Backthreading, nsfw

[questionablewit]

[[Backthreading nsfw romantic history post for birdhousesoul. Set not long after they hook up, before All That Remains]]



Hawke falls back on the bed, sweat sticking her hair to her forehead, skin flushed. It's the middle of the night, but the fire in the fireplace still burns enough to cast more light than shadows on her skin, and on the skin of the man next to her. "That was amazing." Still breathing hard, she smiles brilliantly at him, then decides that's not enough and rolls towards him for another kiss. She can't seem to stop kissing him now that she's finally able to. Not that she's tried hard to resist the urge for the past...week, maybe two weeks? It seems longer, and not long enough. "Andraste's flaming pyre, Anders, where'd you learn to do all this?"

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[birdhousesoul]

She did know, then. The smile's what gives it away for certain, though Anders had his suspicions at the time. The complete disrobing was what made him wonder — the shirt, he understood, but the rest of it, he thought less likely under the circumstances — and he had no will to question that, because he couldn't have kept watching if he'd questioned, and he could afford to entertain no suspicion strong enough to tear his eyes from Hawke or flush him from concealment. Justice hadn't cared, surprisingly; it was all part and parcel of the ongoing distraction that offended the spirit's sense of priorities, not troubling in any other aspect; all the guilt attached to this particular indulgence belonged to Anders. Likewise, all the reluctance to relieve the consequent tension in his trousers belonged to Anders. Justice has neither interest nor distaste for bodily functions beyond the inconvenience they can pose.

"The view? Not clear enough to suit me, more than clear enough to keep me transfixed. I couldn't turn away if I'd wanted. I had to savor every moment, every inch of skin revealed, even knowing what this would do to me, the dreams I'd have, worse than before." The amount of laundry the dreams would occasion. "It was over far too quickly for my liking, and when she'd gone, I couldn't rejoin the group, not in that state. There was a tent, not far away ..."

Another of the little camps that raiders and apostates had a habit of leaving in place, what with sudden death preventing them from breaking camp, whether that death came from mercenaries or rival raider troops or Hawke's friends themselves. Merrill found it, that day, and it demanded a cursory looting although everyone knew it'd probably been well picked-over. The most they found were a couple of coppers, and they not too proud to pick those up, Deep Roads wealth notwithstanding. Those, and some of the typical assortment of torn trousers and the like. A silk headscarf torn beyond darning, not the right stuff to be sold for rags. These weren't worth taking, the pack growing full with richer pickings found earlier.

"What could I do? Took refuge there and, ah, took matters in hand." His hand has better tasks now, creeping round the back of her thigh and to the softer flesh inside. His voice is low, conspiratorial. "I came so hard I thought I might pass out. That would've been difficult to explain."

(With his luck he'd have hit his skull on the way down. The others would've come looking for him and found him in what could be euphemistically termed a compromising position, breeches open, a conspicuous wad of old silk fallen nearby.)

[questionablewit]

Hawke's breath catches audibly at I came so hard I thought I might pass out; she has a sudden vivid mental image of him, frantically working at himself while imagining her, what the look on his face would have been as he desperately sought release and found it. The picture sends a rush of heat through her, heightened by the direction his hand is taking. For all that she's on top at the moment, has been toying with him as they share all these things, she suddenly feels that the balance of power has shifted. Which makes her even more breathless.

Picking up the thread of conversation is difficult. "So you did like the view." Very difficult. Well, eloquence is overrated at times like this, or at least Hawke devoutly hopes so. "And the dreams you'd have? You mentioned something about dreams." He's barely touching her, it has no business being so effective.