Trouble in Mind (Justice/Anders, masturbation)
For the moment, the clinic is quiet and dark, the lantern snuffed out, the moonlight sapping away the heavy browns of wood and blood as it cuts across the sawdust covered floor in long, strong slashes. The doors have been barred against possible thieves and Templars that could come like thieves in the night, seeking what isn't theirs.
For the moment, it is quiet. It is still.
He should sleep. He could sleep, nearly a whole night's worth of blessed sleep (and hasn't he aged in the last few years, his younger self would never think to sleep), but there's work to do and he should be up, should be striving, should be fighting -
Anders settles on his cot with a creak in his bones, in the bones of the furniture, a word he uses loosely since furniture should be more wood and cloth than prayers to the Maker that it won't collapse in the night - " Andraste's sacred knickers, how long have you had that thing? I could buy you a bed, Anders," Hawke had said. After the expedition. After Carver had left to the Templars and just because a Templar was blood of a friend did not mean they did not deserve their due punishment, maybe owned a greater part because that was a second betrayal, Hawke had been … different. He smiled more, the sort of crooked smile that 'got it, guys, joke's on me' and the sort of smile that made Anders weak in the knees and obsessive, frivolous.
"Or finally convince you to just use mine. I'm moving up in the world, I need an attractive apostate love slave, or all the neighbors will talk."
Anders undoes the laces of his boots, fingers shaking. Can't remember his response. Doesn't matter. It had been a deflection. Hawke flirted with everything that moved. He could charm lyrium from a Templar, then sell it back, twice the black market rate, and the Templar would think Hawke was doing him a favor. He sets the boots nearby, within reach, in case someone should come and need him -
Maybe Hawke. The image comes quickly, a bit too much like the dirty serials that Varric puts out. I want you, Anders, I need you, please, make love to me, right here on this conveniently placed bear skin rug. Large, strong hands, scared from work (not Circle hands, Hawke toiled in fields and forest, not libraries), stained with chemicals and inks, quick smile, pale green eyes in a tanned face of straight planes and hard angles.
Not Hawke. Hawke is a symbol of what mages deserved, free to practice away from the Chantry's chains, should not be turned into a fetish for base desires, not when there is a purer endeavor, a worthy quest.
He doesn't know if that's his thoughts, or Justice's, or both of theirs. He doesn't care. The image has set an ache in his chest, a bittersweet craving that dominates his thoughts, drawing them all to that one point like water down the gutter after rain.
No. Rain would be refreshing, purifying, Anders reclines on the cot carefully, slowly, ignoring the whine as one hand drifts low, this is nothing of the sort, it is degrading to both, rubbing at the skin of his stomach under the thin fabric of the simple shirt he sleeps in, he wears under his robes. His muscles tense and relax all at once. It has been a very long time since he's touched himself, even longer since someone has done it for him.
Hawke's hand on his shoulder, his strong grip as he pulls him up from the ground, old stone laid by dwarves ages ago. Quicksilver smile. “Remind me to never disregard your travel advice again,” he says, another squeeze and Anders can feel the warmth of healing magic melting away the ice-sharp cold of his sprained wrist, soothing the ache in his head for the moment.
“Hawke, Blondie. Don't mean to interrupt, but we got company.” Hawke turns, shoulders squared, face proud, figure straight, a hero worthy to be followed, more than a man, an icon, not to be pulled down by carnality.
Anders' breath hitches, catches in his throat as he presses his palm against his erection. There is no one in the clinic, there is someone in his head, so he pulls up the thin blankets like he's an apprentice in the Circle dormitories again. Even the coarse linen feels good against the skin of his chin, his neck scratchy, his nerves hypersensitive, drawn tight as lute strings. His hand slips into his trousers, fingers rough against the soft foreskin.
Maybe if he's quick. It's been a long time, and certainly Justice can tolerate this, just like he tolerates the other messy, confusingly necessary demands of a mortal body, one that isn't a corpse. He grips himself, shutting his eyes to the familiar scene of his clinic.
Hawke grinning. Hawke drunk, head resting on Isabella's breasts, eyes bright as he slurs, “Oh, Issy, you've got a chest to sink a thousand ships,” and she laughs and pulls him closer. Hawke with his dark hair messily tied back as he pours over letters, profile strong and distinguished, an aquiline nose, a strong chin.
Hawke covered in blood spatters, face grim behind a wide grin like a naked skull, bringing justified death to those that would harm the innocent.
Anders swallows down a sudden, manic peal of laughter. “I feel guilty enough, thanks” he says lowly just so he knows exactly who is talking. His hand moves along his dick haltingly , the motions unfamiliar after so long, and so it isn't like weaving a fire spell, you honestly could forget. He pulls his hand out irritably, spits in the palm, tries to ignore the rising swell of disapproval.
Better. Anders sighs, something unfreezing deep in his chest at the smooth glide of skin, at the stimulation. So blighted long. He feels like maybe he owes his dick an apology, which is hopefully just the exhaustion talking. So long, and he's already so close, like a teenager again fumbling with Karl dead, no longer able to seek recompense, Anders is responsible for this, for ensuring no other mage suffers like this, and he's wasting time on silly fantasies , and he can imagine it's Hawke's hands, the blanket near his jaw feels feels close enough to stubble.
His hips twitch, stutter with the painful-sweet touch. Quick and efficient. Justice can't fault him that, it's a need, all consuming but so would be any need denied for so long. He's so very close. He can practically hear Hawke, can imagine his mouth against Ander's temple, smoothing his hair back, whispering, “Show me, Anders, show me how you like it,” and it's too much, because Justice is in the front of their mind, indignant, and suddenly his own forefinger and thumb are around the base of his cock, choking off his climax.
Anders gasps, hips straining, bucking up as he tries helplessly to just get a little more, just a little more, and nearly sobs because this is going too far. He grits his teeth, throat working around nothing. “Please,” he says. “Oh, Maker's breath, please, don't - I need -“ He's squirming, the grip of his own hand alien, thrilling. He's gulping down air, babbling.
He's not in control. He's helpless. If he wants relief, it'll be at Justice's mercy, what little there is. He shudders, muscles drawn so tight he's afraid they'll snap with a twang, climax is so close, so very close, he's right there on the edge. He's still rocking towards his hand and his mouth tastes of copper, lips bloody from chewing on them, and he's helpless and needy and the thought that his orgasm is out of his hands (only figuratively) sends a new shock of desire down his spine, like licking his fingers that one night at the Pearl and, and -
Justice reels, shocked by his depravity. Anders' thoughts flit around in his head: he's mortified, he's a little surprised, but best of all (worst of all), he's coming, blindingly hard, and all those thoughts are rushing away from him. His motions are jerky, uncoordinated and driven only by instinct. Somewhere far away, in the place where his rational mind would be, Justice is horrified, but Anders can barely feel him. Not when his ears are ringing, his heart is pounding in his chest, and his fingers are still moving, drawing out the orgasm until his prick has softened and the stimulation is painful and each drag of his palm is making him twitch.
For a moment, it is quiet except for his breathing: shallow, short, frantic gasps. Anders can't find the energy to move his hand from his pants, to clean up the mess (ugh, he's made quite the mess, if he was doing the whole “acting like a teen” thing, he should have at least had the sense to grab a spare shirt or something), he's just rubbing the skin low on his stomach soothingly. He tries to recapture the fantasy, that he's not in this ugly, rundown clinic but somewhere bright and clean next to a warm and willing body, but it's gone now. He groans.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks the night air, but there's no response. And now he's managed to annoy the spirit in his head. There's crazy and then there's a level or five above, and he's cleared all of those.
Groaning, Anders drapes an arm over his eyes, face pressed into the crook of his elbow, and tries not to think.
For the moment, it is quiet. It is still.
He should sleep. He could sleep, nearly a whole night's worth of blessed sleep (and hasn't he aged in the last few years, his younger self would never think to sleep), but there's work to do and he should be up, should be striving, should be fighting -
Anders settles on his cot with a creak in his bones, in the bones of the furniture, a word he uses loosely since furniture should be more wood and cloth than prayers to the Maker that it won't collapse in the night - " Andraste's sacred knickers, how long have you had that thing? I could buy you a bed, Anders," Hawke had said. After the expedition. After Carver had left to the Templars and just because a Templar was blood of a friend did not mean they did not deserve their due punishment, maybe owned a greater part because that was a second betrayal, Hawke had been … different. He smiled more, the sort of crooked smile that 'got it, guys, joke's on me' and the sort of smile that made Anders weak in the knees and obsessive, frivolous.
"Or finally convince you to just use mine. I'm moving up in the world, I need an attractive apostate love slave, or all the neighbors will talk."
Anders undoes the laces of his boots, fingers shaking. Can't remember his response. Doesn't matter. It had been a deflection. Hawke flirted with everything that moved. He could charm lyrium from a Templar, then sell it back, twice the black market rate, and the Templar would think Hawke was doing him a favor. He sets the boots nearby, within reach, in case someone should come and need him -
Maybe Hawke. The image comes quickly, a bit too much like the dirty serials that Varric puts out. I want you, Anders, I need you, please, make love to me, right here on this conveniently placed bear skin rug. Large, strong hands, scared from work (not Circle hands, Hawke toiled in fields and forest, not libraries), stained with chemicals and inks, quick smile, pale green eyes in a tanned face of straight planes and hard angles.
Not Hawke. Hawke is a symbol of what mages deserved, free to practice away from the Chantry's chains, should not be turned into a fetish for base desires, not when there is a purer endeavor, a worthy quest.
He doesn't know if that's his thoughts, or Justice's, or both of theirs. He doesn't care. The image has set an ache in his chest, a bittersweet craving that dominates his thoughts, drawing them all to that one point like water down the gutter after rain.
No. Rain would be refreshing, purifying, Anders reclines on the cot carefully, slowly, ignoring the whine as one hand drifts low, this is nothing of the sort, it is degrading to both, rubbing at the skin of his stomach under the thin fabric of the simple shirt he sleeps in, he wears under his robes. His muscles tense and relax all at once. It has been a very long time since he's touched himself, even longer since someone has done it for him.
Hawke's hand on his shoulder, his strong grip as he pulls him up from the ground, old stone laid by dwarves ages ago. Quicksilver smile. “Remind me to never disregard your travel advice again,” he says, another squeeze and Anders can feel the warmth of healing magic melting away the ice-sharp cold of his sprained wrist, soothing the ache in his head for the moment.
“Hawke, Blondie. Don't mean to interrupt, but we got company.” Hawke turns, shoulders squared, face proud, figure straight, a hero worthy to be followed, more than a man, an icon, not to be pulled down by carnality.
Anders' breath hitches, catches in his throat as he presses his palm against his erection. There is no one in the clinic, there is someone in his head, so he pulls up the thin blankets like he's an apprentice in the Circle dormitories again. Even the coarse linen feels good against the skin of his chin, his neck scratchy, his nerves hypersensitive, drawn tight as lute strings. His hand slips into his trousers, fingers rough against the soft foreskin.
Maybe if he's quick. It's been a long time, and certainly Justice can tolerate this, just like he tolerates the other messy, confusingly necessary demands of a mortal body, one that isn't a corpse. He grips himself, shutting his eyes to the familiar scene of his clinic.
Hawke grinning. Hawke drunk, head resting on Isabella's breasts, eyes bright as he slurs, “Oh, Issy, you've got a chest to sink a thousand ships,” and she laughs and pulls him closer. Hawke with his dark hair messily tied back as he pours over letters, profile strong and distinguished, an aquiline nose, a strong chin.
Hawke covered in blood spatters, face grim behind a wide grin like a naked skull, bringing justified death to those that would harm the innocent.
Anders swallows down a sudden, manic peal of laughter. “I feel guilty enough, thanks” he says lowly just so he knows exactly who is talking. His hand moves along his dick haltingly , the motions unfamiliar after so long, and so it isn't like weaving a fire spell, you honestly could forget. He pulls his hand out irritably, spits in the palm, tries to ignore the rising swell of disapproval.
Better. Anders sighs, something unfreezing deep in his chest at the smooth glide of skin, at the stimulation. So blighted long. He feels like maybe he owes his dick an apology, which is hopefully just the exhaustion talking. So long, and he's already so close, like a teenager again fumbling with Karl dead, no longer able to seek recompense, Anders is responsible for this, for ensuring no other mage suffers like this, and he's wasting time on silly fantasies , and he can imagine it's Hawke's hands, the blanket near his jaw feels feels close enough to stubble.
His hips twitch, stutter with the painful-sweet touch. Quick and efficient. Justice can't fault him that, it's a need, all consuming but so would be any need denied for so long. He's so very close. He can practically hear Hawke, can imagine his mouth against Ander's temple, smoothing his hair back, whispering, “Show me, Anders, show me how you like it,” and it's too much, because Justice is in the front of their mind, indignant, and suddenly his own forefinger and thumb are around the base of his cock, choking off his climax.
Anders gasps, hips straining, bucking up as he tries helplessly to just get a little more, just a little more, and nearly sobs because this is going too far. He grits his teeth, throat working around nothing. “Please,” he says. “Oh, Maker's breath, please, don't - I need -“ He's squirming, the grip of his own hand alien, thrilling. He's gulping down air, babbling.
He's not in control. He's helpless. If he wants relief, it'll be at Justice's mercy, what little there is. He shudders, muscles drawn so tight he's afraid they'll snap with a twang, climax is so close, so very close, he's right there on the edge. He's still rocking towards his hand and his mouth tastes of copper, lips bloody from chewing on them, and he's helpless and needy and the thought that his orgasm is out of his hands (only figuratively) sends a new shock of desire down his spine, like licking his fingers that one night at the Pearl and, and -
Justice reels, shocked by his depravity. Anders' thoughts flit around in his head: he's mortified, he's a little surprised, but best of all (worst of all), he's coming, blindingly hard, and all those thoughts are rushing away from him. His motions are jerky, uncoordinated and driven only by instinct. Somewhere far away, in the place where his rational mind would be, Justice is horrified, but Anders can barely feel him. Not when his ears are ringing, his heart is pounding in his chest, and his fingers are still moving, drawing out the orgasm until his prick has softened and the stimulation is painful and each drag of his palm is making him twitch.
For a moment, it is quiet except for his breathing: shallow, short, frantic gasps. Anders can't find the energy to move his hand from his pants, to clean up the mess (ugh, he's made quite the mess, if he was doing the whole “acting like a teen” thing, he should have at least had the sense to grab a spare shirt or something), he's just rubbing the skin low on his stomach soothingly. He tries to recapture the fantasy, that he's not in this ugly, rundown clinic but somewhere bright and clean next to a warm and willing body, but it's gone now. He groans.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks the night air, but there's no response. And now he's managed to annoy the spirit in his head. There's crazy and then there's a level or five above, and he's cleared all of those.
Groaning, Anders drapes an arm over his eyes, face pressed into the crook of his elbow, and tries not to think.