

That just means you don't have to be gentle.

Would you fuck me?