good morning, chumblers~
warm-up for the day.
this is seriously healing in its finest form. and anders knows it. and hawke knows it. and it’s because they know each other: the shoulder against the throat where it swallows, the fingers in tangled hair, palms against wrists, bodies on bodies and lips on lips. the tip of anders’s nose against hawke’s beard. every scatter of stubble and scratch of hair and slant of muscle, every shadow and every instance of a shadow’s opposite, the play of light over hawke’s shoulders, the play of light in anders’s expression. because hawke’s eyes are closed; because anders’s aren’t, not completely. because he’s somewhere between shutting those eyes and opening them. because he wants to see it, to see hawke, even if there’s no real perspective when you’re that close to someone else. and because each of them experiences it in the fullest way, in his own way, not looking just as vulnerable as looking is. the way the shadows themselves turn to blushes; the way each mouth curves upward. the way both men move against each other, into each other, for each other. (and the thick roll of weighted muscle at the small of hawke’s back. that’s pretty marvelous, too.)
Queer Fortress 