(Not-a) Drabble-a-day #5
let us hold a memorial service for the 200 word a day limit because i clearly do not know her. rip my ability to keep things concise at the moment i’m taking anything under 1k as a victory
(h)anders not-a-drabble day #5, prompt, “Naked”, some (relatively) non-explicit sexy times herein
The night had been going great, but it was what happened after they fucked that throws Anders for a loop.
His experience has taught him that fucking is the climax (so to speak) of the evening, followed by a hasty separation lest you get caught. Even in the Pearl he got bounced out after finishing, Madame needing the bed for someone else.
But Hawke wants to cuddle, and Anders, unsure how it works, submits to it with a white-eyed tension that almost undoes all the good work getting his back blown out did an hour before. He's handsy. He keeps kissing Anders, on the face sure but also on the throat and chest and arms; his beard is whisper-soft. And he won't stop petting Anders, stroking his hand along the curve of his shoulder, sweeping his thumb over his ribs, fingers seeking out knots of scar tissue and tracing them with a calm acceptance Anders has no idea what to do with.
Anders knows he can be... intense. He doesn't know how not to be; the emotions are too big for him to keep inside. But he has absolutely no idea what to do with the quiet contentment on Hawke's face, the satisfaction he sees there. Perhaps it's a sex thing? Carefully he offers, "I should be ready for another round in about fifteen minutes," and when Hawke's eyes widen, adds, "Grey Warden, remember?"
"Maker's furry arse crack," Hawke breathes, his reverent tone making his blasphemous words something of a mixed message. "It's like you stepped right out of the Fade," and Anders must have misheard, because he's not - that's not - that cannot be him.
He's mean. He's paranoid. He's crazy. He's angry. He lives in a fucking sewer. He literally almost killed a helpless child not even twelve hours ago, and he feels himself flinch, but before he can open his mouth and say any of this Hawke's eyes go soft and he says, "Stay with me, love."
Anders swallows. "Where else would I go?"
Hawke shrugs. "I don't know," he says, and he rolls on top of Anders, then, in a fluid motion - Anders is aware he's flushing, his skin singing with the ghosts of before, which is ridiculous because Anders once sucked off a senior enchanter under a dining table ten minutes before curfew. He once got fingered by Neria Surana in a laundry closet right in front of a Tranquil, whose only comment was to ask him not to come on the clean towels. He once took himself in hand in the baths of the apprentice dorm with a templar wandering up and down the tubs, and came while making direct eye contact. He cannot be blushing, now, here, because Hawke is lying naked atop him, looking at him with affection.
How humiliating it is, to be brought down not by the amazing sex or the flowery words exchanged leading up to the moment, but by the aftermath - for the gentle touch of Hawke's calloused palms against his hips, the whiskery press of his beard to Anders's throat as he kisses his way along Anders' jawline. He's had so much sex, and none of it ever felt like this - the vulnerability not just of being still abed after the act but in being loved. His breathing is too quick and he's blinking too fast and Hawke doesn't seem to mind, not even slightly, and is instead treating him like something fragile: something to be treasured.
Once Anders got caught in the infirmary after hours with two other apprentices and a well-polished wooden wand, and paraded back to the dorm by Gregoir himself, not allowed time to dress: and he still felt more clothed then than he does now, when Hawke kisses him so sweetly and says, "Would you like that sandwich now, or after?"
Maker's furry arse crack, indeed.
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