The only thing missing is a pillow for her hips. Anders has to make do, looping his free arm beneath the small of her back, then drawing it in his direction to lift her backside off the floor, to cant her upward, open her more fully to his attentions. He is reverent, and careful, and deliberately slow. Occasionally he can't help uttering a small muffled sound of appreciation, almost a hum, but he's mostly quiet, listening avidly for Hawke's entreaties. Also, for directions, if any coherent directions can be relayed. He knows she won't hesitate to tug at his hair or push him away if she needs to.
In the end, though, Anders is the one to pull away. With every gasp and whimper he wrings from her, he imagines what she must look like making that sound, the blood rushing to her cheeks, the way she must be turning her head to the side, arching her neck. Enough of this and imagination no longer suffices; he needs to sit back on his knees to take in the full view, all of her at once, his lovely Hawke. In Varric's scurrilous tales, the
( ... )
It takes Hawke a moment to find breath and composure enough to answer, and when she does her expression is somewhere between amused and incredulous. "You stopped to tell me that?" Not that the near-worship in his eyes isn't enormously gratifying in the circumstances, but still.
Even so she laughs a bit and reaches for him, tugging him up towards her for a feverish kiss, tasting herself on his mouth. One hand slides down his arm, guiding it, with the clear expectation that fingers should take up where lips and tongue left off.
While Anders needs no encouragement, he does like it when Hawke shows him what she wants. He lets her draw him up to recline beside her, facing her, his arm between their bodies. She's slick and eager, and he sees no point in teasing. His thumb finds her pearl as he slides first and second fingers to curve within her, angling for that rough soft spot he knows will make her weep. Her kisses, though, keep him from detachment; even as he works at her with clever and conscious purpose, his body presses against hers, his excitement all too evident.
Hawke, however, is letting herself be selfish for a while, and although the hardness against her hip is suggestive bordering on demanding, her attention is most definitely elsewhere. He works at her adroitly, finding every sensitive spot she has and stimulating them, until she stops kissing him and instead clutches at him. She repeats his name under her breath as he takes her to the point of no return, Anders, over and over, until finally she buries her soft cries in his neck along with a few tears of release, as her body pulses and waves of pleasure wash through her, and she surrenders to them entirely.
Selfishness is good. Hawke really ought to be selfish more often, Anders has always felt. He certainly can't complain of the result in this instance. It's what he wanted. The way she says his name - no one but Hawke has ever sounded quite like this, no matter how much skill or care he's put into the effort, and it's been a long time since he's heard her this way
( ... )
She takes a while to answer, enjoying the moment and letting her body calm. When she does reply it's muffled--she hasn't dislodged herself either--but it's clear in her voice that she's smiling. "You're already insufferable." She kisses his neck, letting her lips linger, then repeats the action just under his ear. "And unless I'm imagining things, that did go straight to your head." Her hand glides down his side towards his hip, towards the subject of her observation.
"A 'please' would do." Mistress don't tell me, show me does sometimes enjoy words with her action, though she doesn't seem to be waiting for much. Her mouth is still teasing his ear, and her hand still teasing his hip. "Courteous, you know."
A groan. "You would observe the forms, and after I waived them so nicely for you."
This is the part where she's supposed to make him beg.
He's tense all over. "I haven't got my lute," he points out, shifting involuntarily to seek closer contact even though that's really against the rules. Then again, there are no actual rules, nothing that can't be forgotten or revived by turns at mutual convenience. "The pleading won't be up to your high standards."
(In actuality, Anders has been known to elicit favors by promising not to play the lute. Though how long has it been since he's made that kind of playful reference? Before tonight, how long had he seemed to forget the lute existed in any context at all? Something extraneous, something frivolous, relic of a bygone era.)
So I shall have to cast myself upon your mercy, he very nearly continues, and goes still for a moment as it dawns on him just how unfortunate that remark would be. Right. That won't get him anywhere he wants. He's had more mercy from Hawke than he deserves, and
( ... )
"True," Hawke says cheerfully. That is what she wanted, and she's glad to have it. In some ways the end of their relationship was an echo of the beginning, with her trying futilely to get his attention. But worse, because his refusal was unconscious rather than deliberate. At least the first time around he'd noticed, even if he resisted. So she'll take this acknowledgement of power and revel in it, thank you very much, though she won't bring up why she wanted it.
Besides, it is fun for its own sake as well.
She sits up and shifts to the side, tugging him so he takes her place on their makeshift blanket. The color contrast is striking, it's true. Anders is pale as well, not to mention nicely disheveled from their activities, and altogether distracting.
But there's a promise to keep, and Hawke does so try to keep her promises.
Hawke bends over and kisses him briefly on the mouth, then begins to work her way down, with more speed than she'd usually use. After all, he did say please, and was very patient while she took what she
( ... )
On a list of things Anders does not deserve, this would rank toward the top.
On a list of things Hawke can do far too well, this would also rank near the top.
The latter outweighs the former, of course. Anders hasn't the presence of mind even to contemplate guilt, or regret, or unworthiness. His universe has contracted to one diffuse point of delicious heat. It's even better than the time in the Gallows courtyard, behind that herbalist's stand ... As for the coat, Anders could hardly care less. She can debauch whatever she likes, anything he owns, no arguments.
He can't even manage words, let alone any coherent string thereof, only harsh rasping breaths and the occasional low moan.
The ragged breathing and grunts he manages are music to her ears, far better than anything he used to play on that dratted lute they used to have. She'd given the thing to Orana, who actually could play well, but somehow Anders would kept stealing it back and having another stubborn go at learning. Not that his playing was that bad.
...well, yes, actually it was. Even love hadn't made her that blind. Or that deaf. It'd been funny, though.
Still, she'd much rather listen to this, though it's a toss-up as to if it's him or her who's the performer in this instance, who's the appreciative audience. Certainly Hawke's enjoying her work, using mouth and tongue and hands in turn, stroking, sucking, occasionally humming. She hasn't had a chance to do this for a long time, and as she said before, she hates letting her skills get rusty; so she uses every trick she knows in succession, everything that will drive him over the edge.
To achieve coat debauchery 100%, Anders can't allow this to continue, though he's sorely tempted. He makes an inarticulate murmur of protest and grasps at Hawke's shoulders, trying to draw her upward again. If she drains him now, no lyrium potion will restore the needed potency. A pile of foodbricks and a nap perhaps might do the trick, but he hasn't got the luxury of time.
Eloquence is beyond him. "Not like that. Hawke ...?" Does she understand? "I want you ..." No, not eloquent in the slightest. Too raw for pretty words. She's driven him to desperation.
Not eloquent, but the words shock through her, filling her ears until her head pounds with them. The bare need in his voice is undeniable, and strikes a chord inside her, something from not long ago, something perhaps not yet dealt with. There are so many things they won't be able to deal with tonight, whatever their intentions. The night is too short, the ground of unspoken things between them too great.
With something like a strangled sob, Hawke releases him, hauls herself back up so she's straddling his body. She kisses him with an urgency that matches his, tears stinging at her eyes. Again. That's happened a lot this evening. She can't make herself care; Hawke's not ashamed of tears, ever, they're just a luxury she doesn't usually allow herself. Clearly it's a night for indulgences.
She shifts to thrust herself down on him, permitting herself another indulgence and granting his request at the same time.
In the end, though, Anders is the one to pull away. With every gasp and whimper he wrings from her, he imagines what she must look like making that sound, the blood rushing to her cheeks, the way she must be turning her head to the side, arching her neck. Enough of this and imagination no longer suffices; he needs to sit back on his knees to take in the full view, all of her at once, his lovely Hawke. In Varric's scurrilous tales, the ( ... )
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Even so she laughs a bit and reaches for him, tugging him up towards her for a feverish kiss, tasting herself on his mouth. One hand slides down his arm, guiding it, with the clear expectation that fingers should take up where lips and tongue left off.
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Grey Warden stamina cannot be denied.
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This is the part where she's supposed to make him beg.
He's tense all over. "I haven't got my lute," he points out, shifting involuntarily to seek closer contact even though that's really against the rules. Then again, there are no actual rules, nothing that can't be forgotten or revived by turns at mutual convenience. "The pleading won't be up to your high standards."
(In actuality, Anders has been known to elicit favors by promising not to play the lute. Though how long has it been since he's made that kind of playful reference? Before tonight, how long had he seemed to forget the lute existed in any context at all? Something extraneous, something frivolous, relic of a bygone era.)
So I shall have to cast myself upon your mercy, he very nearly continues, and goes still for a moment as it dawns on him just how unfortunate that remark would be. Right. That won't get him anywhere he wants. He's had more mercy from Hawke than he deserves, and ( ... )
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Besides, it is fun for its own sake as well.
She sits up and shifts to the side, tugging him so he takes her place on their makeshift blanket. The color contrast is striking, it's true. Anders is pale as well, not to mention nicely disheveled from their activities, and altogether distracting.
But there's a promise to keep, and Hawke does so try to keep her promises.
Hawke bends over and kisses him briefly on the mouth, then begins to work her way down, with more speed than she'd usually use. After all, he did say please, and was very patient while she took what she ( ... )
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On a list of things Hawke can do far too well, this would also rank near the top.
The latter outweighs the former, of course. Anders hasn't the presence of mind even to contemplate guilt, or regret, or unworthiness. His universe has contracted to one diffuse point of delicious heat. It's even better than the time in the Gallows courtyard, behind that herbalist's stand ... As for the coat, Anders could hardly care less. She can debauch whatever she likes, anything he owns, no arguments.
He can't even manage words, let alone any coherent string thereof, only harsh rasping breaths and the occasional low moan.
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...well, yes, actually it was. Even love hadn't made her that blind. Or that deaf. It'd been funny, though.
Still, she'd much rather listen to this, though it's a toss-up as to if it's him or her who's the performer in this instance, who's the appreciative audience. Certainly Hawke's enjoying her work, using mouth and tongue and hands in turn, stroking, sucking, occasionally humming. She hasn't had a chance to do this for a long time, and as she said before, she hates letting her skills get rusty; so she uses every trick she knows in succession, everything that will drive him over the edge.
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Eloquence is beyond him. "Not like that. Hawke ...?" Does she understand? "I want you ..." No, not eloquent in the slightest. Too raw for pretty words. She's driven him to desperation.
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With something like a strangled sob, Hawke releases him, hauls herself back up so she's straddling his body. She kisses him with an urgency that matches his, tears stinging at her eyes. Again. That's happened a lot this evening. She can't make herself care; Hawke's not ashamed of tears, ever, they're just a luxury she doesn't usually allow herself. Clearly it's a night for indulgences.
She shifts to thrust herself down on him, permitting herself another indulgence and granting his request at the same time.
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