spicyshimmy:

privateai:

Hello, I’ve spent an evening drawing pictures of Hawke rubbing his beard all over Anders.

you know, what should really be here is “ode to hawke’s spectacular rear end,” which i can only imagine is the substitute for a few manifesto drafts here and there. 

It’s remarkable, Hawke thinks, how young he feels when he’s naked, when by all means the collection of thickening muscle and tired scars of his practically ancient body should imply he feels his oldest.

Practically ancient in mabari years, anyway. 

Only it’s really no more remarkable than anything else.

Why is he capable of believing in dragons and darkspawn and family lost and fortunes won, in rock wraiths and qunari duel traditions, in every last tragedy from the smallest to the largest, from the subtlest to the most climactic, all of them unexpected but also unsurprising–yet he can’t believe in the age-old adage that having a lover or having love itself is potion enough to make a man feel like a reckless lad again? 

There’s something wrong with that outlook, a different sort of wrong than whatever they get up to when they’re alone together. It’s one word for two very different indulgences–and so many different positions. 

It’s the way Anders’s touches Hawke’s arms, not to heal them, not to help their burdens, just to feel them, as though the muscle is still worth feeling, the hard edge Hawke used to admire from the right angle in every mirror. It’s the way Anders cups the back of his head with one pale palm and holds him close, neither of them minding the uncomfortable positions, how their backs will ache sometime in the future–tomorrow morning instead of tonight, later instead of now, arguably Hawke’s favorite reason for procrastination. 

It’s the way Anders doesn’t say it tickles with the hitch in his voice that Hawke has come to crave so awfully, but his chest hitches instead, the hitch rising from a place much deeper, all the muscles of his stomach twitching and all the hairs trembling above. 

It’s the way Anders curls in on him instead of falling back, shadow everywhere and all that skin, the press of his thighs and the heat of his breath and the clutch of his fingers. 

Right there, between Anders’s legs, they could be anywhere and they might as well have everything–in that childish interpretation of it, when too much is stubbornly not enough, and more always seems better. 

Over time, it all adds up. Whatever you collect, whatever you’ve had, whatever you’ve lost–not to mention whatever grooves the shoulders from a life over-encumbered. 

But Anders’s face is red, his flesh hot, his body ready and willing. Hawke feels practically sixteen instead of practically everything. 

‘Hawke,’ Anders says, high and breathless, ‘are you…grinning down there?’ 

‘Little busy to answer,’ Hawke manages to reply, though the words aren’t as important as the shape of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, his beard–and who it’s tickling. 

Source: privateai