Chapter Text
“Are you complaining?” Hawke murmured. He pressed in, pinning Anders in place with the broad weight of his body. Rough, calloused hands slid up Anders’ bare thighs, thumbnails scraping the skin and raising a shiver of gooseflesh in their wake.
Anders shuddered, hips hitching up in short, helpless thrusts. He felt like an exposed nerve, raw and trembling and aching for it. He dug his fingers into Hawke’s shoulders and pressed his shoulderblades back against the bowing wood of the door.
“Please,” he said, trying to find the right angle, the right amount of purchase to— He needed to— Anders swore and twisted against his lover, cock trapped between them. He was so close already, and the tease of it was going to drive him mad. “Hawke, please, I, fuck, I need—”
“I know what you need. Be still.”
Anders moaned and dropped his head back, eyes squeezing shut even as he forced himself to go still. The low, warning growl in Hawke’s voice was enough to make his entire body clench in response. He’d never considered himself a particularly obedient man—he’d escaped the Tower a record number of times, he’d defied the Warden-Commander, he’d taken a spirit into his body; he never did what he was told—but from the first moment he’d met Hawke, every part of him clambered to bare his throat and let himself be claimed.
To submit.
And now…fuck, now it was as if his body had been conditioned to it. He’d come if Hawke ordered him to. He’d do anything. He’d even stay perfectly still. But Maker this was asking a lot of him.
Anders gave a low, shuddering gasp and turned his face against the splintered wood, struggling to ignore the aching throb between his thighs. Hawke’s breath was hot against his cheek. One big hand slid up the curve of Anders’ hip and Anders tightened his legs around Hawke reflexively, struggling not to thrust. When Hawke rocked forward, once, Anders nearly buckled under the flash of whitehotneedyesMakeryes, twisting up toward him before slamming himself back against the door with a hiss.
Be still. Be still. Be still.
“So good,” Hawke crooned, lips brushing the tight line of Anders’ jaw. “You’re being so good, sweetheart. Andraste’s tits, do you know what you do to me when you’re like this?” His tongue darted out, scraping across golden stubble, swirling down to the mad thrum of Anders’ pulse. “I want to fuck you.”
Anders fought not to shudder. “Yes.”
“I want to make you howl.” He pressed a soft kiss to Anders’ neck. “Would you do that for me, sweetheart? Would you howl for me?”
“Yes.” It was a struggle not to shift toward him, not to drive his hips forward. It was a cruel tease—Hawke’s big body between his thighs, his erection pressed snug against the join of Anders’ hip, so close. Maker, so close, so close, he was so close. If only he could thrust. “Hawke, Hawke, please.”
He couldn’t understand how Hawke did this to him.
He couldn’t understand why he needed it so badly.
“Hawke.” He was going to lose his mind waiting, poised tense and trembling on the edge. Anders bit the inside of his mouth, trying to swallow back shallow, panting breaths as Hawke slowly kissed down the pale column of his throat, touch so very gentle, too gentle, fuck, he needed, just— “Hawke. I can’t.”
“You will.”
The rasp of stubble against stubble was shockingly loud in the dark silence of the cellar. Anders’ toes curled in response. He moaned at the hot brush of Hawke’s tongue curling across the stark wing of his collarbone. “I. Can’t.”
And then, control snapping, Anders arched with a helpless keen. His thighs tightened around Hawke’s hips.
It was as if a dam had broken. Hawke twisted and drove him back against the door with a vicious rut. The shock of pleasure was so intense that Anders screamed. He thrashed against Hawke’s big body, heels digging into the small of his back, hands scrabbling desperately over his shoulders as he rode the steady, maddening buck of Hawke’s hips. Maker, yes, yes, this was what he wanted—Hawke losing control, Hawke taking him.
“Please, please,” Anders sobbed, riding each violent-rough thrust. He turned his face to slant their mouths together, loving the sting of Hawke’s teeth closing over his lip.
The sound of cloth ripping was lost on him, tattered shreds of his robes falling to the hard-packed earth in a flurry of gray feathers. His smallclothes were slick with precome, and he could feel Hawke’s cock through thin layers of fabric, rutting against his, hot, so bloody hot. Anders dug his nails into Hawke’s shoulders and scraped them down, rasping over the underarmor he still wore. He curled his fingers into the collar and pulled. “Off, take it off,” Anders begged, voice breaking at the next hard thrust. “Ah, fuck!”
Hawke twisted, grabbing Anders’ hand, but Anders tore free with a low moan and pulled at Hawke’s shirt again. He needed skin. Pale, scarred, hot skin stretched tight over muscle—it was suddenly unconscionable not to have access to it, it was—
“Unjust,” Anders murmured with a strangled laugh, yanking blindly at the front placket of buttons. One popped free, skittering across the floor. “Hawke.”
Hawke’s upper lip curled into a snarl, one big hand catching Anders’ wrists and slamming them over his head, the other—oh, Maker, the other—curling sudden and threatening around Anders’ throat. He squeezed once, making Anders see stars, though his grip immediately gentled. Anders sucked in unsteady breaths as Hawke studied him with blue eyes blown black. The weight of his hand on his throat was a warning and a promise, so good Anders almost couldn’t stand it.
“I love you,” Hawke murmured. His voice had dropped to its lowest register, rumbling and husky with his own need. His grip tightened again, just a little, thumb brushing along the erratic thrum of Anders’ pulse.
Anders wet his lips. There weren’t words for what he felt for this man. “More than anything,” he promised. He leaned against Hawke’s grip, urging him to constrict tighter, to… To control him. He’d been spinning like a top for all his life; it took Hawke’s hands on him to make the desperate whirlwind go still.
Hawke’s fingers tightened in response, and he leaned in to brush their mouths together, so soft, so sweet it made Anders’ heart hurt. The grip around his throat loosened seconds after, thumb rubbing up and down his neck, keeping him pinned rather than choking. Anders closed his eyes, breathing erratic, body poised on the edge of…Maker knew what.
He turned his face, testing the grip on his wrists—there’d be no breaking free there, even if he wanted to; Hawke’s grip was too powerful—as Hawke licked a hot trail down his jaw, along his thundering pulse. Anders made a low, pleading noise in the back of his throat, arching up into Hawke’s body as hot lips brushed the curve of his neck and shoulder, mouthing the tight clench of muscles before—
“Fuck!” Anders twisted hard, hips riding up helplessly as Hawke’s teeth sank into his flesh. “Fuck, fuck, Hawke, fuck.”
Hawke offered a low, rumbling laugh, teeth scoring pale skin. Then he continued down. The heat of his breath made everything in Anders clench. When Hawke’s breath gusted over his right nipple, Anders whimpered—whimpered—and bit the insides of his cheeks, bracing himself.
“Mm,” Hawke murmured. “Maker, look at them going so tight for me. You’re ready to come, aren’t you? You’re so ready to come it hurts.”
Anders couldn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could speak. Not now, not with one of Hawke’s hands still pressed against his throat, the other drifting from his wrists to slide into the softly curling hair trailing down his belly. His breath was hot, one hip canted to keep Anders from slumping to the floor—keeping him pinned in place.
And then Hawke’s even white teeth lightly scored the tight clench of his nipple and Anders went off like a shot. He twisted up with a breathless howl, back dragging over rough wood as he scrabbled up, closer, more, heels digging into the small of Hawke’s back, fingers snarling tight in black hair. Hawke growled and bit harder, tongue swiping away the sting.
It was— Maker, he had no words, no thought. He just needed. Anders pressed against his lover’s mouth, breathing gone serrated. He felt gutted and split open, like an overripe fruit so swollen on the inside that it ruptured its own skin. His cock was jerking, leaving a steady smear of precome along the straining tent of his smalls. Hawke rumbled in pleasure, shifting his grip on Anders—letting go of his throat in favor of bracing his hips—and sucked on the tight peak. Lightly at first, almost delicately. And then his mouth closed over Anders’ breast and his cheeks hollowed—the sharp tug of it rocketed through Anders in steady, pulsing streams. It was as if a line had been forged between his nipples and his cock. Each stinging tug of Hawke’s mouth flared through him in a dizzying lightning chain.
Maker, the noises he was making: he’d be embarrassed, later, keening and sobbing and pleading in choked animal cries, but there wasn’t room for self-consciousness now. Not with Hawke’s mouth on him, not with two big hands gripping his hips and pinning him to the tight clench of his lover’s muscles. Hawke scored his teeth along the bruised tip of Anders’ nipple, pulling away with a satisfied groan. A silvery strand of saliva connected them—reddened lips, reddened, abused flesh—as Hawke moved to his left breast.
Anders’ knuckles bled white as he gripped long strands of black hair. He arched, back curving into a bow. He felt like one of Sebastian’s bows, strung tight and jangling as Hawke caught the very tip of his left nipple between his teeth and tugged. Hawke’s other hand moved, nails lightly rasping over the ache of Anders’ right nipple, and the twin sensation was enough to obliterate thought.
He’d never felt like this. He’d always felt like this. He was so twisted up and turned around and, and, “Hawke!” flailing helplessly against the assault as Hawke licked and sucked and pinched and twisted and pushed him into some sort of gibbering madness. Anders bucked and cried out, nails digging into Hawke’s scalp. The steady tug of Hawke’s mouth on his breast was a revelation—somehow, all of him was echoing the steady, sucking rhythm, cock twitching and breath heaving, oh fuck, oh fuck, he…
“I’m, Hawke, I,” Anders cried. His head whipped back and forth as he strained for orgasm—or against it? Maker, he no longer knew—shuddering, writhing, pressing against the scalding brand of Hawke’s mouth as if he could crack open his jaw and slither inside. “Hawke, Hawke.” His breath was coming in uneven sobs; he was so hard he couldn’t remember what it was like to not feel this pain. “Hawke, please, I, please. Please.”
Hawke’s teeth sank into the skin around his nipple, tongue snaking out to swirl over its tight ridges and valleys, and that, that, was what finally sent Anders toppling over. He gave a wordless shout, head slamming back against the door as orgasm shuddered through him in a shocking, blue-white wave. Anders twisted and yanked dark hair, pulsing between their bodies with helpless rucks of his hips, but Hawke didn’t pull back. He pressed closer, cheeks hollowing again, sucking away the sting as he pinched Anders’ other nipple, hard plane of his stomach rubbing against the unsteady pulses of Anders’ cock.
When it was finally over, Anders slumped forward, a boneless weight in Hawke’s arms. He felt… Indescribable. Husked out and scoured clean and made new.
There was no Justice. There was no Cause. There was nothing but Hawke, and Maker, that felt like some sort of revelation.
“Mm,” Hawke murmured, slowly pulling back. His tongue snaked out one last time, curling against Anders’ sore nipple, earning a low hiss. “Thank you, sweetheart. That was beautiful.”
“…grargh.”
Right. Ability to speak, gone.
Hawke husked a laugh, leaning in to brush their mouths together softly. His hands hooked under Anders’ thighs. Hawke shifted him, maneuvering his body with the sureness and skill of a very capable man. Anders let himself be manhandled, tipping his face into the crook of Hawke’s neck and shivering as he was bundled up in big arms. His smallclothes were a sodden mess and his body was still throwing off sparks. He felt wrecked, through and through. He wasn’t sure he’d even be able to keep his eyes open until they reached the inside of the Amell estate.
“Don’t fade on me yet,” Hawke murmured, nosing the soft golden hair at Anders’ temple. He was carrying him through the darkness of the cellar, moving with self-assured purpose. One hand curved over Anders’ hip. The other braced his shoulders. “When I get you upstairs, I’m going to rip those smalls off you with my teeth and lick you clean, then flip you over and fuck your hole with my tongue until you’re begging me to take you.”
The stirring of heat in Anders’ cock was painful; it was too soon, far too soon. And yet…
“I’m going to make you beg for my cock, sweetheart,” Hawke promised him, the weight of an oath in his voice. “And by the time I give it to you, you’ll be so broken down you won’t remember what it’s like not to want me.”
Anders shuddered and drew in a ragged breath, turning his head to look at Hawke. Shafts of light played over scarred, harsh, handsome features. Lyrium-blue eyes blazed around the black dilation of his pupils. Slowly, Anders lifted a shaking hand to cup his lover’s jaw.
“I’m already there,” he said.
**
A/N: This was written for the Dragon Age Kink Meme. Thanks to everyone who left me notes as I was writing—I found the feedback inspiring. In fact, I was so inspired that I have plans to write a prequel showing how these two met…and possibly a sequel in the wake of the Chantry explosion.