Perfect (AO3) Mevima Rated X Tags: Hawke/Anders, Semi-Public Sex, Rimming, Body Worship Prompt: From un-shit-yourself: you know i’m down for anything with anders and his luscious ass. i’ll let you choose his adventure. 😀
The healer had a perfect ass, and everyone knew it.
Most of them wouldn’t admit it in a thousand years, but it was hard to resist the attraction of the smooth curve that his jacket didn’t quite hide, nor the elegant sway of his hips when they traveled.
Occasionally, Aveline could be caught pursing her lips, Merrill with a delicate, high blush, or Fenris scowling deeper than usual as they hung back to trail behind the group, gaze snagged in idle contemplation. Varric was a bit more obvious about it, tilting his head to get a new angle, briefly stopping to sketch a few aesthetic lines for future reference. Isabela, of course, was positively shameless, catching the mage’s eye to lick her lips and smirk suggestively – or catching his lover’s to raise her eyebrows in open invitation.
He was rarely out of the coat, but some nights at the Hanged Man, he’d wind down and relax a little, and the simple black pants he wore – when he got up from the table to fetch another round of drinks – well, one could hardly be blamed for staring.
Garrett Hawke, though, was the only one of their little group who got to see more of that beautiful ass than just a glimpse of its shape. He delighted in groping it just out of sight of the others, giving a firm slap as they turned down an alleyway, or simply pressing him up against a tree a short distance away from where they’d camped for the night, grabbing luscious handfuls, kneading and sliding skin against skin until Anders cursed under his breath and made him stop before someone caught them.
When they were alone, though, Hawke worshipped it: the shape of it, the dimples just at the base of his spine, the firm, heart-shaped swell and the perfect cleft that led to one of his favourite places to make his healer squirm. The feel of it, too, all smooth skin with just a hint of jiggle when he smacked it hard with the flat of his hand. And the taste – laving his tongue over the curve of one cheek, biting down gently where it met the back of his thigh, finally dipping in to lap delicately and then press firmly against the near-hidden ring of muscle.
Everyone admired Anders’ perfect ass, and maybe, just maybe he encouraged it, wore his clothing just a touch too tightly and put a spring into his step, just to get these moments alone with Hawke, where he could whimper and moan and writhe, up on his knees with his face pressed into the bed under his lover’s knowing touch.
Here you go nonny! I combined this with a recent Garrett Hawke Biceps Appreciation post, to produce this little Red Hawke/Anders thingie.
Hawke
threw open the door to Anders’ clinic with a crash. It bounced off the far wall
and splinters flew, and Hawke felt a pang of guilt for the damage; he hadn’t
meant to wreck Anders’ home, but he was too furious to see straight.
Fucking
bigoted Marcher arseholes. Hawke had returned home after a long night of
patrolling – patrolling their streets, keeping their people safe from their stupid bloody gangs – to find
that some hilarious jokester had left a dog’s food dish wrapped in a bow on his
front doorstep with a “Welcome Dog Lords” label attached. Blighted
charming.
"Hawke?“
Anders stuck his head out of the next room. His sleeves were tied back, his
hands stained today not with blood but with a greenish plant residue. He always
smelled of elfroot, but the smell was sharper, greener today, a breath of
nature in the dark underbelly of the city. The sight of him helped calm a
little bit of Hawke’s boiling rage – as usual – but it still seethed under
his skin, seeking an outlet.
Anders
came out, wiping his hands on a damp rag. “Was that you? Maker, I thought
the Templars were invading my clinic.”
mfw i got this ask: :DDDD mfw i started fucking worldbuilding which country anders would be royalty of and how it would happen and how and when hawke would arrive in that country and researching thedosian royalty and 25 minutes have passed and i’m still not done: DDDDD: mfw i decide to just fucking write something, anything, to short-circuit the elaborate worldbuilding voice in my head: :|||||||
(I’M SORRY ANON THIS TOOK LIKE A HALF HOUR AND I WROTE IT WAITING FOR SOME PAINKILLERS TO KICK IN IT’S LATE I’M TIRED AND MY CAPITAL LETTERS HAVE GONE FAR AWAY OVER THE SEA)
the new field hand was as impertinent as he was strong, and anders loved both things about him.
“there’s some more wheat over there, i think,” he said, and took another bite of his apple while the fereldan stiffened his (broad, bare) shoulders and then pretended not to have stiffened his shoulders.
“glad you pointed it out,” said the fereldan. “wouldn’t want you to dirty your royal hands, your highness.”
Anders never healed the bruises Hawke left on his skin. He loved the feeling of being marked, claimed, keeping the evidence of their passion on his body to trace his fingers over them in memory the next day.
Hawke’s mouth could destroy him, leave him gasping breathless and crying out with just a shift of his lips on his skin or a change in pressure with his teeth. He’d brush his lips across Anders’ collarbones, trail his tongue down his chest to circle a nipple with the tip, graze his teeth across the flat plane of his stomach and lap into his navel. Hawke would softly bite across Anders’ thighs and suck the back of his knees, lift his hips and lick long, wet stripes from his balls to the head of his cock. His tongue would devour Anders’ hole until he begged the rogue to fuck him, and then his mouth would leave purple welts across his hips as he fingered Anders’ open.
Anders would be flipped onto his stomach, Hawke’s mouth leaving both cheeks of his ass red and glistening with it’s attentions, hot breath trailing up his spine as Hawke finally entered him, thrusting hard and moaning against Anders’ ear, whispering filth and endearments. His lips would move down the column of Anders’ neck, teeth scraping against his shoulders and breath panting with every thrust, sucking and licking across every inch of skin his mouth could reach until it was too much, too good, and Hawke would sink his teeth into the back of Anders’ neck and groan, sucking and biting his skin until he drew blood and sending Anders over that edge with him.
And afterwards, Hawke would find each and every mark he left across his lover and kiss them gently, worshipfully, soothing angry skin with the brush of his lips, and that was all the healing Anders wanted.
If this isn’t Anders’ outfit in DA3 then I don’t even know what the point is.
i did a thing
It’s Orlais. They stop for a while on the outskirts, and even there, far from Val Royeaux and the fashion capital of Thedas, Hawke senses they’re outclassed, at least in terms of couture.
‘I got you a thing, Anders,’ Hawke says.
‘A thing,’ Anders replies.
The last things, admittedly, in order of most to least dangerous, were: more Sela Petrae, for old times’ sake; a dragon’s eyeball, very shiny; special pair of torn trousers, once belonging to Maferath apparently, and haunted by no fewer than six opportunistic spirits; empty bottle (it was not, it turns out, so empty after all); shiny ring (of ancient power; Anders kept disappearing when putting it on); funny colored leaf (also haunted, who knew); shiny pebble (also, somehow, a dragon’s eyeball, now what are the odds?); and a box of yummy smelling incense (not incense).
‘A thing with feathers,’ Hawke says.
Anders capitulates.
‘I look like the back end of a phoenix,’ Anders says.
I know I mostly complain about how unfair DbD is to the killers and how op survivors are. As a result, I mostly play survivor at the moment – and now, I can see the survivor’s point of view too and understand SOME of their complaints.
Particularly when killers act like dickbags. I mean I understand, usually it’s the survivors who are awful and toxic and take all the fun out of playing killer. Which is why I understand why many killers in turn are salty, campy and quite often very greedy (I mean of course they want to go for the four kills because they lose pips all the time with all the trolling survivors).
However I don’t understand why killers act like total twats towards survivors who are not toxic. One could argue this is the reason survivors turn toxic, because of shitty killers, but then again those killers are probably shitty because of all the bullshit survivors have put them through. But how is the behavior of other survivors my fault?
Sometimes it seems that no matter what I do, it’s wrong. I obviously don’t teabag or BM and if you find me I’m pretty easy to catch. But even hiding is apparently considered shitty, especially if I don’t fall for killer’s attempts at baiting another survivor so that they can catch me.
There was this one dickbag killer who RAGED at me because they assumed I was waiting for my team mate to die so I could get the hatch. Firstly, I didn’t even know where the hatch was until I was in chase. Second, I saved that survivor three fucking times until they bled out. How many times do they expect me to save them? And when I told them that I was saving them, the killer was like “yeah when I was all the way on the other side of the map!!1” and I just… what??? So am I supposed to go and save my team mates when the killer is there, just hand myself over to them because it’s so important to them to be a dick and get four kills?
And just imagine how fucking fun it is for the slugged survivor. Bloody hell just hook them and let the other person go (which is not a guarantee anyway; they easily could have gotten me since I didn’t know where the hatch was). Why do they get to be a total jerk, slug the other survivor and then just expect me to throw my points away for their 4k?
And then they dare to say survivors are “boring” when they do this. Bitch, stealth is one aspect of the game, whether you like it or not, and if you can’t find them then you just need to get better at finding them. And slugging is ALSO boring but I see killers doing that all the time anyway.
Then they proceeded to taunt me in the chat because they killed me and I just… don’t want to play this game in the higher ranks because it’s ridiculous how evil humans can be. I suppose I deserve it, because I lose my nerves all the time, too. It just proves how useless humans are since they treat other humans like they’re just NPCs.
After that match I went against a rank 1 Michael Myers and just wanted to cry to them “thank you for not yelling at me and insulting me with slurs in the chat even though I did end up getting the hatch in the end”.
Queer Fortress 