Scene: Anders masturbates to Hawke. Set in moments scattered across the series' timeline, but ends chronologically after the events of "In the wee hours."
The first time Anders masturbates about Thomas Hawke happens not too long after their first meeting.
It is morning, early morning, as he slowly makes his way back to the clinic from Lowtown after having attended a difficult home birth—one of Lirene's shopgirls, if he recalls correctly. His energy and concentration drained, the mage's thoughts wander carelessly from constructing the list of supplies he needs to replenish to calculating the amount required for the Coterie's monthly protection racket until he settles on contemplating his most recent adventurewith Hawke in which they made a disastrous attempt to rescue Karl. They say first impressions are lasting, and the image of Hawke granting his former mentor a mercy kill is not one he will soon forget.
Though Anders is sure that he has at least four or five years on her, it is a fact easily forgotten when she is around, towering over everyone the way she does, the swordsman's plating lending even more weight and gravitas to her already larger-than-life aura. Not since his time in Amaranthine has he met another person with as much presence as the Warden—although the look of his former commander pales in comparison to this new intrusion in his life. Anders shakes his head. An intrusion, no doubt. She had stridden past his shanty doors, calm and unafraid in the face of his initial warning. While that smooth operator of a dwarf waved his hands and spoke honey, she had quietly stood behind him with her arms crossed, as if to escape notice.
Anders has to snort at that one: an impossible feat no matter how hard she tries. He had nodded to Varric as his eyes lingered on her, noting her striking features that are so not much pretty as they are distinct. Handsomewould be the most suitable word for that long, angular face that framed a voluptuous mouth and heavy-lidded eyes that stared back at him, having caught his unsubtle ogling. He had coughed and looked away then, a strange hammering in his chest. It was the first time since his merger with Justice that he had thought of anything else besides the mages' plight.
Unsurprisingly, Justice was not—is not!—pleased. Like an illness, she had begun to creep around the fringes of his thoughts, appearing gradually or suddenly, depending on the hour. He wants to know more about her, about her brother Carver who had died on their way from Lothering, about her favorite food, about her opinion on the Circle of Magi—
Ah, but Anders knows how Hawke feels about that. He knows all too clearly, and what she thinks of him as well. The templar ambush in the Chantry had made sure of that.
He rounds a corner, entering the less slummy section of Lowtown where the Hawke family currently resides. Within minutes, he identifies Gamlen's homely abode some yards ahead of him. Anders looks up; the sky has lightened considerably from its original midnight blue. Hawke is probably inside, still asleep in a bunk bed above Bethany, one brown arm hanging out the side. It is not hard to picture in his mind for in fact, she fills his mental borders swiftly, and irresistibly—
As if summoned, the door creaks open, letting out a dusky-skinned Rivaini who sleepily leans on the doorway, her hip cocked to one side. Moments later, Hawke steps out from the shadows of the interior, her hair in disarray as she touches Isabela's arm. Their voices are too far away to discern any words, but their low, inviting tones float over to where Anders stands, rooted to the spot.
The small part of his mind that has not been frozen notes that they make for a pretty tableau: two brown, statuesque women flirting back and forth. In response to one of Hawke's (no doubt) dry witticisms, Isabela throws her head back in a throaty laugh, then snakes her arms around the other woman's neck to pull her down for a kiss that starts off perfunctory but turns languorous and lazy, their hands wandering everywhere. Hawke slowly backs the pirate against the wall of Gamlen's shack at the same time that Anders regains the use of his legs and forces himself to walk past them unnoticed, completely mute in the face of what he has just witnessed.
Why wouldn't Hawke have a go-round with Isabela? It is none of his business who she chooses to sleep with, and the two women are well-matched in their own way. This has nothing to do with him. Nothing. No thing.
This is a waste of time.
Anders somehow makes it back to his clinic where there is miraculously no one waiting outside for his return. Barring the doors shut, he drops his bag in the middle of the ground, darts behind a makeshift partition that separates his cot from the rest, and buries his head in his hands. The images refuse to go away, instead filling in what is happening (could be! could be!) after he had bolted. Hawke and Isabela, eyes alight with mischief, sliding through the doorway back inside. Isabela shoving dirty plates off of the table. Hawke's hands gripping the sides of said table for leverage. Corset ties ripped off. Open-mouthed kisses. Finger-sucking. Sighs that mingle (whose.)
Hers.
The only one he wants.
Anders groans and dips his hand beneath his trousers.
Already hard and throbbing, he takes himself in hand while carefully erasing the pirate from his fantasy to draw himself in. Now he's the one leaving trail marks down her back. Now Hawke moans softly at his tongue on her breast and hisfingers that glide in and out of her with near-shocking ease. Anders hisses on the upstroke. Hawke pants into his ear, whispering filthy things he will never hear her say. Downstroke. He enters her, sinking all of the way in on the first thrust. Her legs hook around his waist. Anders bites his lip, his other hand cradling his balls.
What would she sound like? Is she a screamer? Does she whimper? No, his mind supplies, not our reserved, self-contained Hawke. Fine. Muffled groans and sighs then, while her passion manifests itself in other exciting ways. He quickens the pace, lets his established rhythm go erratic. Like: angry red bites on his neck, fingers ready to tear his hair out from the roots, muscular thighs locking around his head, sweat-sheen appearing on her forehead, the rigid arch of her back as Hawke gaspshis name when they both
come
and Anders spills hot and heavy into his hand, eyes squeezed shut in equal parts shame, frustration, and relief. The image of her, supple and pliant, fades back into the deep recesses of his mind. When he is done, Anders uses the edges of his bed sheet to wipe away the mess with shaking hands. Judging by how long he lasted, he laughs hollowly at how out of practice he has been. Inevitably, he will see her again soon, and all she would have to do is take one look at his face, and she would know. Who is he kidding? Hawke knows everything. Reaching for the basin on his nightstand, he dips his hands in and tries, tries to promise himself that this will not become a habit, that this was merely a one-time concession.
Anders stops counting after a while and grants himself this one thing to have all for himself. Some mornings he wakes up hard with the dream-scent of Hawke on his fingers and briskly does his business right before opening his clinic to Darktown's citizens. Some nights the Old Gods' call rings silent as he tosses and turns to more pleasurable visions, his hand inevitably wandering down to the tent in his pants. Sometimes he even takes breaks throughout the day. Eventually they all blur with the passing months (and years—years?) into an endless string of half-formed fantasies and fully formed wishes that always leave him wanting.
He would not have so much trouble abstaining were it not for the curious fact that Hawke still asks for him regularly, whether to help her gather this herb or that reagent for Solivitus, to treat the frequent wounds she and her group acquire on their misadventures, or to simply be an extra player at the table in The Hanged Man on Wicked Grace nights—or Diamondback, take his pick. Anders walks away with empty pockets at the end of every game, but decides it is worth losing to that blighted elf just to see her relaxed and smiling with her feet propped up on the table.
On certain days, Anders manages to convince himself that he does not need her. That he does not want her. That the mere glimpse of the nape of her neck does not send him into a heady tailspin of unwanted images and explicit sequences in the middle of combat. That he does not lo—no. So the sleepless nights, the restless afternoons, and every other hour in between can all be overcome by sheer force of will—of which he has none.
Hawke could never know how much he aches for her nor how often the image of her hair down interrupts his writing sessions, his manifesto left forgotten on the table for the umpteenth time as he takes himself in hand. Establishing a routine is far too easy as he pushes Justice to a corner in his mind and mentally wanders down the length of her back, tight and sinewy with muscle, skims his fingers up her thighs, buries his nose in her cleft, sucking and inhaling until he cannot breathe for want of her. Anders' shoulders slump afterwards, although in frustration or exhaustion he cannot tell.
And when he just so happens to meet her eyes across the tavern—or cave, shore, forest, whatever—and Hawke being bloody Thomas Hawke, gives him a hint of a smile in acknowledgment, she has absolutely no way of knowing the heat drawn tight in his groin or the ongoing internal struggle between what he wants and what he/Justice wants. Or rather, the insidious part of his mind suggests, she knows exactly what Anders is going through whenever she looks at him and chooses to toss him scraps of her attention anyway.
Maker how he hates her.
The afternoon begins innocently enough.
"Have you found a cat then?"
Anders looks up to find Hawke staring down at him. His stomach gives a traitorous lurch. They have not seen each other since the day they got back from the Deep Roads Expedition. From what he has gathered from Varric, she has been neck-deep in negotiations for the old Amell estate, unavailable to her immediate companions for damn near two months. He had chosen to keep to himself for all this time because he does not know what to say to her in the aftermath of Bethany's departure. As for how Hawke has been truly keeping, that remains a mystery. In any case, though, she is here now.
He gets to his feet. "Not yet, though I have been trying." Gesturing to the pan of milk he has just set out, he adds with a sigh, "The people here have probably eaten most of them."
"You could ask Merrill to catch one for you," she says, "They're always bothering her in the Lowtown markets."
He thins his mouth at the mention of the blood mage. "I'm sure there are some tabbies around here. I won't give up."
When seconds pass by without a response, Anders shrugs and returns to what he had been doing before. One by one, he removes the tattered sheets and beats the bed cots in silence, dust and debris flying everywhere. He can feel Hawke's stare on his back and pictures how she must be standing: ramrod straight posture, chin up, arms loosely crossed. The back of his neck prickles. What does she want from us? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he should ask her how things have been going. Maybe he should also grow a set of gilded wings and decorate his clinic in pink drapes.
Hearing Hawke clear her throat, he steels his shoulders and turns around. "Is there something you need?" Dammit. I sound like an ass.
Her jaw clenches and unclenches. "Yes, there is."
Is it me you need? I need y—"Care to elaborate?"
"Right," she says, shaking her head. "I'm hoping that you have something for anxiety."
He wipes his hands on a questionably clean rag and leans against a stand. "I might. Who's this for?"
Her eyes dart elsewhere for a bit before settling back on him. "My mother."
"Leandra?" Anders has only met her a few times before the Expedition, but he remembers the warmth in her smile and the fussy, fretful gestures she would make over her daughters. "Is she alright?"
"She has trouble sleeping most days," Hawke admits, "and she can't keep her food down." Again, her eyes cast downwards. "There've been some mood swings as well."
Has it really been that bad for her? Maybe I could come over to give Leandra a checkup—she did not ask for us so we will not go. He nods. "The symptoms are common enough. I have a tonic that should help. A moment, please."
Foolish mage, foolish man, Anders tells himself as he rummages through his medicine cabinet, fingers fumbling for the correct bottle. Just ask her how she's doing. Ask her! After complete silence on her part all these weeks she suddenly arrives at our doorstep, only to ask for assistance. I think not. Come Anders, we have more pressing matters at hand. The Underground—
"Here," he says in a rush, thrusting a medium-sized bottle at her, "have her take two spoonfuls of this once a day after dinner until it runs out. Be careful with the dosage, there's a liberal amount of elfroot in there."
Hawke takes it from him, her fingers not quite brushing his. "Thank you," she murmurs, watching the clear liquid swirl around inside.
She is dressed in her usual suit of armor, but the plating does not hide the dark circles under her eyes that are deeper and more pronounced than before they had left for the Deep Roads. He swallows. Just a simple question. That's all. "Hawke—"
A street urchin barges in through the door, breathless. "Templars, doc! They's comin'!"
"Maker's bloody balls," Anders hisses and grabs Hawke's hand. "You don't have time to leave. Come with me."
Before she can say anything, he shoves some straw aside from a patch of floor several feet away to reveal a trapdoor, opens the latch, drags the both of them down its tiny steps, and closes the door.
The space is already tight with Anders squeezed in here, but the addition of one large clanking swordswoman have the two literally mashed together with the floor cracks above them as their only source of air. The scraggly little boy can be heard running about the clinic, deliberately destroying random objects of interest and stowing the more valuable things away. Trust Varric to hire an effective scout just for him. With his joints already starting to ache, he tries to move an arm but realizes he cannot because that would mean sliding against the part of Hawke's armor that covers her…right.
He blinks away the dust in his eyes. Hawke gives a tiny cough that he feels right next to his ear. The heat her body radiates envelops the entirety of his left side, and Anders is sure he has never committed any crime so horrible as to warrant this cruel and unusual punishment. The last time he found himself hiding in a cubby was back at the Tower—also from templars, coincidentally. He was not alone as well, and the brief moment spent crammed against each other had lead to a hushed, giggling interlude in one of the alcoves on the upper floors.
Somehow, he doubts this particular repeat will have a similar ending.
The clinic has gone silent and stays that way for a few seconds more before heavy footsteps shake the ground some yards away. How many pairs? Three, perhaps four. Hawke shifts beside him, and Anders touches what he thinks is her knee, mutely shaking his head. When she does not react by shoving him against the wall, he nearly sighs in relief, letting his hand stay there under the pretense of further nonverbal communication. He does not have room to turn to see (not that he canin this darkness) the expression on her face.
On second thought, he can do without that piece of information.
Conversational murmurs float down, filtering through the trapdoor to reach them in scattered words. "Mage," "underground," and "Knight-Commander" are mentioned several times; Anders strains to hear more, craning his neck because we can eavesdrop on future patrols and raids so maybe if I just move up a tad—but Hawke puts her hand on his thigh and presses, killing whatever impulse he had to risk exposing themselves. Her fingers are dangerously close to his crotch (she doesn't know, she can't have known), and this is the best and worst thing that has happened to him in forever.
Steady now, you're not a horny teenager at the Circle anymore. The footfalls close over the trapdoor that mercifully does not creak. Anders holds his breath and closes his eyes, digging crescent-shaped nail marks into his free hand to distract himself from the five burning points that lie inches from his smalls which have unsurprisingly grown far, far too tight. He briefly considers getting up right now and turning himself in, if only to prevent the mortifying ordeal of Hawke noticing his raging hard-on. The Gallows or eternal shame and embarrassment? What wonderful choices.
He cannot take this much longer, but in the Maker's infinite grace, the templars linger for another minute or two before finally, miraculously, clanging their way out the door, leaving the two of them very much alone. Anders exhales harshly, gulping in breaths while Hawke mutters, "They might still be around."
"I'm sorry, Hawke, I didn't mean to drag you into th—"
"Just." A sigh. "I won't mention this again—"
"I don't even know how you've been doing. How areyou?"
"…you've certainly chosen an odd time to ask me," she says after a pause, taking her traitorous hand off of him.
Anders shuts his mouth then, his face on fire. Wordlessly, Hawke opens the trapdoor. She is the first to climb out and effortlessly yanks the mage to his feet, wild strands escaping the bun atop her head. He surveys the damage done to his clinic—extensive, but nothing he cannot fix and salvage—covertly adjusts his clothing, and turns back to Hawke, who has produced the tonic for her mother from an unseen pocket, inspecting it for cracks or contamination. Passing scrutiny, she makes a noiseless sound of approval, stores it away, and looks at him. Her jaw keeps working.
"I'm fine," Hawke says simply. "Take care as well."
She turns on her heel and leaves him to it.
Anders stares after her, mouth agape. Did that just happen? Hawke came in, upturned his life again, and departed just as swiftly. It does not take long for the initial shock to wear off, but when it does, Justice threatens to take over. I should have run after her. So she could make a fool out of you again? I forbid it. This time, he does not bother moving to his cot. He does not even close the door all the way as he pushes his tunic aside and grabs a hold of himself, gritting his teeth in frustration. How she dare just walk away like that? How dare she leave him to clean up this mess on his own after he had given her free medicine? How dare she use him like this?
How dare she?
This is a woman who cares nothing for you, and yet you allow yourself to be used by the likes of her—I know, I know! Anders curls over himself, groaning for the satisfaction he cannot have, and reconstructs what happened moments ago. Hawke turns around, but he grabs her arm and pulls her back, growling at her to stay. He pins her against the door, swallowing her weak protests in a kiss. She becomes shorter, her hands more delicate, her face more vulnerable—more human. It is not difficult to hold her down and unbuckle her armor, piece by piece. They hit the floor with a terrible racket that does not mask the indecent sounds coming from her quivering, red mouth.
If only he could have her once, just the one time, maybe then he would be rid of this obsession for her. All the nights spent fantasizing about a templar-sympathizer, all the days spent assisting her on silly adventures that have nothing to do with him, all the countless hours wasted with her merry band of misfits, precious time that could be used in infinitely more productive ways: none of it makes any sense. Why should he care? He should not care. He doesn't, I don't. I don't! Deep down, Anders knows better, but he can pretend for as long as need be because eventually, the ruse becomes a reality, right?
Right?
Fantasy-Hawke's nails write the answer on his back as his hand twists up and down, and Anders can no longer think coherently anymore. Eyes glassy, he lies back on a cot he has just cleaned out, pumping away with abandon. Hawke scrabbling for support as he pounds into her. Anders throwing her legs over the crook of his elbows to hold her in place. Their thin, desperate pants filling the air. The rhythmic slap of skin on skin. Sweat sliding against sweat. Whispers against her ear, his voice rough with emotion, "Who's the helpless one now? Who can't get enough now? Who needs who now? Not me. Never me." A moan in response.
Yanks her hair back, exposing her neck, and breathes in her scent—earthy, smoky, unknowable; and damn if it is not her smell that sends him over the edge, and soon enough Anders is tensing up with a hand over his mouth to muffle his moans that weakly drag out for long seconds afterwards, hips jerking on the cot.
When the spasms end, he stays where he is, listlessly staring up at the ceiling. There is no feeling of exhausted afterglow for him (unless one only includes the exhausted bit.) His hands shudder at his sides. You are weak. Oh shut up. I won't be so generous next time. Let's have her pull another stunt like this one. Teach her to take me for granted. I'm not her plaything. Go bother someone else, go spin mind games with Fenris or Merrill. Maker, just stay out of my head and out of my life. Please. Please.
But of course, he does not really mean any of that.
Surprisingly enough, Bodahn lets him into the house without batting an eye. Her lumbering giant of a pet does not stir from its spot in front of the fire either as the mabari turns its head towards him, its tail lying flat on the rug. Anders gingerly fingers the package in his hands. He had purposely chosen a day where Leandra would be off visiting Gamlen for tea, but had forgotten about the rest of Hawke's staff. Bodahn eyes him in a way that does not seem unkind while Orana's faint singing can be heard in a room off to the side. Sandal is nowhere to be found.
"A package for Mistress Hawke?" the dwarf inquires. "She's not in right now, but I can pass it along to her if you'd like."
Before the mage can reply, a sharp crack and the distinct sound of something expensive breaking draws the dwarf's attention. Bodahn fairly jumps, hand clapped to his chest, and raises his eyebrows sheepishly at Anders.
"My sincerest apologies, if you'll excuse me—" And takes off running to another room, his cries of "Sandal, not again!" dimly echoing back to him. The mabari pricks its ears, vaguely interested, and lays its head down again.
To his credit, Anders wavers only for a moment that quickly passes when he takes the stairs by two, arriving at Hawke's room much sooner than he had anticipated because now he is suddenly standing at her open door, recalling the only other memory he has of that room. She's been looking more rested since Bethany left for Ansburg two weeks ago. No more falling-down-drunk nights at The Hanged Man either. Then again, he knows all of this solely through Varric. It is a cycle he is tired of: these extended absences from her side interspersed with short bursts of arguments, awkward silences, or both—none of which, he laments, lead to what he dreams about at night.
No one is upstairs to see him walk through the doorway. The interior looks exactly the same as it had the night he helped her home, clean and spare, with no new additions to the décor. Steady, his intrepid leader, and since when had he begun to think of Thomas Hawke as his to claim? Shaking his head, Anders sets the package on her desk, its coarse, brown casing crackling as it rubs against the wood. He lets his hand linger, then slide from desk to chair to along the blank cream walls, committing more sensory details to memory until he comes to a stop at her bed.
Didn't Bodahn say she would be out for a while? There is a little voice in most people's heads that is meant to guide them to making careful, cautious decisions. The apostate has his own substitute, but he ignores that too by sitting on her folded covers and digging his fingers into the fabric. What foolhardy thing are you about to do now—Nothing! It's not like that. I'm not going to wank off in her house with the dwarves, the elf, and the bloody dog right downstairs. I just want this…He lies back on her bed face-down, banishing all other thoughts. Her scent saturates the sheets. Anders is undone.
What would it be like to come back to this after a day's work at the clinic? Stripping off his ragged, filthy robes to soak in the bath for at least an hour, using a whole, uncracked mirror to shave, and climbing under the covers to find her warm and waiting with steady eyes that promise she will always be there? Her patient ear that would listen to every life he could not save, every mage he could not free, every complaint about that damn tattooed elf, every worry every fear every doubt and the ultimate plea he has not spoken aloud since his earliest days in the Circle and will not speak.
They would have dinner on the evenings that he does not have to stay out late. Read by the fire. Shop at the Hightown markets. Get a cat or two. She would accept his magic, and he would care for her out in the open, damn the consequences.
She could share in what happiness he does have left, if only that she would. Anders closes his eyes. If only.
Anders knows something is terribly wrong when he blearily cracks an eye open to find that he is still in Hawke's room. He wiggles his fingers, feeling the smooth sheets beneath him. What time is it? How long had he fallen asleep in Hawke's bed oh Maker above. Of all the situations I can't do anything right shit shit shit—Once the initial wave of shame and embarrassment passes, he recoups his thoughts. Has no one come up here to check? Bodahn must have assumed I left after dropping off my package. But what about Orana? Sandal? The dog?
The bed rustles as he gets up, eyes drawn to the unopened parcel sitting on the desk. Hawke has not yet arrived then. There is time yet to escape this predicament unseen. Or it could be that she is home and has decided to throw away his package later. Or maybe I should stop rambling and figure out how to leave before anyone sees me how could I have been this stupid—
"You're awake."
Luckily, Anders does not jump three feet into the air and merely whips his head to the doorway where Hawke (in a soft red robe he has never seen before but could stand to see again) is standing, her hand draped over the doorknob while she spares a glance at the small box atop her letters. He is already on his feet with his hands in the air by the time she looks back, holding her mouth strangely. Justice has gone silent, and he is quite alone inside his head.
Gesturing feebly to the desk, he begins, "I came in to drop off some medicine."
She raises an eyebrow. "I didn't ask for—"
"I know," Anders goes on hastily, "but I remember what you said the other day—night. That you had trouble ah, sleeping." Keep going, finish what you have to say, and get the hell out. "I had extra bottles of tonic lying around and thought I'd just bring one or two here so Bodahn let me in, but then Sandal broke something and he told me to take it to your room (Lies!) which I did and…well." I am the picture of coherence. Why hasn't the ground swallowed me up yet?
Hawke had seemed to stiffen at his brief mention of That Night She Was Inebriated, but when he trails off at the end, the corners of her mouth twitch, whether in amusement or suppressed irritation he does not know. He is painfully aware of what he must look like right now, all rumpled feathers (Ha!) and pillow-marked face on the area he had slept on. She strides over to his side of the room to inspect the unsolicited care package while he remains frozen.
Hawke tears open the wrapping and blinks at the bottles' familiar appearance—"Is this what you gave my mother two years ago?"
"Most likely. If I remember correctly, you two have very similar symptoms."
She sets the bottle down, her back turned to him, and after a second murmurs, "I'm everything like her, it seems."
"Wait, what did you s—"
"Thank you for the donation," she says firmly, facing him again. "Was there anything else you have for me?"
It is not a slap, but Anders feels the sting on his cheek anyway. "No," he mumbles. "Excuse me then," he starts, sidestepping Hawke, who does not let him get away so easily. Stilling him with a well-placed hand on his shoulder, she works her jaw in what he now knows to be to her go-to habit for when she is searching for the right words to say some wise, pithy phrase that usually ends fights and smoothes whatever diplomatic relations the Viscount has her presiding over. The apostate holds his breath and waits.
For one agonizing minute, her wide, grey eyes flicker between him and the messy bed, furiously calculating. Anders braces himself for the rebuke that never comes because she gives her head a tiny, imperceptible shake and releases him instead, skating her bare fingers down his arm that morph into a pointed gesture towards the open door. At last, he takes her gentle warning for what it is and walks out with his dignity somewhat intact—too bad he cannot say the same for rest of him.
A/N: Alright guys, this is where you've caught up with me and my slow-ass writing self. I don't know when the next installment's going to be because I'm still working on that over in the kinkmeme (been working on it since February o_o) so here's to hoping I'll eventually get out of my writer's funk and finish it in a timely manner.