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

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

[ 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. ]

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[ as usual, hawke is humbled by anders's honest desperation. it makes him feel like a less worthy man for dodging around the idea of why he's here instead of confronting it outright. as usual, anders is the first to speak up, to do more than just allude to the feelings between them. he's brave. hawke's always known that about him.

he admires his convictions. anders said once that he was like a bright light standing out amidst the dark of kirkwall, but in hawke's view it's the other way around. he's the one who stands out. all jokes about his glowing aside, anders shines.

hawke hoists himself back up onto his knees, bracing his hands on either side of anders's legs, against the rickety chair beneath him. ]

You don't have to hold back.

[ that's why he's here, isn't it? whether it's admirable or not, that's why he's here. he wants to be with anders. he's drawn to him. and something about the way anders talks, coupled with the feeling of unrest in the city makes hawke feel like it's time to stop putting these things off. he thought he had more time with his mother, and that turned out to be wrong. he wouldn't be able to live with himself if the same thing happened with anders.

hawke takes his hands off the chair and reaches to touch anders's face, thumbing lightly over the scruff covering his jaw. ]

[ anders bends when hawke touches his face, rough fingers caught against rough stubble, warming pink skin. it's not a thought he's following through on, just simple, easy movement, the downward motion to make their mouths meet. from there, he knows how to make everything work, how to open his lips against hawke's and lick inside, how to turn his head when their teeth graze so it doesn't sting, how to breathe in so deeply he can hear the sound in his ears, how to keep his eyes closed and how to open them when he decides he wants to see. all he can make out is the color of hawke's skin in the now approaching twilight. his arms are wrapped tight around hawke's shoulders, drawing him up at the same time as he pushes himself, with his boots dug in the ground, to the edge of the chair.

now he's the one holding on in hope that he won't go. he wants to say it: don't go. stay the night. but his mouth is still wet, molded against hawke's, and there are still noises hot under his tongue, and he can still smell the strong scent of his soap.

his his right hand rises to hawke's face and he presses his thumb through the hair thick across his jawline, deliberately outlining, seeing with touch instead of sight. his nose is pressed to his cheek. his breath is heated passing over his skin. it's a world he would like to stay in.

eventually, something is going to have to happen. something other than this.

he only sits up enough so that they can see each other, and then dips down again, both hands on hawke's cheeks. ]

[ this, then, is what hawke's been waiting for. it's both a relief and excitement at the same time. his body doesn't know whether to tense up or sink into relief. he compensates by doing both at once and wrapping his arms around anders to hold himself steady. one of his big hands fits perfectly between anders's shoulder blades, where that slight indent would be if hawke could feel it through his feathers. it's a touch that's keeping him close instead, pulling them both together, keeping anders down where hawke can have him.

he's not very good at asking for the things he wants. it's a pathology, probably. he's better at just taking first and dealing with the consequences of it later. that's probably got something to do with how he messed up with fenris. but anders is different. they're different men.

hawke certainly is different. but being with anders makes him feel more sure of himself. he's sure, for instance, that he wants to open his mouth for anders, letting him slip his tongue past his lips and groaning around the warm, wet pressure of their mouths coming together.

hawke always suspected anders might be good at this. he hinted once or twice that he knew what he was doing in this area. he didn't leave much to the imagination, but hawke imagined a whole lot anyway. what anders could do with those hands and those hips. he likes to think about it, even if he once snapped at anders and isabela for alluding to the same thing.

anders's hands are gentle on his face. hawke would do anything to keep him that way, gentle and with him. of all their friends, despite how tumultuous he can be, anders is the softest heart. it makes hawke want to do anything he can to preserve that in him. he owes him that much.

it's selfish of him too, because as much as he loves it in anders he loves having it for himself. ]

[ waiting defines him. for all the movement in his life — the escape attempts, the sex — he's spent an overwhelming amount of time standing motionless. this is the place where that changes, and he can't deny the fact that he's changed, with this voice inside his head so like his own. they stand on an united front. who's to say who's won? they weren't trying to strike each other down. hawke is just trying to hold him up; whatever he wanted, whatever he ached for, it's always been that.

hawke is holding him, a heavy hand between his shoulders urging him closer, to curl around his body, to be bent out of shape with his thighs spread and his legs folded, boots scuffing up dust when he shifts to make himself more accessible. this is what they're giving themselves, the minutes outside of the minutes, these things they shouldn't have. not because this has anything to do with deserving, but because he has so little of himself left to give. a short life, either way. the carcass of who he used to be.

it's not very appealing.

it's not much of anything.

when anders breaks away he labors for breath, chest rising and falling, pushing against hawke's, the closed collar of his coat caught against the underside of his bearded jaw. he kisses his chin, then kisses his lips for the third time, eyes creased shut, lines deep between his eyebrows, trying to retain this the way he does when he's putting a sentence to memory that he'll later write into his book. i must remember, those are the words he repeats to himself, and only half the time does anything see the page in the same form it took in his mind's eye.

it's a sigh when he breathes out between their parted mouths. ]

I wish this never had to end.

[ there's a tiny smile on hawke's face. it found its way there of its own regard, an automatic reaction to the physical response he's coaxed out of anders. when he speaks, hawke can feel the warmth of his breath on his face, mouth wet where anders was kissing him, where anders keeps returning, gentle and insistent. he doesn't know why he didn't do this ages ago, but hawke's trying not to dwell on the past any longer. that's why he's here, isn't it? he has a whole manor filled with the past to dwell on. he has fenris, in his own hightown mansion, if he wants to look behind him instead of ahead.

he wants to look ahead, for once. he wants a future, and he wants anders to know he's welcome there with hawke, if he chose to be there. it's probably wrong of him to offer himself up as incentive, but hawke's never bound himself by typical social customs.

he licks his lips, darting in to bite at anders's lower one, giving it a bit of a tug. ]

Well, I don't know about never. The population of Darktown might have something to say about that. And... I'd get hungry.

[ he grins, and gives anders a squeeze from where he's kneeling in the dirt. he should probably get up if he doesn't want to be feeling that hours later, but there's the little matter of where to go. he has some ideas, but anders's clinic is just that. it's not exactly made for fooling around. hawke steadies his hand on anders's back, curling his fingers to stroke the glossy black feathers under his knuckles. ]

I'm not going anywhere.

[ anders makes a sound when hawke sinks his teeth into his lower lip that's suspended halfway between an inhale and whimper, something small and plaintive, as wanting as he is on a good day. on a bad day he's insatiable. on a bad day he's suspended in his own sounds, his own breaths, with nothing to break them. how he's beaten his self-control into shape is a mystery to him. it's a secret kept even from himself. maybe it has to do with justice, the things that he wants as opposed to his own desires. there's no way for him to dissect the two. recently it's been worse; he can't tell them apart, he can't distinguish justice from vengeance. their outlines overlap, and to erase one is to erase both.

when anders smiles, it's tempered with undeniable sadness. ]

Let them say what they want.

[ hawke squeezes him close and he continues touching his face, thumbing where his bare cheeks grow rough and his dark hair thickens and lengthens, then up over the defined rise of his smooth cheekbones, still setting it to memory like it's something to be written down. he doesn't keep memoirs the way hawke does. all of his paper goes to one cause; he doesn't have the silvers for anything personal. if he asks, the people at the shop upstairs might find him a quill that's not overly used, but it doesn't set with him well to take advantage of their kindness when they have so little of their own.

his eyes fall to hawke's mouth, glossy-slick. he blinks wearily, contemplating another kiss, but the truth wins out.

his eyes fix somewhere over hawke's shoulder before they flutter back to meet his gaze, his own mouth bent downwards. ]

You're not. I can't make such promises.

[ hawke raises his eyebrows, as if inviting anders to share further. he knows he won't if he doesn't want to, and hawke would never force him, but it's out there. he's been aware of anders's situation practically since their first meeting. he knows what varric thinks about anders's trajectory in life, too. people have noticed. he would be naive to assume that someone in anders's position won't be in any danger in kirkwall.

but the balance has been off, of late. kirkwall's descent has everything and everyone on edge, and no one so much as anders. he doesn't even want to ask about how it's been wearing on justice.

he leans in to kiss anders's cheek, lingering there light and gentle with the softness of his lips against the rough growth of anders's stubble. he lets go of his shoulders and drops his hands to anders's knees, giving them a squeeze. ]

Going on a trip without me?

[ there's a lightness to his tone that he doesn't feel. he can't lose anders too, but it feels wrong to tell him that, in the wake of everything else. if he has to lose anders then he'll deal with that in his own time too. he can't ask anyone to stick around just because he can't stand to lose more people. he can't. but he'd figure it out if he had to. ]

Personally, I recommend Nevarra. Who knows how much longer we'll have until they hunt all the dragons into extinction?

[ the tenderness hawke shows him drives the stake deeper — what he did was the right thing. what he did was the only thing he could have done. they can't continue this way. even hawke's position won't protect him forever, and outside the city? it's more than a risk. he's high-profile. and that's besides the root at the bottom of the thing, the real truth, that they shouldn't have to hide. that they should be allowed to make their own way without the bloody chantry holding a sword over their throats from the moment they're born. everything about the way they live has to do with bending under that.

anders shuts his eyes and turns his head to pass his lips over hawke's, bumping their noses together, smiling with him. it's a sad excuse for a smile. ]

Wonder what it's like in Nevarra at this time of year?

[ it's not a yes or no answer, to a question that probably called for one. it's simple, anyway. it should be simple. the answer is yes, whatever hawke believes. he thought he already said that, but he understands that it isn't easy to decipher his misdirections. usually he's so honest, but he had a lifetime of deflection before this to draw on. ]

I might be.

The situation in the city isn't going to diffuse quietly.

[ he feels foolish advocating for a path he knows neither of them is bound to take. before, hawke had his mother and carver to look after. he couldn't consider leaving the city, no matter how bad it got. but now... he doesn't know. he thinks about it, sometimes. what it would be like to pack up and slip away in the middle of the night. by morning, the thought's usually vanished.

he can't leave his friends. and without any viscount, the people are depending on him. even if he goes down in the history books as the man who destroyed kirkwall, he wants it at least recorded that he tried. he is trying.

he kisses anders when he brushes their lips together, feeling the sharp bridge of his nose against his own. it feels like he's losing him in a way that he can't quite express, or put his finger on. the elusiveness makes him nervous, like if he just knew what it was he was standing against he could fight it properly. ]

Nothing ever has before.

[ going by past precedent, nothing in kirkwall has ever diffused quietly. and meredith is set to blow. anyone can tell, even the knight-captain in the gallows is getting antsy and he's always been a pushover. ]

I suppose it would be irresponsible to skip town. Who knows when they'll want to throw some sort of ball in my honor? Imagine the embarrassment.

[ hawke lifts his hand to cup the back of anders's neck, rubbing the soft, short hairs there that are too short for his ponytail. he came here with some kind of idea in mind. he's not getting distracted so easily. ]

I wouldn't go without you.

[ it's sort of like a fantasy, the two of them imagining they could go somewhere. they can't. they wouldn't. hawke could — he has the right — but he can tell that he won't. even talking about it now it's just a joke to him, the idea of it. something to imagine and never follow through. most of his life has been strangely opposite. he wanted to run from the tower so he did; he wanted to sleep around so he did; he wanted to give justice a choice so he did, and then he left the wardens, crossed the sea, came here. kirkwall, he's never thought of it as home, but he never thought of the circle as home either. it's an intractable concept, left somewhere behind him, somewhere in the house where his parents are living, or where they used to live, or inside the barn that he almost burnt down watching the sparks that flash-banged to life just by the touch of his fingertips.

the sweetness of hay and smoke in his nose and his mouth, he can taste it if he tries hard enough.

anders begins to fold when hawke touches the back of his neck and presses his fingers through the fall of his hair delicately curved behind his ears. it's been a while since he cut it, but he hasn't had the luxury for that sort of thing in a long time. the circle gave them little luxuries, and he gladly gave them up. he wouldn't exchange that for this. ]

I... Wouldn't want you to.

[ his fingers find their way through hawke's fringe when he raises his hand, pushing his hair from his eyes before it falls untidily back into place. ]

But where I'm going, I don't know if you can follow. I can't promise you a future.

The way things are going, I'm not even sure I can promise myself a future.

[ hawke smiles up at anders, the tenderness of his expression belying his inner nervousness. he's not sure what anders is trying to tell him. and he can't shake the suspicion that it's something. something beyond the usual corrupting rot of kirkwall eating away at them all. more than once hawke's suspected that this story of theirs might not have a happy ending, no matter what varric's instincts are.

it's not as if he has to search for reasons anders might be suffering. things are worse for the mages than they've ever been. it's clear that there's a fight coming, one way or the other. he's never wriggled out of picking a side before, but the consequences have never felt so final. it's starting to feel like one or the other.

he knows what he'll choose then too, but the templars have the backing of the chantry. the mages have no one, and he's not sure he makes for fair compensation.

hawke shifts his hands to anders's hips, soothing them up and down his thighs over his heavy coat. ]

I'm not much for promises these days.

[ for obvious reasons, since every undertaking he's ever tried for himself has turned out with dead relatives or the further destruction of kirkwall. the discovery of red lyrium, that was a good one. ]

[ it doesn't lift his expression, but he understands what hawke is saying — that perhaps it's all right that he doesn't have any guarantees to give him, if he can't say the same. the way things are going. it sets an edge in him, sharpened and poised, more grounds for his convictions. he knows who's to blame.

anders' thighs are taut underneath the fabric underneath hawke's hands, breath bubbling imperceptibly in his throat when he opens his mouth to ask, ]

Truly?

[ it takes a considerable amount of effort for him to keep from telling hawke that he deserves better. hawke's probably had enough of him telling him what he deserves; and does it matter? most people don't get what they deserve, and the world and its absent maker don't care to give it to them. maybe he should be chasing hawke out of the clinic, back up to hightown, back into fenris' stolen mansion, because he already knows how this is going to end, but there's the driest sliver of something other than hopelessness stuck in his throat that won't let him do it.

there's no possibility it's hope. longing, maybe. desire past the point of desire.

his stomach is clenched, and hawke's touch does nothing to dissolve it. his hands drop and he finds his wrists, folds them in his bent fingers. ]

Then, will you stay with me tonight?

[ hawke's pulse starts to race when anders's hands drop, knowing he can probably feel it in his wrists. that's what comes of getting involved with a healer. he still hasn't worked out whether it's taken this long for him to get his act in order because it feels like disloyalty or whether he's been stalling on what he really wants for other, less obvious reasons.

fenris and hawke had all kinds of time to work things out. they had years. and while hawke's fairly certain he made his position clear on that night they shared together, fenris hasn't seen any need to return. he knows he'd be welcome. so, in a way, hawke thinks the silence speaks for itself.

he's ready to move on. sometimes he thinks he should've started from here all along, but there's no sense looking back on all his mistakes. if he does that, he's not going to recover from the weight. ]

I thought you'd never ask.

[ he's a little too breathless for it to come out as offhand as he'd like. he's thought about asking anders to spend the night with him; the idea's fluttered through his head on more than one night when he's laid awake alone in his mansion, listening for the sound of the dwarves and orana moving about the household.

he'd stopped thinking of his situation as something he could change until anders brought it up on their latest excursion together. knowing he still thought about hawke that way... well it's changed a lot of things for him. a lot of things that led to him being on his knees in anders's darktown clinic past sunset.

he lets his eyes drift from anders toward the back of his room, where he knows for a fact there's a clean cot for one set up. ]

Shall we...?

Yes.

[ a catalyst for change, that's how he'll know himself in the future, however short his future is. there's no road he can see winding away from here. the only path he can bring himself to follow is the line from where they're sitting to his so-called bed tucked away in the back of the room, debris pushed up behind it; it isn't much, but he's made do. he'd like a better setting for their time together, but the estate is distant, and he's uneasy about the idea that he could belong there. even if hawke has already invited him.

isn't it different, now that he's revealed himself?

anders squeezes hawke where he can feel his quick-beating pulse, slipping his hands into his hands to draw him up so that they can both stand together. it brings them chest-to-chest, wedged into the small space between his pulled-out chair and rickety desk. the only real illumination is coming from the lamps now that twilight's purpled into near-darkness, depriving them of the light that was laying across the dooryard. the smile he shows hawke is tender and coy before he pulls himself from his orbit to dim the lanterns outside and firmly shut both doors. they make a dry, thudding sound when they fall into place.

on returning to hawke, anders takes his hand to lead him to his cot — it doesn't look any different from the other cots, aside from it's cleanliness, a stretch of fabric suspended across a wooden frame. it's barely a place to sleep, but he's had sex in more impossible places than this. his hands find hawke's lapels and he tugs on them, rubs his hands palms-down over the swell of his chest, the movement twin to his deepening breaths. ]

Should we get rid of these clothes first?

[ hawke's heart is pounding when he gets to his feet, chest to chest with his wrists in anders's hands. he can't say that this is how he envisioned this happening, but he's gone over it in his mind so many times over the years. there's a lot of room for possibility. it might be one of those things that he's thought about for so long that any reality makes him feel like he's in a dream.

he's not dreaming. but following anders back to his bedroom in the back of the clinic makes him feel a little lightheaded.

that cot looks smaller than he remembers. fortunately, hawke's never backed down from a challenge. he leans in and kisses anders at the corner of his mouth, swiping his tongue lightly over the rough beginnings of a beard. anders has never been clean-shaven in all the years that hawke's known him, but he's never grown a beard, either. instead, he lingers in the in-between space of looking generally unkempt.

he doesn't take care of himself. hawke's always known that. he's not thinking about it in the usual terms right now, though. ]

Well, it's been awhile, but I'm reasonably certain that's still how it's done.

[ hawke fiddles with the buckles on anders's coat, finding them beneath his feathers where they're fastened tight across his chest. he hasn't worked out how they're going to both fit on anders's bed yet, but that seems like a distant concern when set against the prospect of seeing anders naked for -- it can't be the first time. but it is, somehow. ]

You should make me one of these, when you've got the time.

[ he likes the look. hawke and his family used to scavenge their things on a regular basis, but anders's skill with making his own clothes is something he never quite aspired to. he was better at repairs. ]

Oh, that's not the only way to do it. I prefer it, though there's something to be said for getting up under someone's robes...

[ it isn't as though those doors are locked, but most of the time there are no templars banging them down. after all those years in the circle, he takes advantage of that. counts it a win. this is — this is beyond winning or losing. anders is distracted by the sight of hawke's hands on him, ruffling his disordered feathers and unfastening his buckles, so much so that it's almost conspicuous. it doesn't mean anything besides the fact that, well, it's been a long time for him too. and he's thought of hawke at least as much as hawke has thought of him. who can say for certain, something like that?

a smile tugs at anders' lips. ]

You like this?

[ his habit was to collect things like a crow would, with a preference for shiny wearables, but then he left half his belongings with the wardens and the other half went to silvers to buy food with, back when he first stumbled off the boat into the city. now the bulk of his diet is supplied by donation, by the grateful and the lucky. hawke isn't wrong that he doesn't look after himself. tailoring his own clothes is the most that he does.

anders' fingers tug open hawke's soft, dark coat, sides parting so he can wiggle his fingertips under the hem of his short-cut tunic and lift the fabric up his belly. he reaches to push his coat from his shoulders, then shifts again to untie his sash from his waist. he uses it to pull hawke's hips flush into his. ]

I want... Everything. You.

Edited 2015-02-05 20:23 (UTC)

I like it very much.

[ the words come out halting. he's not reluctant to admit it, but he's hawke has always known that anders would be good at this. he tries not to think too much about his past, for reasons he can't quite define even to himself, but it's crossed hawke's mind once or twice. that anders is experienced. that he knows what he's doing.

hawke's not a virgin and he's not dead, so he's had some experience in his life. but listening to anders talk over the course of the years has made him very aware that he's the clueless one in the room.

anders has never made him feel like he's any less than he needs to be, though. when he's with anders, he feels like the champion everyone expects him to be.

it's not an expectation. it's just... who he is. he stumbles forward gladly into anders's hips, flipping open the buckles on his coat as his hands move lower and lower, knuckles glancing over his belly. ]

I think that can be arranged.

[ he could give anders everything. maker knows hawke is tired of bearing it by himself all the time. he could let anders have him, take a break for the night. he pushes at anders's hips, rumpling up the soft fabric of his chemise over his belly. he gives him a little tug, backing them toward the cot. ]

[ hawke's reticence doesn't go completely unnoticed, but he covers for it well enough. anders can't find any evidence that he isn't enjoying this, gauging by his enthusiasm, though equally he can't think of any reason he would be nervous. except for... all those reasons they have. all those things hanging over their heads, much the way kirkwall is, poised above them. it's not like he ever meant to be experienced. it was a part of the place he was living when he was younger, and then it crept into his life, became a part of who he is. or, who he was. his proclivities haven't changed, but his priorities have.

hawke is one of them. he doesn't know how to tell him that. inevitably, it will appear his claims were counterfeit.

some things have to happen. some things have to be done. ]

We're going to be here a while, then.

[ anders smiles a coy little smile, stomach twitching where hawke touches him, first with the backs of his knuckles, then with his hands. he takes his own hands from hawke's body to tug loose the bandages from around his wrists and dump his coat off his shoulders in a heap, buckles clinking. his boots go next, maneuvering with one hand on hawke for balance while he tugs them free without undoing any of the fastenings. it leaves him in his thin chemise and pants, boot-cut, skinny calves showing. exposed doesn't describe how he feels. he doesn't know what it is; knowing he's being watched sends shivers up his spine, electric sparks. it's its own kind of magic.

he picks up the sash hanging around hawke's waist again and pushes him gently, knuckles against his hips. the cot is in no way built for two people — he glances over his broad shoulder, trying to estimate. maybe if they fit in side-by-side... it doesn't matter. they'll figure it out. he takes his hands away, again, reluctantly, and pulls his chemise off over his head to leave that on the floor too. ]

Edited 2015-02-06 00:06 (UTC)

I've been hoping you'd feel that way.

[ even if he didn't come with a change of clothes. he's got nothing on hand to show that he meant this as an overnight visit, but in the back of his mind it's what he came here for.

hawke stares while anders undresses, unashamed now that they've finally come around to the point of admitting why he's come in the first place. it seems silly that he ever thought he could hide it, now. hawke doesn't know what he was waiting for, all that time. he's always known anders was skinny, but seeing him out of his layers really drives it home. hawke reaches out without even thinking, brushing his fingers over anders's skinny chest, finding the pale freckles where they dust his shoulders.

he rubs his hands over anders's stomach and moves to touch his hips again, hoisting him up off his feet and pulling him into his arms. he's never been one for looking over touching. and he's spent such a long time staring after anders without ever doing anything about it.

it's surprisingly simple to hold anders suspended in his arms. in that sense, he's as small as he looks, half-naked like that. hawke can get himself undressed later. right now, he's more interested in holding anders up against his chest, lowering himself down to the cot. he's more than a little surprise -- and relieved -- when the little bed doesn't collapse under their shared weight. ]

[ they'll be here a while if the cot doesn't give out. maybe even then.

anders' eyelashes flutter when hawke touches his chest, his shoulder, no real muscle to speak of under his pale skin. the lifestyle he's lead hasn't been very sedentary, but equally so it hasn't given him much chance to fill out. it's been a long time since he ever thought to be self-conscious about it with his background, but it's kind of difficult not to notice the differences between him and hawke. mages from very disparate upbringings; that's never been more obvious. strange how these things show. his throat moves when he swallows — he's thinking of kissing hawke again when he picks him up.

it probably shouldn't shock him that hawke is handsy. it probably also shouldn't shock him that hawke can carry his weight like it's nothing. it doesn't stop him from laughing, surprised and breathless, or grabbing onto hawke's shoulders even though he's not afraid to fall. he isn't being squeezed very hard, but the sensation makes his chest tighten. looking over hawke's shoulder he has the wherewithal to draw his legs up so he doesn't bash his knees into the wooden strut, and then he's in hawke's lap. panting dumbly. squeezing his thighs around hawke's hips. his pants feel too tight.

anders relaxes his arms from around his shoulders so he can draw back and kiss him like he meant to. ]

Anders...

[ he barely gets the words out before they're kissing again, anders in his lap like he's always belonged there. maybe he has. hawke's been trying not to look back and live in regret these days, so rather than think about all the time he's wasted not having anders in his lap, he'd prefer to enjoy the moment.

he spreads his hands over and down anders's thighs, enjoying the the hard, lean muscle under the palms of his hands. he squeezes when he reaches the space where anders's thighs meet his hips. he tilts his face up into the kiss, leaning forward as the cot creaks under their bodies. despite how light he was in hawke's arms, he feels heavy in his lap, making hawke throb between his legs.

the cot's sturdier than it looks. anders is too.

hawke's flushed beneath his clothes, the layers that kept him warm through the streets now proving a hindrance to him. he lets go of anders just long enough to peel apart the separate sides of his tunic where anders already loosed them from his sash. he already started the job for him. hawke's just helping things along, shrugging to bare his shoulders. ]

[ anders' hands find their way to hawke's chest, fingers unfolded against his pectoral muscles, hair sticking to his damp palms. he scratches his nails from his collar down, making tiny furrows all the way to his belly where his hair thins for tan skin and soft, taut muscle, where their bodies are too close together for him to fit his hands at this angle. he turns his wrist to stick the fingers of his right hand between them, lifting his hips precariously so that he can grope at hawke through his trousers.

his left hand slides around hawke's side to touch over his back, follow the long, sturdy line his backbone makes up from his hips, over the subtle curve of his ribcage, over the flat blades of his shoulders, and his heavy, muscular shoulders. with their mouths still together, lips sticking, he touches his fingertips to the vertebrae at the base of the neck, and up until the small, fine hairs at the base of the skull, catching them between his fingers. he doesn't pull. he pushes hawke toward him, moves his mouth against his, licking over his tongue and his teeth, groaning into his mouth. his chest rumbles with the sound pulled deep from his center. there's sweat gathering in the dip at the small of his back.

it feels cruel when he takes his hand away from between their bodies to clutch at hawke's sides instead, to squeeze him high under his arms before he arches his back and presses their chests together, raises his hands higher and shoves him by the shoulders. ]

[ hawke shivers under anders's scrutiny, closing his eyes while he feels his hands rove over his chest. he groans when anders wiggles his hand between their bodies, pushing his hips up greedily into the pressure of his touch. he's got too many things he wants to do, his brain firing in too many directions to be able to following any single thought through. it makes him feel oddly reactive. trust him to freeze up in the bedroom, when everywhere else he's always been quick to jump and think about the consequences later.

with anders, he thinks he's spent too long contemplating his actions. they've got some time to make up for. his kissing turns sloppy, mouth hanging open slightly as he hitches his hips up in slow, needy thrusts. hawke lets out another groan, this one in faint protest when anders frees his hand from between their bodies again.

because he's focused on what he's lost, he's not expecting it when anders gets his hands on his chest to push. hawke goes down easily on his back, reaching to feel for the wall behind him in a half-hearted effort not to crack his head. he spreads his legs to make room for anders's weight between them, using gravity to his advantage. he bites anders's lip again, digging his teeth carefully into the soft flesh. ]

Why do I feel like you've done this far more intelligently than I have?

[ he's still in his boots, for one. hawke hooks his calf around anders's bare one, holding him in with his arms and legs both. ]

Edited 2015-02-06 06:10 (UTC)

[ anders can't catch his shiver with hawke getting tangled up in him, holding him against his body while gravity pushes him down, ankle caught around ankle. there's no fighting it, and he makes another obscene sound with hawke's teeth in his lip. he has to swallow two, three times before he can find his voice, eyes flickering open, nose pressed to a high cheekbone, breath damp. he kisses hawke's cheek, drags his lips over the short, sharp hairs. ]

You're... remarkable.

[ there's nothing stopping him from rubbing his hips into hawke's, so he reaches above them to curl the fingers of both hands around the strut over their heads and apply it as leverage, putting his entire body into the movement. his flush is a full-body flush, pink everything. hawke, at least, can hide behind his complexion, although the way he moves gives everything else away — it's a hungry, parched wanting. anders finds it simple to match. his arms are shaking. his throat and lungs both burn, and it's not purely psychological. sometimes he's convinced his body is going to warp under the pressure of having two souls inside it — he knows what he is, and hawke knows what he is — so he wants to show him how he feels while he's able.

it's not his choice when he lets go, but he finds a better place for his hands to rest, returning them to lay against hawke's sides. ]

If I were doing this intelligently, I'd have invested in a bed. Or a mattress, at least.

[ his voice comes out muffled against hawke's cheek. it doesn't make any sense, what he's saying, since it's not as though he knew this would happen, but he doesn't much care. he breathes in deeply, ducking his head to tuck his face against the side of hawke's neck, kissing over his pulse point, kissing the junction between neck and shoulder where the muscle's big and hard. his fingers are tucked against the place where the last curved rib bone gives way to softer parts of the body. ]

Edited 2015-02-06 15:46 (UTC)

[ hawke shudders, his breathing running thin when anders gets a bit of leverage to rock their hips together. it's a sudden pressure and press he isn't expecting, the resulting flush of heat through his thighs and between his legs making his cock throb. he keeps returning to the same conclusion: that he knew anders would be good at this. that it shouldn't be any surprise to have it demonstrated against his own body. but he keeps on being shocked and appreciative. he should have done this years ago, but he knows that too.

hawke doesn't feel remarkable. that's not the word he wants. he feels small and a little shaky, like anders is the skeleton key made to undo him from the inside out. he does it so effortlessly too. that's his favorite part.

well, they haven't been at this long enough for hawke to start picking out his favorites yet. but he feels confident in his decision. he's certainly not bound to pick anything wrong, anyway. there's too much good to choose from. ]

Anders.

[ it's all he can manage. he's breathless, desperate to get out of his trousers and into a more intimate position with anders. he can feel his heart hammering in his chest; they're so close that he figures anders must hear it too, but that's irrelevant. he's not alone, it's not just him. his pulse flutters under anders's mouth; he's sweating under his trousers. he came to anders because when they're together he's never in it by himself. hawke reaches up, holding anders's face close to his own where he's breathing hot against his cheek. ]

I think I'll serve rather decently as a mattress, don't you?

[ he slides his hands down anders's back to feel over the curves of his ass, cupping the muscle under his palms and giving him a firm squeeze. ]

Edited 2015-02-06 19:13 (UTC)

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