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?"

Comments

[birdhousesoul]

"A small sample? Sweetheart, I don't do small." Laughing, he extricates himself from her embrace, rolls away and slides off the bed.

The things he's bothered moving from the clinic are basic. He doesn't own much by way of clothing: a few changes of shirts and smalls, and all of those ancient as time, greyed by age and washed soft as eiderdown; stockings darned countless times, the same; there's the tiny embroidered pillow he hides at the bottom of a knapsack, and the fact he's moved that here says a lot, if she's ever seen it. More of what he's brought is by way of healer's supply, some of that already here in case of emergency, things she could use if he weren't around. Health potions, stamina potions, bandages and ointments and oils, a pot of redblossom salve he presented to her and Bethany as a joke ("for dear uncle Gamlen") the day after they caught Gamlen at the bar in the Blooming Rose. Some things he buys from Solivitus, more recently, after the Deep Roads put a little coin in his pocket (not that he didn't pour most of that into Lirene's donation box and Selby's succession of needs, a care package for every blessed apostate funneled through Darktown), but he used to make most everything himself. What he rummages for now, in the jumble of things whose arrangement and logic only he knows, was made by Solivitus to special order, simple proportions nonetheless spelled out.

Anders steps into a pair of smallclothes himself, she can't keep him naked all the time, and brings his bottle of oil with him back to the bed. Grapeseed oil compounded with evening primrose and sandalwood oils, nothing he'd use himself, why would he need it? He'd gotten it a month ago, half convinced himself it'd make a nameday present for Isabela (only half convinced, because he knew full well that giving that kind of gift would mean a demand for personal application, and that meant it was out of the question). There are things he's wanted to do to Hawke for ages, and to do for her; and a surprising proportion of these have nothing to do with sex, or very little to do with it, though too intimate for a friend. Brush her hair out of her face. Rub the tension out of her muscles, properly, at length. Now that he's permitted these indulgences, he'll never get tired of them.

"On your belly, then," but finds he doesn't have to direct her, she's already anticipated this, stretching out with her arms slightly apart from her sides, her head turned sideways on the pillow. He clambers over to straddle the backs of her thighs — this is why he put the smallclothes on, it could be uncomfortable for him otherwise, he'd stick — and uncorks the bottle with his teeth, for whimsy. A small dash to begin with, a pool the size of a silver coin in his palm, and he reaches to place the bottle out of toppling range to a safe spot on her nightstand before he rubs his palms together and sets to work.

"Squeaker the Mad, hm?" Starts in on her shoulders first. "A name to conjure terror."

[questionablewit]

Hawke pouts just a little when he pulls on smallclothes, more for the form of the thing rather than from any real dismay, and resists the urge to respond to I don't do small. Too easy, and she enjoys watching him move around the room--their room, now--and search through his belongings. She's already pleasantly relaxed after the evening exertions. Night's exertions, really, they might want to consider sleep, but there was a nap earlier in the day and nothing urgent planned for tomorrow, and she could get to like this being a noble business more than she expected. And she can't think of anything she'd rather be doing than this, just spending time with Anders, trading stories and laughter and touches. Even sleep. If she's short tomorrow, so be it, that's a more than fair trade to her mind. And, presumably, his.

So she prepares herself for a not small sample of backrub, laughing when he uncorks the bottle, though the laugh turns quickly to a drawn-out sigh of contentment when he begins. She's had her shoulders rubbed before, by him and others, but never with the potential of a full-body exploration, and never with oil involved. She really hadn't expected how that would enhance the experience, making it warm and slippery in addition to soothing. "Mm, Maker, yes. Right. Squeaker the Mad. The terrible pirate rat, scourge of the Eighth Sea, which was what I pretended the little creek near the edge of the village was called. Long dead, but legends of his ruthlessness were almost as numerous as the legends of the treasure hoard he'd amassed in his day, which Quackers and his loyal first mate Marian set out to find. Complete with a treasure map, of course. Not much of a map, more of a rag I borrowed from my mother's sewing kit and then drew on with some charcoal."

Paper was dear, much too expensive for this sort of purpose. The local miller made some, now and then, but it was hoarded. Paper and ready access to books were marks of the wealthy, or the Chantry; many of the Lothering villagers couldn't read at all. Most of the Hawke children's education was done orally, or by scraping chalk or charcoal on the table, cleaning it, and repeating the process.

[birdhousesoul]

He digs the heels of his hands into her muscles, both latissimi dorsi at once, a hand to each side. He's not fussed over the hour; they've stayed up half the night for lesser reasons. (Lesser reasons include clearing the city of vicious thugs who prey on the citizens by dark. The love of one woman outweighs the safety of entire neighborhoods, for Anders, at this point, he readily acknowledges, and Justice doesn't like it, but Justice has no choice. Justice is a little shocked himself, after the problem of Ella, and has been quieter than usual even before Anders' surrender to Hawke occasioned the spirit's distaste and retreat.) They can doze tomorrow, if they like. The lost hats and mislaid tomes of Kirkwall's careless denizens can wait.

"If your mother kept the map, it would be smeared beyond recognition by now, I suppose," Anders muses. It's sad, because he'd love to see that map. "I notice that Ser Quackers is the captain, and you're only first mate. I'd have expected he would be your companion. Why was that, do you think? Were you learning leadership from him?"

[questionablewit]

"Had more to do with Captain Quackers sounding better than Captain Marian, I think," Hawke is too distracted by his hands pressing onto her back to remember clearly. He has a knack for finding the places where tension collects, for working his way under muscle to chase it down, and holy Maker how has she survived all these years without him to do this? "The map was smeared beyond recognition by the end of the day, and caked with mud besides. As was I." Quite a lot of Hawke's pre-Kirkwall life has involved being caked with mud. At this rate he'll think she has a fetish.

"But I'm getting ahead of myself." She tried to resume her storytelling voice, though it took on a certain purring quality despite her best endeavors. "Captain Quackers and his loyal first mate Marian tracked a long and perilous route through the backyard, over Haystack Mountain, across the Barley Plains, until after a long morning of searching they came to what they sought: the Lost Island of Ismey, in the Forbidden Sea. Which was also the creek near the edge of the village, but nevermind that. And there they found that the dead pirate captain had set up a series of fiendish traps to catch anyone who dared come seeking his treasure."