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Hawke knows he talks too much. He’s not all talk, not by a long shot, he’s got the brass and the balls and the skill to back it up, after all, but it isn’t as if he can say he’s surprised when Anders sometimes takes matters into his own hands, quite literally, so to speak, at the end of a long day, with a warm smile and rough, gentle hands on either side of Hawke’s face and a mouth on Hawke’s that almost always starts slow and sincere and tender but usually gets hotter in a hurry with a slip of the tongue and a few panting breaths. Hawke’s come to look forward to those moments when Anders will lean in and stop his mouth with a kiss, tries to provoke him into doing it, sometimes, if he’s completely honest. He’s teasing him into it, this time, sitting on the desk while Anders works on his manifesto, not quite a wink, wink, nudge, nudge, but it’s close. The library door is locked, after all, he was very careful about that, and there are dark circles under Anders’ eyes, his brow drawn tight and heavy in a way Hawke wants to banish. When Anders gives him a few distracted brush-offs (even though his ears and the back of his neck turned red at the last one), Hawke throws all caution to the wind and goes and asks about that “electricity thing” he’s been thinking about, the one Anders apparently did with Isabela. Hawke hasn’t been able to get it out of his head since he’d overheard that conversation. He leans in, covers Anders’ fingers with his palm, plucks the quill out of his hand with the other and replaces it in the inkwell, dropping his voice to husky breath, and flat out invites Anders to use those sparkly fingers on him.
He’s thrilled when Anders is apparently done flushing and rolling his eyes, and turns to him, lifts his face and puts one hand on Hawke’s chest, curls the other around the back of his head and kisses him, no slow, soft start this time, just lips on lips and hot breath against Hawke’s mouth, a tongue slipping between Hawke’s parted lips to catch his indrawn breath, his eager noise of approval. “So you’re going to give me a hands-on demonstration?” Hawke asks, after a moment of tongues tangling hot and wet between their mouths.
“Well, I suppose I can’t have you jealous of Isabela, can I?” Anders replies, with just a hint of a smile around the edge of the words. He tugs at the ties of Hawke’s tunic, slides his fingers beneath the cloth as he sucks on Hawke’s bottom lip, cards his fingers through the dark hair on Hawke’s chest, over the flat planes of his chest and stomach, making him shudder.
“I don’t know if I’m exactly jealous,” Hawke tells him, playing it off, curling both hands in Anders’ hair and tugging at the knot of the tie holding it back. He pulls it loose, and soft hair slips free over his knuckles. Anders sighs as Hawke strokes his fingers through it, tangling in it until the shape of the ponytail is gone, and his lashes flutter in a way that makes something in Hawke’s chest tighten and then ease, makes him rub his thumb against the blade of Anders’ cheekbone. “It’s just that she talks about it with such fondness,” Hawke continues, still stroking his fingers back through Anders’ hair, “and anything that can impress Isabela like that—I feel like I’ve been missing out. I mean, here I am, your love, your other half, your heart’s desire, your dearest turtledove, and you haven’t even done the electricity thing on me.”
Anders is laughing and blushing at the same time. “You are jealous,” he says against Hawke’s lips as he leans in, all damp breath and soft, dragging mouth. “And Hawke, turtledove? Really?”
Hawke grins and bites at Anders’ bottom lip, earning a gasp and a little shiver that runs down over Anders’ shoulders and along his spine. “Kitten,” he says. “No, even better, love kitten. Tiger. My very favorite pastry.” He skims his hands down over Anders’ shoulders, over the slim muscles of a square but too-slender torso, to settle on a hollow, bony rump and squeeze, pulling him close, opening his legs to tug Anders forward between them. “Sweetcheeks. Honeycakes. Buttercup.”
“Love kitten?” Anders repeats, all warm color spreading over his face and shading into the skin beneath his stubble. “Pastry? Hawke, please. Stop being ridiculous.” His fingers tickle and tease over Hawke’s chest, rub at a flat nipple, circle the sensitive skin around it with a thumb, and Hawke sucks in his breath on a shudder.
“Just kitten, then,” Hawke says, bringing one hand up to rub behind Anders’ ear, over his jaw, just like he is one, until he sighs, his eyes half-closing at the caresses.
“Just Anders will do, dear heart,” Anders says, but the flush over his cheekbones is partly one of pleasure, Hawke thinks, and his eyes dance as he laughs, stroking his hands down over Hawke’s sides, around over his back, the thick muscle at the base of his spine, brings them back up and teases Hawke’s stomach, his ribs, his nipples, loosening his house robe until it hangs open over his chest.
“Dear heart,” Hawke says, grinning and fond, flushing up a little himself now and curling his arms around Anders’ neck, “I like that.”
“Sounds better than jealous idiot who’s asking for whatever he gets,” Anders grouses teasingly, rubbing his thumbs firm and certain into Hawke’s sides. “If we’re going to do this, we’ll do it properly,” he says, following the curving line of Hawke’s ribs with his hands. “I’ll have my wicked magical way with you, and you don’t complain. You let me do it however I like. That’s the deal.”
Hawke’s breath catches in his throat, and a tight, eager warmth curls its way through him to settle into his stomach. He spreads his knees a little, splaying them wide over the desk, cants his hips forward invitingly, his arms still curved around Anders’ neck. “Then please, have your wicked way with me,” he breathes. “What are you going to do to me? Make me beg for mercy?”
Anders looks down at the erection starting to tent up proud and hard through the thin fabric of Hawke’s trousers, his eyes wide and a little startled. “You like the idea that much?” he asks, as if nonplussed. “Most people are a little . . . alarmed by it at first. I think even Isabela was mostly excited by the danger of the whole thing.”
“I like your hands on me,” Hawke says, and he can hear how low and hoarse his voice has gone; it makes him flush, because now it’s time for a confession of his own, and he’s not much good at those, not the personal sort, at any rate. “Your magic’s never felt dangerous to me. I love it when you heal me. I tried not to, not to uh, think about it, at first, because, um, well,” he gives a little laugh, “awkward, but your magic, touching me, deep inside like that, easing the pain wherever it hurts—I . . .” Maker, Hawke, don’t blush, “. . . well, I fantasize about it sometimes. It feels so good, and it’s almost . . . deeper than sex. More, somehow.” He’s bright red in the face now, and he knows his voice sounds shy, self-conscious, more bashful than he’d like. He looks down.
“I . . . oh.” Anders’ voice is startled, and Hawke hopes not horrified. He looks up through his lashes, half-anxious, and then Anders’ mouth is on his, pressing into him hot and ardent. “Oh, Hawke,” Anders breathes.
“Mmmph,” Hawke says, agrees happily, links his arms around Anders’ neck and his legs around his waist and rocks forward into him, rubbing his arousal wantonly against his hip, into the hot crease between his thighs where he feels an answering heat and hardness starting to build beneath the thick layers of Anders’ robes.
Anders finally breaks away, panting for breath, and steps back, raises both hands to run them through his hair, push it back behind his ears, as if trying to steady himself. “Right,” he says. Hawke grins invitingly, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on his spread knees, glances down at the eager hardness jutting up between his legs and waggles his eyebrows significantly as he looks back up at Anders. Anders gives a huff of air, his mouth twisting in rueful fondness. “Oh, you,” he says. “Stop that.” He hesitates a moment. “But you’ll really—you like the idea of putting yourself in my hands, completely, like that? Of me using magic on you?”
“Maker, yes,” Hawke says, husky and rough and probably too loud, too vehement. But Anders flushes, looks flustered and pleased and his shoulders straighten.
“All right,” he says, then, and his hands go to the chain that fastens his jacket; he unhooks it, shrugs out of it and drops it to the floor, starts to unbuckle his coat. “Then turn around and brace yourself over the desk.”
Hawke tosses off his shirt and turns to obey so fast he nearly knocks the ink to the floor, and he straightens back up, hurries to stack Anders’ manifesto and place it in a drawer and cap the inkwell with shaking hands before spreading himself out over his own desk, cheek pillowed on one arm as he curls his fingers around the edge, pulling himself forward until his cock is trapped hot against the old, heavy wood, cold against his sensitive flesh and the skin of his chest. His nipples tickle and twinge, still sensitive and prickling from the teasing earlier. Is this the position Anders wanted him in, splayed out with his ass canted up, on display?
It seems to be. He gets no complaints, anyway, and after a moment he feels Anders’ fingers skim over the curve of his behind, rubbing along the rounded muscle of it. Hawke shudders, bites back a moan, his cock twitching against the wood of the desk, and twists up to look back at the man behind him. Anders leans forward, bends down over Hawke, his shirt and trousers doing little to conceal the shape or warmth of his body, until he’s pressing down all along Hawke’s back, his thighs curved over Hawke’s backside so that he can feel the hardness at Anders’ groin hot against him. Hawke is the broader, the bigger man, but Anders is still warm and long and heavy over him, and he shudders as Anders tilts his head down to slide their lips together, opens his mouth with warm breath against Hawke’s lips. “Don’t expect me to go easy on you,” he says, still kneading Hawke’s ass with clever fingers.
“Never,” Hawke says with a grin, pushing himself back into that touch. “I can take it. Give it to me hard.”
“You’re impossible,” Anders says with a grin, “as pushy as ever,” and kisses him again, soft and slow, the kind of kiss that has Hawke’s breath catching and his eyes fluttering helplessly shut as he twists himself up into it, giving a soft sound of loss despite himself when Anders pulls away. Anders pushes him down with one hand in the center of his back, using it to give himself leverage to straighten up. “Stay like that,” he says breathlessly, and Hawke gulps and nods and doesn’t move. There’s the sound of fumbling in and through pockets and belt pouches from behind him, and the anticipation is making Hawke’s cock ache, throb, against the desk even though it hasn’t even really been touched. This is something new between them. Sometimes Anders is rough, desperate and needy, sweet and slow and attentive more often than that, sometimes playful and teasing, but nothing they’ve done has been quite like this, Hawke willingly putting himself entirely in Anders’ hands.
Hawke almost jumps when Anders touches him again, trails a soft hand down his spine, fingers feathering over his backside through his trousers, before he crooks a finger inward, drags one triangular knuckle down along the cleft between the rounded cheeks of Hawke’s ass, knuckles it in against his opening, rubbing through his smalls and the dragging softness of the fabric of his pants. He pushes with that knuckle against Hawke’s entrance until Hawke can feel his body giving before that insistent pressure, cotton and silk rubbing over sensitive skin, easing into him—and then pulls it away, strokes his palm down over one thigh then the other, brings a finger back up and rubs it over Hawke’s balls, tracing the shapes of them through the layers of fabric. He strokes, teases with one finger then adds another, rolling Hawke’s balls between them through his trousers, presses the heel of his palm up against them and kneads until Hawke is gasping, then pulls his hand away, moves it back up. He tugs Hawke’s trousers and smalls free from where they linger against his entrance, clinging close against his skin, then tucks his fingers just under the waistband to rest against the soft skin at the very base of Hawke’s spine, the hollow between the dimples of his ass, circling gently over his skin.
Hawke pushes himself up against that touch, arches desperately. He wants more, and Anders knows it. “Tease,” he huffs out, the word muffled against his arm.
“And you aren’t?” Anders asks, and, well, they both know the answer to that one. Hawke is a shameless flirt, not quite as bad as Isabela, but close on some days; he’s prepared to admit it. “Besides, at my mercy, remember?” His hand comes between Hawke’s legs, pats one muscular thigh before he nudges them apart a bit more. Hawke is happy to oblige. His hips are flexible enough; he can handle it. “I can take all the time I want to tease and touch you.” He brushes his knuckles lightly down the inside of one thigh, then the other, rests his palms on Hawke’s ass.
Hawke pants, tries not to whine because, all right, humiliating, they’ve hardly started. “Fair enough,” he finally manages to gasp out.
He’s rewarded with the touch of Anders’ lips to the back of his neck, warm, affectionate, before he skims his fingers down over Hawke’s back. This time he hooks them under the waistband of Hawke’s trousers and tugs both trousers and underclothes down over the curve of Hawke’s backside. They catch, drag, on his hard cock, and Hawke does gasp and give a desperate whine as he arches up, helpless against the sudden friction. And then it is gone, and Anders is pushing him back down against the desk, the wood cold against the searing heat of his cock but quickly warming under him as Anders pulls trousers and smalls both down to his knees and traces his fingers back up along now bare thighs. Hawke trembles, shudders as Anders runs his palms over his ass. Anders rests one palm in the small of his back, and when Hawke hears the snicking pop as he unstoppers a vial, his cock leaps, throbs against the desk, and he buries the sound he makes against his forearm. Anders rubs at the small of his back a bit, slowly and almost absently.
“There are lots of different positions we could use for this,” he says, “but this time I’m keeping it simple; I’m just going to use my fingers on you. I hope that’s all right. You did say you were putting yourself in my hands.”
“Utterly,” Hawke gasps out, spreading his legs wider to make his point. “Completely in your hands, or, your hands in me, actually, or fingers, anyway, but—not the point—Anders, love, please.” He thinks the anticipation might kill him at this point, if Anders keeps dragging his feet on this.
Anders hesitates a moment. “You . . . really do like this,” he says, sounding almost uncertain.
“I’ll like it more when you’re fingering me until I beg,” Hawke says honestly. He angles his hips up, rolling them back in a wanton invitation that makes his cheeks burn a little, if he’s to be totally frank. “If that’s what’s on the table here. Or the desk.”
Anders gives a little laugh. “Andraste’s knickers,” he says. “Right.” He brushes a slick fingertip over Hawke’s opening, traces the pucker of skin, then runs his thumb over the same place, spreading the slickness around before he nudges his thumb just inside, crooks it a little. It makes Hawke shiver, the contact to that intimate place, the welcome stretch of it. Anders pushes a little bit deeper, until the wide part of his thumb, the pad to the knuckle, is inside him, then tugs it out, replaces it with his finger. His fingers are worn, simple and strong and familiar, and Hawke gasps, sighs out a breath at the same time Anders pushes that finger into him. It slides in with a jolt that makes him catch still-booted feet against the floor to steady himself and clench his fists against letting the sound that wants to escape out past his lips. He knows he’s tight, his body clamping down around the intrusion, and he feels it, tense and stretched already around just one of Anders’ fingers. His back shudders as he tries to relax tense muscles, spread himself wider. Anders shifts his finger, crooks it searchingly and almost immediately finds that place inside Hawke that has him crying out with sensation, his fingers clenching tight against his own palm, his other hand scrabbling to grip tight around the edge of the desk. Anders wriggles that finger, presses it just there, and Hawke’s voice breaks as he nearly shouts his pleasure, desperately jerking his hips forward against the desk. “There we go,” Anders says, sounding pleased with himself. “I can always tell, Maker, Hawke, the sounds you make, that you’re making already . . . .” Anders massages him there for a long moment with wide circles of his finger, until Hawke is panting, writhing unashamedly, his legs splayed wide across the desk, thrusting his trapped cock forward against the wood beneath him. “You really don’t have an ounce of shame,” Anders says, but his voice is fond, warm with affection. He slides his finger back out, and Hawke can’t help the noise of loss that escapes him however he bites down on the flesh of his forearm. “Case in point,” Anders says.
“Hurry it up,” Hawke growls.
“Who’s at whose mercy again here?” Anders asks, teasing him with two fingers spreading slick over his entrance now, dragging one down his cleft, letting it dip just inside his slightly stretched opening before he moves it down to rub at the tender skin between Hawke’s opening and his balls. Hawke moans, tries to rock back into his fingers and is stilled by Anders’ hand on his back. Anders leans forward, licks a wet stripe from the sensitive place just under Hawke’s ear down to his pulse before saying, “But I suppose just this once.” He mouths at the muscle of Hawke’s shoulder, digs his teeth in lightly, just hard enough to sting and prickle, the air cold against the wetness left by his mouth when he pulls away, and then slides both those fingers deep into him, hard and fast. “Do you want it hard?” he asks. Hawke can’t respond, is caught between the burning stretch of those fingers inside him and the eager ache of his cock. He moans into his arm, rocks himself back to spear himself on Anders’ fingers, the only answer he can manage. Anders spreads his fingers, curls them in a way that sends jolts of sensation shooting up Hawke’s spine, then pulls them nearly out of him so that just the tips of them remain inside him. Hawke groans, clutches at him with his inner muscles, pleading wordlessly with Anders not to leave him empty. It’s just a moment before Anders is pushing his fingers back in, and then he settles into a rhythm, quick and just on the edge of rough, crooking his fingers to brush against that place inside of Hawke that makes him quiver and moan every time. “You’re already so loud,” Anders says, and he sounds a little breathless now himself, “I haven’t even used any magic yet.”
Hawke hides his flaming cheeks in the crook of his elbow. “So I like . . .” he catches his breath against a moan, “your hands on me. In me. Wherever. You have . . .” Anders curls his fingers, scissoring them slightly, massaging that place inside him, and he makes a helpless sound, half whimpering, at the shivering pleasure of it, the stretch, the give of his own body, “nice hands. Good. Healing. Strong. Magic fingers.”
“Oh, you have no idea,” Anders says smugly. “Just wait until I’m done with you.”
Hawke can’t help the shiver of anticipation that goes through him at that, the moan that escapes his lips. He imagines how it feels when Anders heals him, like touches soothing and soft in his deepest, most intimate places, the touch cradling and banishing pain, light and bright and glowing inside him, and shoves himself down on Anders’ fingers desperately. Anders gives a surprised little laugh and holds his fingers still for a moment, letting Hawke push himself back and down on them at his own pace.
“So eager,” Anders breathes roughly, “you’d fuck yourself raw on my fingers if I let you, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Hawke breathes, eyes heavy lidded, vision blurring and jerking as he concentrates on doing just that, on the reach and pressure of Anders’ fingers inside him. “I’d fuck myself on . . .” he’s flushing now, and he knows it, but it’s the truth, “your hand until I came. Just . . . just your hand.”
“Are you blushing?” Anders murmurs then. “Your ears are red.” His breath touches one of them, then his tongue, tracing the curve of it, the lobe, and Hawke shudders, knowing he’s flushed bright red across his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose. “Here you are,” Anders whispers against his ear, “pleasuring yourself on my hand like it’s some kind of toy, your body clenching down around me, holding me tight inside you like you can’t get enough, rutting shamelessly against your own desk, you swear creatively at slavers and flout templar authority like it’s nothing, like nothing can stop you and you don’t care what anyone thinks, and yet you can’t say fuck without blushing.”
“I can say—Maker’s cock, Anders!—fuck without blushing,” Hawke mutters, writhing as Anders curls his fingers unexpectedly inside him, rubbing in firm, widening circles.
“Yes, so long as we’re not actually engaged in doing it,” Anders responds with some amusement, his voice hoarse and throaty now, too. “And it’s not Maker, it’s Anders, I thought I told you that already, love.”
“Cheeky—ah!” Anders curls his fingers again and Hawke’s fingers spasm on the edge of the desk, clench tight until they ache, “Cheeky bastard.”
“I try,” Anders says cheerfully. “Feel like you can fit one more?”
“Oh, sure,” Hawke says, trying desperately for nonchalance. “You know me, I’m greedy; I always want more.” He twists, squirms, on the fingers Anders has inside him already. He feels slick inside and is starting to feel stretched, open, around two, but then Anders slips another into him, and that desperate feeling of fullness is back; he’s shuddering with it again. Anders doesn’t give him any time to adjust before he’s fucking him with them once more, and Hawke is loving every moment of the tight, burning stretch. “Going to fuck me sore just—just like that?” he asks, bearing down, arching back into the touch.
“Is that what you want?” Anders returns, a little breathlessly. His fingers shove and slide into Hawke, more teasing, more sensitive and dexterous, than his cock would be, milking that sensitive place inside of him until Hawke is shaking and moaning on every stroke, hardly able to breathe. Anders spreads his fingers wide, and Hawke wonders how stretched he is. Anders’ cock is bigger than three of his fingers, he knows that much, and yet he feels overwhelmingly full, overwhelmingly sensitive to Anders’ touch. Anders pulls them out of him and Hawke groans desperately at the loss, the feeling of emptiness, and then newly slicked fingers return to his passage, working in him, stretching him open even further. He falls into a pleasure-filled daze, rocking himself back onto Anders’ fingers.
The first spark of magic takes him entirely off guard, it tingles, sparking off him inside, and he gives a shout, he can’t help it, his body tensing into helpless tremors. He isn’t quite sure what it feels like, almost like lightning, except that it doesn’t hurt. Anders curls his fingers, waggles them, swirls them over that sensitive place within him, and more magic follows, shimmering and bright and filling him up inside, almost spilling over. The sensation is almost too much, Hawke claws his fingers into his own palm, against the wood of the desk, arches up, not sure if he’s trying to get away from it or bring it closer, and still it dances through him, careening through his nerve endings until he’s convulsing, and he can feel it all over, like Anders has somehow touched him every place from that gland inside him to the tip of his cock to the back of his mouth to the soles of his feet, and then it sharpens, brightens; he feels like he’s getting fucked inside out, magic ebbing and throbbing inside him, filling him up, glimmers and sparks cascading through his nerves, heat and cold at the same time rushing through his body.
A cool, soft wash of creation magic follows it, soothing the sparkling tingles that are still flickering through him, and it’s only then that Hawke realizes that he can hear himself, his own voice shouting in hoarse ecstasy, shouting Anders’ name. The healing magic swirls inside of him, relaxing shuddering muscles, and he sags against the desk.
The other magic is back before the healing spell has even faded, building more slowly this time, in jumping flickers that shiver through him from wherever Anders’ fingers touch, and they’re still pushing in and out of him in a firm, steady rhythm, curling cleverly, wickedly, against skin newly sensitive, shuddering from the touch of magic. How is it possible that he hasn’t come yet? Hawke wonders in a moment of unsteady thought as the tingling heat of magic builds inside him again, making him tremble. Anders presses fingers glowing and white-hot with magic against the sensitive place inside of him, and ecstasy slams through him, lights up his nerves in shocking pleasure as magic snaps bright and hot within his body. Hawke screams, hears it as if from far away, wonders, dazedly, disconnectedly, if he’s glowing from the inside out. Anders wiggles his fingers and sparkles follow, rippling and tingling wherever he touches.
A hand slides under him, pulls him up off the desk a bit, three fingers still buried deep in his ass. Anders coaxes Hawke up to rest on his elbows, despite how he trembles and wavers, then presses a kiss between his shoulder blades as he whimpers, groans, building up to shouts again at those sparkling flashes inside him, shooting up from the base of his spine into his head, up through his cock from where Anders’ fingers rest, dancing with magic, inside him. He’s so sensitive now, all over, every nerve and muscle tangled and fluttering with every touch. Anders strokes his belly even while he works his fingers in and out of him and murmurs, “Go on, Hawke. Come for me. Come with nothing even touching your cock, just from my fingers and my magic inside you.” Hawke groans, his cock twitching at the words, trembling. He’s leaking pre-come onto the desk, even though neither Anders nor he has even touched his arousal. “You can do it, sweetheart,” Anders whispers into his ear. “Go on, come just like this.”
Hawke knows he can; he’s so close, so close it hurts, he’s practically sobbing on each breath, as each fresh wash of tingling magic wrings a new wave of trembling pleasure out of him. He whines, whimpers, clenching his fingers against the wood of the desk, shaking his head not in denial but in desperation, teetering on the edge of the precipice. He feels exposed, open and spread over the desk, but the pleasure doesn’t let him feel self-conscious, just lost in it, desperate for more. Anders gives it to him, curls and twitches his fingers, lights him up inside, and the pressure, filling him up, the sparkling light dancing inside him, Anders’ mouth hot and tingling on his spine, is what pushes him over the edge, and then he’s falling through pure, incredible sensation, screaming his voice raw with the pleasure of it. Anders doesn’t stop then, either, keeps stroking his fingers inside him, keeps the shimmering heat of the magic filling him up from the inside over and over again. When Hawke thinks he’s spent everything he’s ever had, the climax builds up within him again, as if starting over, and he gasps in surprise, sensations overwhelming any ability to make sense of them. He throws his head back, arches his back desperately, he can see nothing but white, hot light behind his eyes. He’s lost in it, in the simple beauty of this impossible feeling, he feels complete, as if he’s been made whole.
He comes back to himself lying slumped and boneless in a sticky pool of his own spend, his breath and sweaty body fogging up the gleaming surface of the desk. Anders is running his hand over Hawke’s side in warm, firm circles, still shifting his fingers inside him in soft, gentle strokes. Breathing is all Hawke can do for long moments; speaking is completely beyond him. He feels slack, hot, stretched slick and wet and open; Anders’ fingers feel full but not tight inside him any longer. He’s sore, not quite raw, but close; Anders’ fingers nearly too much, but somehow comforting, soothing, all the same. He tries to speak and ends up with a moan, turns his head with an effort to pillow his cheek on the wood of the desk, hot and messy now with his breath and sweat and maybe just a few tears of overwhelming sensation, and looks back at Anders. He’s still floating through a pleasure-drunk daze, and his eyes feel wet.
“All right?” Anders asks. His face is flushed, his hair falling forward into his eyes, and when he skims his hand up to rub at Hawke’s arm, over his shoulder, Hawke somehow manages to catch his hand in his own and squeeze, press messy kisses over the fingers, lick his tongue against and between them, suck them into his mouth.
“Mmm,” he moans against the callused tips. Anders gasps, sighs, and presses close against his back, rubs heat and hardness against his thigh for a few long, sweetly slow moments before he stills, pulls his fingers out of Hawke’s mouth and runs them back gentle over his cheek and jaw, kisses him all sweet and soft.
“I knew you could do it, sweetheart,” Anders says against his lips.
Hawke nods, grins, sloppy and lopsided, crooked and blurry. “’Course,” he breathes. “Always ready to . . . to rise to a challenge.”
“That’s my Hawke,” Anders says, smirking and shaking his head, at the brilliance of that pun, no doubt, and kisses him again. “Was that good? Too much?”
“More like just enough,” Hawke sighs. His voice is rough, rasps hoarsely in his throat. “Perfect. Maker, Anders, I think I came my brains out.”
Anders chuckles a laugh at that, curls and presses his fingers lightly inside of him in a way that makes Hawke shudder and gasp, trembling all over at the way the sensation shudders through his over-sensitive body. He whimpers, caught between pain and pleasure, and Anders soothes him with kisses, his palm rubbing circles over Hawke’s ribs. “Too much just then?” he asks, but Hawke can only gasp and pant his breaths, overwhelmed. “Shh,” Anders soothes. “Shhh, love. Easy.”
“How did you learn how to do that?” Hawke manages to get out after a moment, after the sharp, too-much edge of it has faded.
Anders laughs a little. “Practice,” he says. “Some of it on myself.” And Hawke moans at that image, biting his lip, imagining Anders, fingers deep inside himself and glowing with light, imagines him writhing on them and panting. “The Chant does say that magic should serve man, not rule him,” he continues, his voice wry.
“I don’t know about that,” Hawke sighs. “I feel pretty ruled at the moment. Mastered. Dominated. Enthralled.”
“Shut it, you,” Anders says, but he still sounds fond. “I won’t stand for that sort of insinuation, even from you, love. This was all primal and creation magic, you know. Totally Chantry-sanctioned and approved.”
“Though probably not for that, or they’re not the Chantry I know,” Hawke mutters. He sighs. “You’re magic. That’s all there is to it.” He feels taken apart, debauched, amazing. No wonder Isabela remembers it so clearly, years afterward, if this is anything like a representative result. “So that was the electricity thing.”
“Yes,” Anders says, sounding absolutely, completely satisfied with himself, and well he deserves to. “That was the electricity thing.” He skims his hand over Hawke’s back, rubs it gently over the trembling muscles over his ribs to the base of his spine, and Hawke sighs, relaxing into his touch. “Are you sore at all?”
“A little,” Hawke admits. He’s too limp and relaxed for his face to heat, as it might have otherwise at the admission. Anders twitches his fingers again, and healing magic swirls soft and cool inside him, easing the raw, overwhelmed ache. Hawke’s tired cock somehow finds the energy to jerk at that, and the feeling makes him moan again, bite the inside of his lip and shift his hips against the desk.
Anders blows out a surprised sounding breath, touches Hawke’s hip lightly. “You weren’t kidding about the healing magic,” he says, with a strange, surprised tone in his voice.
This time Hawke does flush. “Nope,” he says. He gives a little laugh against his arm. “Sorry, that’s . . . probably a bit awkward.”
“It certainly could be,” Anders says with a slight laugh of his own. “But I don’t mind. I’ll just try not to heal you in front of the Viscount, I suppose.” He rubs a soothing hand down Hawke’s back again and moves to pull his fingers free from Hawke’s body.
Hawke groans at the loss as they slip free, trying to clench down around him, clutch Anders’ fingers close and keep him there, close inside. “What about you?” he manages to collect himself enough to ask, rolling his hips back invitingly. “I’m all ready for a good hard fucking, aren’t I?” Maker, his voice sounds hoarse, rasping and scratchy.
“You’re certainly stretched enough,” Anders says, touching his fingers gently to Hawke’s slicked entrance, running one around the rim, and the touch of his callused skin makes Hawke quake and shiver, “more than enough,” as if he’s thinking about it, then sucks in a deep breath, shakes his head. “But you’ll be too sensitive. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m just lying here, begging for it,” Hawke says, twitching his ass up as much as he can as limp and exhausted as he still feels. “You won’t hurt me, I swear.” He crosses his arms and rests his cheek on his forearms, angles his behind upward. “Come on, Anders, give it to me hard. I want to be able to feel it later.”
Apparently that’s all the convincing Anders needs. Hawke turns his head back, watches as Anders reddens, the high color spreading over his cheeks and down his neck, his own erection plain to see through his trousers. He fumbles for it, shoves his trousers down and pulls out his cock. It’s desperately hard, flushed and glistening with pre-come, and Hawke is relieved to see he isn’t the only one who’s been impossibly aroused as Anders reaches for the oil and slicks his cock with both hands, rubbing his palms clumsily over his length. When he’s practically dripping with it, he reaches out, rests one cool, damp hand on Hawke’s hip, and guides himself into Hawke’s stretched, slick entrance. Hawke clenches his muscles around the slight push into him, rocks back against the intrusion despite how loose and open he feels, and Anders gasps, a shudder running all the way through his body, down over his shoulders and through his chest until Hawke can feel it in his thighs where they’re pressed against his ass. Anders slides into him easily, a smooth glide until he’s in as far as he can go, and the warmth of it, the pressure and easy fullness without a hint of resistance from his own body, makes Hawke sigh and shudder and spread his legs for him, as much wider as they can go, even though that makes it a lot harder to brace himself against the floor, makes him slide one knee up onto the desk, settling his weight onto nothing but the ball and toes of one foot against the floor, to give Anders a better angle. Anders’ cock is thicker and longer than his fingers, goes so much deeper inside him. He’s all heat and pressure against Hawke’s trembling, sensitized flesh, so warm inside him his breath catches with it. Hawke doesn’t know if he’ll be able to come again, for days, let alone so soon, but he feels pleasure and want pooling in his belly, at the base of his cock, as Anders’ hard, hot length nudges that place inside of him, sending little tremors of pleasure shuddering through his body. He gasps, makes a breathy, desperate noise, and Anders shifts a little, pulling out just enough to push in and slide over that place inside him again. It’s still too much, almost pain, almost past pain, so intense, so hot and perfect and overwhelming he can’t breathe, and he’s starting to sob for air, and—Hawke chews on his bottom lip to steady himself, but then Anders’ hand is on his shoulder, stroking gently down over his arm, then back up and down over his spine, his side, soothing and slow, and he feels himself relax.
“Are you sure you’re not too sensitive?” Anders asks, his voice hardly more than hoarse, husky breath, though from the way he’s trembling and his hips are twitching forward against Hawke’s ass, it would be an effort of will worthy of being taken to directly to the Maker’s side for him to pull out of him now.
Hawke curls his hands into fists, has to steady himself with one of them on the edge of the desk again, his knuckles turning white with the pressure, before he can speak. “Anders,” he says, and he means it to come out vaguely chiding, but it leaves his lips a needy, desperate groan. “If I were sensitive I’d’ve cried when you told me I wouldn’t look good in a ruffled dress. I‘m no delicate Orlesian nobleman. I need you to fuck me so hard I’m feeling it next week.” He rocks back against Anders as best he can, rubbing himself back and over his cock in ways that make him whimper, his whole body jolting with each spark of pleasure the feel of Anders’ cock inside him sends through sensitive skin and exhausted muscles. “Come on, love kitten, fuck me.”
Anders sputters a bit at that, before he mutters, “All right, Hawke, if that’s what you want.”
“It is,” Hawke groans, eager and desperate.
“All right,” Anders repeats on a soft breath. His hand rubs a warm circle over Hawke’s shoulder, his fingers stroke through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and then he braces one hand on Hawke’s hip and the other on his shoulder and starts fucking him in earnest, long, deep strokes that seem to hit every inch of Hawke from the inside, and leave him trembling, jerking helplessly back into his touch. “Maker,” Anders breathes after a moment, “you love this, don’t you?” Hawke just moans, unable to come up with anything more coherent with Anders fucking him into the desk, hard and steady. “You just open up to take me in like you can’t wait to have me inside you,” he says. “All hot and open and eager for my prick.” Hawke groans and presses his face down against the desk, his cheek flat to the smooth surface, and bites his lips as every thrust wrings another gasping, hitching breath from him.
“Anders,” he manages to gasp finally, moans it more than anything, and that’s all he can manage to say, all he can ask for. Anders gives him a slightly deeper thrust, slides back out of him and pushes back in slowly, taking care to slide over that place inside Hawke that makes him thrash against the desk and yell out his pleasure.
“Yes, love?” Anders asks, and Maker damn that hint of self-satisfied sass in his tone, breathless and warm and wanting as it is, but at the time, Hawke’s heart skitters and skips to hear it there, it makes something glow warm inside him completely apart from the heat of the desire pounding through his every muscle to hear attitude and amusement in Anders’ voice.
“Love you,” Hawke finally manages to get out, panting against the desk as Anders’ movements knock him forward into the wood, making his hips slip and slide across it.
Anders’ hands settle on his sides, and a warm mouth trails open and damp over his shoulder, his spine, the back of his neck. “I love you, too,” he whispers wet and hot against the nape of Hawke’s neck, making him shiver. “So much. Oh, love, I can’t say how much.”
“Mmm,” Hawke agrees, and manages to reach back with one hand and wrap it around Anders’ where it rests warm and solid against his side, lacing their fingers together as he rocks back on each thrust. “Love you fucking me like this,” he manages after another moment. This is a change, and he feels open and raw and vulnerable and oddly warm with it. “D’you love how I take your cock?”
Anders huffs a little, half-embarrassed laugh against the back of his neck that turns into a moan as Hawke does his best to squeeze himself tight around the length inside of him in time with his movements. “You’re fishing for compliments now?” he murmurs after a moment.
“N-no . . .” his breath shoves out of him on a whine on one of Anders’ thrusts, “no better time to fish for compliments about . . . ahhh, Maker . . . this, is there?”
Anders chuckles a breathy, helpless moan into the back of his neck. “S’pose not,” he breathes, and his breath, hot and damp, flutters Hawke’s hair. “All right, then, yes, I love it. You open up for me, give and give under me like you were made to take my cock like this, like you’ve been waiting for it and you can’t get enough now that I’m giving it to you. You’re so hot around me, so responsive—it’s beautiful, Hawke, the way you respond to my every touch, every shift inside you. I can feel every little shudder, and you revel in it, you love it, don’t you? You’re perfect, athletic and sensual and every inch of you was made for this, love, for sex, no matter how we do it.”
Hawke sighs, warmth flooding through him up from his belly in a wash of tickling heat at those words. He arches himself back against Anders, rubs himself down against his cock, matching his rhythm as best he can even as it leaves him trembling and gasping against the desk, a shuddering whimpering mess of feeling, of too much, pleasure pushing past the edge of pain and leaving him helpless, aching with it. He grinds himself down onto Anders, clutches himself tight around that hot cock so hard and deep inside him, moves with him until he can feel Anders start to tremble, his fingers clench tight around Hawke’s against his side, feel his rhythm stutter out of control until he’s just rutting into Hawke and Hawke slides his knee forward, hooks his hand in the crook of it and holds himself open, letting Anders slam into him until he’s groaning helplessly against the wood, mouth open, unable to catch at breath or suck back the saliva that slicks his lips. He moans, shuddering, as Anders gives one last thrust deep inside him and comes with a muffled, strangled yelping noise that sounds like it would have been a shout if he hadn’t bitten it back, burying his face between Hawke’s shoulders, his breath sobbing in his throat. Hawke tightens his fingers around Anders’, holds his palm close to his side where he can feel it all hot and sweaty against his ribs, wriggles back against him until they’re pressed close against each other all along their bodies. The little shivering twinges of sensation he gets from easing himself back and forth on Anders’ length, milking every last tremor out of him, are just a bonus. He really just wants the warm, close press of Anders along his back, curled close all around him even as he shakes with his climax, his come slicking wet and hot and slippery inside Hawke’s body, his heartbeat thudding against his back, his breath hot and trembling against the place between Hawke’s shoulder and neck. Finally he just slumps, limp, against Hawke, his breaths dragging and even and slow, and Hawke curls their fingers together, holds him close and tries not to make pathetic noises of protest as he feels Anders softening inside him. He closes his eyes and lets his breath even out and concentrates on the warmth of Anders draped over him so warm and boneless and relaxed, rather than the desire throbbing in his groin, the need that makes him want to fuck himself on Anders’ cock again despite how it feels like too much, trembling and twisting him up past pain and back into pleasure. He slips into a kind of fog again, all hazy and warm; even as need still trembles through him on each breath, it’s not desperate any longer, a kind of sweet ache steady under his skin.
Finally Anders stirs against his back, kisses the round of his shoulder, the nape of his neck and the back of his head. “Andraste,” he murmurs breathlessly into Hawke’s skin.
“She was a lovely lady, I’m sure,” Hawke gets out blurrily, his head all sparking lights scattered in that warm fog of Anders’ touch, Anders all pressed up close to him, “but she’s still not invited to our private time, savior or not.”
“I wonder what she’d think about two men making love against a desk,” Anders muses into his hair, “and fucking each other senseless.”
“That it’s hot?” Hawke suggests.
Anders gives a little laugh at that. “You don’t think she’d be scandalized?” he asks, stroking Hawke’s sides with his hands.
“Nah,” Hawke breathes, pressing himself into each touch along his flanks and ribs. “She was a rebel, after all. And she made it with a deity. Probably’d . . . admire our initiative.”
“Never heard that one before,” Anders mutters, and presses another kiss into his hair. “You’re shaking, love,” he says after a moment, in some concern.
“Mmm, yeah,” Hawke sighs. He’s so sensitive, so on edge, he can barely breathe for it, and his body remembers exactly how much when Anders eases back and slides free of him with a wet, slick sound that makes him blush. He makes a helpless noise of his own at the loss.
Anders is stroking his back and sides, soothing, runs his fingers down to his hips, then strokes across his abdomen, his hipbones; his fingers slide across Hawke’s belly and then still just along his pelvis. He curls one hand around Hawke’s cock and Hawke arches up helplessly on a short, sharp growl. “Maker, Hawke, you’re still hard,” Anders gasps out, sounding surprised, “Andraste’s ass. I’m sorry, love, no wonder you’re shaking all over.”
Hawke wants to say, hard again, thank you, he might not be a Grey Warden but his stamina’s not bad, Hard in Hightown, haha, but he can’t, can’t think to get the words out, and he just moans, turns his head blindly to press his face into the curve of Anders’ shoulder as he guides him back to lean against his chest. Come and slick slide down the insides of his thighs, and he shivers, mouths desperately at the pulse in Anders’ neck, eager but unable to focus, all dizzy, dazed and fuzzy and unclear.
“Shh,” Anders whispers. He strokes Hawke lightly with one hand and rests the other, palm flat, on his stomach. Magic flickers around it, just warm and soft, all unfocused flickers, dancing inside him, through his belly, around his cock. Pleasure spikes inside him and he comes all at once, suddenly and hard, so hard it’s too much and it wrenches out of him on a long, low groan, his back arching into a bow against Anders’ shoulder and his eyes sliding closed as he shakes and shudders, every breath a helpless, overwhelmed whimper. Anders swipes his thumb under the head of Hawke’s cock, just over the tip, wet and warm and sticky with come, and Hawke moans again, shuddering, as Anders cups his length in his warm, steady palm . . . then Anders takes his hands away, and the magic eases gently away with them. Hawke nearly falls, just barely manages to catch himself between Anders and the desk. His knees buckle, too weak and wobbly to hold him. Anders gets his arms back around him just in time, and they half fall together as Hawke’s weight slumps too heavily onto Anders; Anders bangs his knee against the side of the desk and Hawke gasps out an apology and they end up in a tangle of limbs on the library floor, barely missing the chair. Hawke realizes he’s too pleasure-dazed and bleary to hold himself up a few moments later when his arms buckle and ends up lying half on top of Anders, his face buried in his shoulder. The cloth of Anders’ shirt is worn thin and soft, and he can feel the heat of the other man’s body radiating through it. Anders curves his arms around his shoulders without a word of complaint about Hawke’s substantial body weight sprawled out atop him and strokes Hawke’s hair as his shuddering breathing starts to ease. For a few moments they stay like that, all tangled up in each other, warm and close with sweaty skin pressed hot against sweaty skin wherever Anders’ disordered shirt and trousers twisted around knees don’t get in the way. Hawke curls himself closer, drapes his arms around Anders’ neck and nuzzles his face into the hollow of his throat and shoulder, soft skin under rough stubble, and doesn’t want to move.
“Thank you,” he breathes against the pulse in Anders’ throat. His lips seem to move slowly, and the words feel like all damp, clumsy breath.
“You say that like I didn’t get anything out of it,” Anders says on a breathy little laugh, that Hawke can feel where it catches, fluttering, in his chest. “Maker, Hawke . . . .”
“Go on,” Hawke mumbles with a grin into Anders’ skin. “Don’t stop on my account.”
Anders huffs a breath, but his fingers tangle softly in Hawke’s hair, his thumb warm at the back of his neck. “I swear, sometimes it’s like you’re going to wilt and die unless someone’s showering you in praise.” His words sound languid, and they came slow and dragging. Hawke tilts his head up, letting his grin widen, tugging at the corners of his lips.
“That’s because it’s true,” he says.
“It is not true,” Anders says, smiling up at him in return. He reaches up and brushes his fingers over Hawke’s cheek, his thumb over his lips. “You can’t fool me. I’ve seen you go whole weeks without extravagant accolades from me or from anyone else.”
Hawke kisses the pad of Anders’ thumb before he frowns. “Those must have been off weeks,” he tells him. “You should strike them from your memory.”
Anders laughs. “You’re incorrigible,” he says, but there’s a fond smile on his lips.
“I do my best,” Hawke tells him.