What some called romantic others might just think of as ‘creepy’ or ‘unclean.’
Anything important like that always deserved controversy. If everyone agreed about everything there’d be no reason for Hawke to feel gut-punched and ale-drunk every time he looked Anders’s way specifically and discovered a new and ludicrous detail: something stuck and left for dead in Anders’s feathers, for example, or a streak of sticky slush on his trousers, or the curious brown color one of the bandages on his right sleeve had turned in the few years Hawke had known him.
But Hawke did feel gut-punched and ale-drunk over those things and also everything else—loose hair tickling Anders’s tall forehead, slim fingers freckled and stained by poultices but always cleaner for it, a mouth that never knew how it was frowning or how it was smiling, and a funny little arch in his back that drove Hawke wild as a bronto and twice as reckless.
‘Go for a Deep Roads reference,’ Isabela suggested. ‘Tell him you want to plunder his buried thaig. Find the diamond at the end of the tunnel. Bang the anvil with your mighty hammer.’
‘Whatever you do, no limericks,’ Varric added. ‘There once was my cock in your arse needs to never be revisited. …Ever.’
‘You aren’t planning on tearing off his trousers in his clinic, are you?’ Merrill tapped her mouth with a murderous, magical finger. ‘…I suppose I’ll never know when you mean actually dirty or Isabela dirty, will I?’
‘Pfaugh,’ Fenris said.
Different people. Different opinions. Hawke juggled them all like stolen peaches and apples outside of Lothering to prove a point to an unimpressed brother who never clapped about it.
Hawke flexed his fingers, imagining the curve of a backside—however bony it might have been—fitting against his palms, the press of tight thighs against his hips, the fall of loose hair over a tall brow and also Hawke’s nose and also their breath and also Hawke’s trousers round his ankles and Anders’s trousers round his knees and boot buckles and elfroot and fingertips and shivery feathers and spilled ink and ruined manifestos and opened coats and warmed brass buckles and bucking against one another, making…
Well, making for a sort of people sandwich.
‘How do you feel about meat, Anders?’ Hawke asked later that night. ‘Thick, delicious slabs of meat together at last, sliding between two well-kneaded buns…’
‘My mighty hammer and your anvil go well together, don’t you think?’ he asked even later that night.
I have strange and inexplicable feelings about your dirty feathers and the way you mend old clothes seemed even more disastrous than poetry, after all.
i dedicate this to spicyshimmy because she’s been having a hard time. here’s to you, darling, and never-ending hawke feels!
(reference used OBVIOUSLY WHO CAN DRAW THIS SHIT FROM MEMORY)
archer-and-anders wants silly Hawke stuff, so…
Enjoy Hawke getting shot in the ass with an ice spell by Anders, while in the middle of trying to cast his own fire spell.
Yes! What a great morning!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EbW2UK0b7fQ <- This inspired my nonsense.
Hipster Hawke raps about his swag. Oh don’t ask me, I don’t even have any idea what I did. Would have done this with Marian but Garrett makes it 10x more amusing.