Anders contemplates neither closure nor renewal. From a young age, he's learned over and over: when you've got what you wanted, you savor it. Before it's too late. Before it's torn away from you, or you from it. Before the Templars show up again, before the darkspawn strike, before your lover's sent across the water, before the bastards make you give away your cat
( ... )
There are many things making the experience seem unreal to Hawke, the fact that it's happening at all not least. Twenty-four hours ago she didn't even know he was here, he was at the top of the long list of think around this subject or you won't be able to move at all that she doesn't acknowledge is in her head. The occasional flash of How can I let him do this, after everything? simultaneous with He owes me at least this much. The feeling of being herself (if problematically herself) instead of the half-Hawke half-automation she's been for months, all the arguing and digging at each other and scraping each other raw has certainly eradicated her protections. That will take some getting used to, and the chance to replace the resigned feeling of being exposed with a more literal and pleasing exposure is irresistable even if it will be temporary.
And the bright blankness of the room, bare of any possible distractions, bare of sound, since the soundproof blocks most noise from outside as well as keeping noise from inside drifting out.
( ... )
"If you breathe one more word about nightlights," Anders threatens, "I'll pretend yours don't exist." He's acutely aware they exist, in point of fact. His nose is practically between them as he says it. "And believe me, that will hurt me more than it hurts you," this said very low, positioned to aim the flow of breath just over one nipple, "please keep in mind." His hand is at the small of her back to feel the moment when she arches, her hardening flesh meeting his descending mouth, and he can't resist doing this thing with his tongue that he learned in the Circle at age fifteen. Refined it to an art form within months - that was a good winter, much shorter once you knew how to pass the time - it works best when applied simultaneously with other stimuli, so the subject doesn't get too comfortable, and Anders leans against Hawke to encourage her onto her back, his other hand ghosting a suggestive trajectory up her thigh.
"If it'd hurt you more than me, then I'm not sure you understand the concept of a threat." But she does arch, does gasp, does take his head in her hands, fingers digging into the scalp and tangling in his hair as much as they can while it's pulled into a ponytail. She resists being pushed backwards, instead curling over him, planting a kiss on the top of his head. One hand frees itself from his hair and instead toys with the the bare skin on the back of his neck, tracing circular patterns.
Of course he has to stop what he's doing long enough to respond. In any given encounter, as much as fifteen percent of their foreplay can be verbal in nature. (This does not count toward the passionate-noises component, which is separate and mandatory.) "On the contrary," his voice a bit muffled against her skin, "it's in your best interest to keep me motivated." He accepts without the slightest objection her preference in position. In bed as on the battlefield, it pays to roll with Hawke's tactical maneuvers. (Even when it's not a bed but a carpet. Anders has the fleeting presence of mind to rue the fact he'll almost certainly wind up with carpet burns. Easy to heal, but no fun while they last.)
"Raise my morale, and all that," he continues, changing focus to the other side in the interest of fairness. If she's got two of something, best apply the same care to both. His morale isn't all she's raised, obviously, with his breeches somewhere around his knees.
"You don't seem to need any assistance in that regard. And I don't lead anyone anywhere anymore, so your morale is your own problem." This said without rancor; if she were less distracted it might even have been spoken with relief. But for the moment it's simply fact
( ... )
If Hawke isn't in a rush, Anders could have been fooled. He can't remember the last time he got her out of her smalls this quickly. No, wait, he can, except he's not sure it counts if the smalls didn't come all the way off. Clever fingers continue what lips began as he browses his way back up to her throat. "Not difficult to maintain focus, here. Not like the Viscount's Keep ..." He nips at her earlobe. Oh, that had been deliciously subversive. "With all the people coming and going all the time, and what would they say if they found an Amell pinned up against the storeroom wall..." Or bent over a crate in a Darktown warehouse. Or sitting on the edge of a treasure chest and being felicitated by a known apostate, in a bandit camp on the Wounded Coast, after the bandits were cleared out, stealing a moment while Isabela spied on lovesick Aveline. Unable to help themselves.
The first year had been the best, in so many ways.
"What is it about you," he groans, her touch setting off nerves he'd forgotten he even had, "that after
( ... )
All right, maybe a bit of a rush, or getting there. It's been a long time. They haven't even bothered to completely get rid of clothes, just sort of shoved things out of the way. And the things he's doing to her neck are just wicked, to say nothing of the memories he's bringing up. "Your own fault," Hawke moans. "All those jokes about mage robes being designed for easy access, I had to test you on it at first opportunity." And what good was a rogue who couldn't make opportunities? The look of surprise on his face as she'd pulled him into the storeroom had been priceless, almost as good as what had followed.
Hawke pushes aside the twinge that reminds her there was a time not that long ago when she couldn't do this to him, couldn't reach him. Don't shadow this. "Can't say I ever noticed you had jaded appetites," she says instead, nipping her teeth along his neck while one of her hands scratches down his spine. The other grips his buttocks, pulling his hips towards hers. "Creative, varied, and insatiable, more like. And it's a talent.
( ... )
"I only said those things," he mutters, tugging at what clothing she's still got, "to pique your curiosity." And because the only thing funnier than a staff joke is a robe joke. Mages have predictable tastes in humor. "Because I liked to imagine perhaps, sometimes, you might think about the ..." Careful, don't want to tear that, she'll never forgive you if she has to wear hippie clothes. " ... implications," he finishes on a note of triumph, tossing aside some offending garment to join the revolutionary coat in its ignoble pile. "If I'd any idea you actually took it for truth ..."
"Then you would've done it sooner, given the results," she finishes for him, pushing him into a sitting position so she can pull those blasted breeches off his legs finally. Once that's done and he's sitting she climbs on his lap, wrapping her legs around his back and crushing her mouth to his for another hungry kiss. Anders isn't the only one who can make anything-but-bored passionate noises.
"Would not," he objects, between kisses of increasing duration and desperation. "I just wanted you to think about it. Not to ..." Merciful Maker, she's sitting on his lap. Anders realizes if there has ever been a point in these proceedings when he might have held any semblance of control, that point has now officially passed. "... do anything about it," he manages, then bites at her lower lip. "Because I was busy being a twit. See, I've gotten better."
"No, you're still a twit. That's well-established." This is a good position. Lots of places for her hands and mouth to roam. Assuming she could make herself stop kissing him long enough for her mouth to roam. Every kiss makes her hungrier for another. "And a hypocrite, resisting..." One hand finds the tie holding his hair back and undoes it so she can grip his hair properly in a fist. "...all my advances, and then lobbing innuendoes at me to see how I'd react." The other hand drifts down between their legs, brushing against his abdomen on the way. "And you accused me of being a tease."
Rather predictably, a sharp intake of breath hollows his stomach when she brushes against it just so. With Hawke, he can never be quite certain what she has in mind. This could be a feint to distract him while she readies something completely different. On the other hand, she's got his hair in a firm grasp, holding him in place. That usually means business.
Andraste's bleeding tears, he loves this woman.
"Even if I was," pressing against her, skin to skin, how could he have forgotten this warmth, how could he have preferred to pace around on the balcony, he really was a twit, "that doesn't mean you weren't."
How long will it take before I drive you mad? He will never not think that was a tease. He will never not think he called her bluff, there.
"At least I..." She looks him straight in the eyes, face flushed, lips puffed from all the attention, gaze heated and more than a little smug. "...always intended to follow through."
And follow through she does, stroking him with deft fingers.
The gaze, magnetic though it is, breaks sharply when she strokes the length of him (no staff jokes, please), bringing a surge of blood so strong it leaves him dizzy, causing his eyes to close without volition. He never wants her to stop. He also wants her very much to stop. He isn't in the habit of self-release, and even Grey Warden stamina won't hold out as long as he'd like against this kind of attention after a drought. Then again, he knows she knows this, and she also knows Grey Warden stamina is good for other things, like a quick recovery. No one had better need the meditation room for a while, that's all Anders can say for certain. He strains against her touch.
"You do know what you're doing." Is it a compliment or a question? Does it matter?
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And the bright blankness of the room, bare of any possible distractions, bare of sound, since the soundproof blocks most noise from outside as well as keeping noise from inside drifting out. ( ... )
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"Raise my morale, and all that," he continues, changing focus to the other side in the interest of fairness. If she's got two of something, best apply the same care to both. His morale isn't all she's raised, obviously, with his breeches somewhere around his knees.
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The first year had been the best, in so many ways.
"What is it about you," he groans, her touch setting off nerves he'd forgotten he even had, "that after ( ... )
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Hawke pushes aside the twinge that reminds her there was a time not that long ago when she couldn't do this to him, couldn't reach him. Don't shadow this. "Can't say I ever noticed you had jaded appetites," she says instead, nipping her teeth along his neck while one of her hands scratches down his spine. The other grips his buttocks, pulling his hips towards hers. "Creative, varied, and insatiable, more like. And it's a talent. ( ... )
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Andraste's bleeding tears, he loves this woman.
"Even if I was," pressing against her, skin to skin, how could he have forgotten this warmth, how could he have preferred to pace around on the balcony, he really was a twit, "that doesn't mean you weren't."
How long will it take before I drive you mad? He will never not think that was a tease. He will never not think he called her bluff, there.
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And follow through she does, stroking him with deft fingers.
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"You do know what you're doing." Is it a compliment or a question? Does it matter?
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