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Who: IT'S A GAME MINGLE GET IN THE VAN
Broadcast: If you want!
Action: All of it!
When: Second half of the month.

[hey everyone! how's it been going? how's medieval-fun-time-world treating you? anyone pillaged and burned anything yet? got kicked out of the castle? been planning expeditions? registered for jousting? busy angsting for the last two weeks on your ship?

this is a mingle for everybody, whether they're hiding in the volcano, out and about in the city, or up on one of those random random stations where you can get quirky souvenirs.]

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Ah, my one true calling in life: making the templars bang their heads together like upside-down, angry buckets. If you and I are on the same page with that, then we'll get along swimmingly. Dog or no, even.

[It's not, really; he'd be happier if he never saw another templar in his life, probably. But that's not likely to happen ever in his entire life, even with the Wardens, and so it's always been satisfying to at least make their lives as difficult as possible, whether on the run or not.

All told, he's toeing the edge of drunk at this point, warm (literally) and bright (metaphorically). He doesn't quite realize the way his hand lifts to fiddle with his earring after the touch is gone.]

I'd say we should get you an earring, but it wouldn't work as well for you as it does for me, and that would just be awkward. Cleaner look is much better for you, anyhow. Not to worry, though! We can find some other misadventure to get into, I'm sure.

[ That actually does give him a moment's pause; he's not sure what all Anders knows about the future aside from the explosive parts. But really, it can't hurt to have some good news. ]

Well. On one hand the Templar order has mostly cannibalized itself, where I'm from. Though the ones left are more dedicated, stronger and crazier than any I've ever seen, and trust me, if you'd ever met Knight-Commander Meredith you'd know that's a bit like declaring this to be the wettest water you've even encountered.

[ ...so goodish news, right? He shrugs, one shouldered; naturally for effect it is the shoulder closest Anders. ]

On the other, I don't think you can be a family of three apostates without causing a little bucket-banging. Other children had the boogieman, Bethany and I had Templars. Probably why we never got into the habit of wearing robes.

[ Because look, it's just easier to flee pursuit if you're not wearing a skirt. He realizes at this juncture that his glass actually contains a little life-altering alcohol left in it and drains that, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand after. ]

For the record I can think of a number of other misadventures involving holes. If that's your selling point.

[ Because of the earring thing, right? Right. Of course. (No.) ]

Ooh, we could plant a tree. Pitch a tent. [He leans his chin on one hand, eyes alight with humor, which might be the only thing that saves the expression from being called a leer.] Raise a flag? Plow a field? The possibilities really are endless.

[He could go on. And on. It's easier than acknowledging the issue of the templars, which he doesn't know at all how he feels about. Anything that suggests they might collapse in on themselves makes him feel delightfully, viciously vindicated—but it's hard to imagine anyone except mages paying the price for that.

Not that it matters. It's hardly his issue, ten years away. He has to tell himself that a few times and take a few extra gulps from his glass before guilt dims to a faint ache.

He's in leaning stages now, an amiable bump of shoulders turning into warm, heavy weight. The drink, probably, or maybe compensation for the small, petty stab of jealousy he feels at family of apostates.]

Your templars would have forced us to wear the really ugly robes, I'll bet. I have the utmost respect for any lady who's ever run away from a ball before, I know exactly how complicated picking up your skirts is. I dare you to race me in my robes, with or without your trousers.

[It was necessary to phrase it that way, yes.]

[ It's cool, Anders, they're all dead now! No need for jealousy. ]

Promises, promises. I bet you say that to all the boys.

[ This of that hearty stew of euphemism, though the totally silly reprimand hides none of the percolating amusement in his voice. It actually can't be overstated what a stark contrast this presents to the last few years of his life, and while Inquisition's hideous characterization aside he's retained his gently fatalistic optimism and ability to laugh, even he gets tired. In this case though, tired means mutual warm leaning, so ...he has zero complaints. They're close enough that his breath ghosts across Anders' ear, which is either totally on purpose or a nice side benefit. Who knows! ]

If I won this race, would I get a prize? A planted tree or a plowed field, for example.

Edited 2015-03-26 17:21 (UTC)

[He feels hazy and buoyant in a light-headed, happy way. He's drunk, he thinks, and it's wonderful. Between that, the seedy tavern, the awful whiskey, and the excellent conversation, it's all too easy to forget that Hawke isn't just a handsome mostly-stranger, from anyone else's perspective. It's easy to give a delighted little shiver, to sink into warmth and touch, to be, for the moment, as selfish as he wants—the person he knows himself to be, and no one else.]

Mm. I could consider it. [It's a slow creep of physical contact, with him. One moment they're shoulder-to-shoulder, and the next his fingers are curling into the fabric of Hawke's collar.] But in that case, I think we'd all go home winners, don't you?

Maker, I hope so. I'd hate to think I've left any unsatisfied acreage or forest behind me.

[ Because quipping is the name of the game, even if he's only dedicating half as much attention to his own cleverness as usual, normally crisp stream of commentary coming out in a dizzy murmur. In seven years spent running around Kirkwall he's certainly had both time and inclination to wonder what Anders would be like in this capacity, so there's a heavy bent here toward satisfying that curiosity. Hawke would like him with or without the current stream of sparks running up his clavicle, but one certainly helps the other. Thus maybe making them both motivated by selfishness, but--the intrinsic sin of selfishness is that it deprives everything around it, and in this case that's just a terrible bar.

Hawke does nothing in increments, especially not physicality. He doesn't touch often (although he remembers his parents did, remembers the usual ruckus of younger sibling roughhousing, just--somewhere between Malcolm's death and Bethany's that stopped), but when he does it's with purpose. Which is how he lines up the backs of two curved knuckles with the joint of Anders' jaw, and ducks in to kiss him like tumblers clicking in a lock. ]

[A low, satisfied hum bubbles up from somewhere in his chest. There's nothing quite like the snap of tension that comes alongside a well waited for kiss. It's one of his favorite things about kissing, just behind the way it makes his mind go blissfully, temporarily blank.

If it hadn't been Hawke, it would have been him; the first few moments are clumsy with how eagerly he returns it, lips parting, still half-smiling. Hands clutch at fabric, at the short hair at the back of Hawke's neck—anything to draw them close, closer, closer still. It's probably good that the cat got moved, in hindsight, or there might have been ages worth of trauma to recover from.

It's not a slow kiss, and not a gentle one. He revels in physical contact, drinks it in, takes every inch he's given and then some. There are any number of ways that could be explained: years spent stealing furtive kisses behind Circle library stacks, stints on the outside too brief to waste on slow burns, or a self-centered and hedonistic nature, if someone were feeling uncharitable.

Or maybe just that he's never been the sort of man who does anything halfway.]

[ Hawke is not feeling uncharitable. Unsurprisingly. His own thoughts white out at the first instant in much the same way, but a mind like his wants to process and absorb every scrap of sensation it can, so once he's got his bearings back details float into focus and zoom out again: the bright electric tangle of fingers in his hair, short nails scrabbling for purchase over the million buckles Wardens apparently wear; even Carver's armor seems easier to combat in comparison.

That may be because he's a touch impatient, though, in that benign way where he wants everything all at once. The way they're kissing feels almost competitive, gloriously, uninhibitedly messy; it flashes across his mind for just the space of an inhale that maybe they are running a race where everyone goes home a winner. He actually muffles startled laughter into Anders' mouth, breaking the kiss for a second for a vague dismissive noise--that is completely unimportant right now; he will share it later and they can revel in his cleverness together.

There's only so much closer left to get within the confines of their environment; Hawke makes due by bracketing Anders in with both arms, palms pressed flat to the wall behind their table at waist and shoulder height. Actually touching anything in here is kind of a heroic sacrifice, but that is ...the last thing he's thinking about.

[He goes easily, pleased as punch to be pinned, his head falling back against the wall to give Hawke all the leverage he needs. He settles into something a little less urgent but every bit as earnest, bright edges of teeth and bumping noses. One foot hooks around one of Hawke's ankles, a tiny touch, nearly inconsequential next to everything that's happening above deck. But he's always thought it was the small things that made the difference.

Never let it be said he was silent for too long, though. He doesn't break the kiss so much as talk around it, nudging back in every time, even when he's the one doing the disrupting.]

As I recall [his voice is light and breathless, and he can't manage more than a few words before he's drawn back into the kiss] there was some mention of— mmm, conclusions being drawn. [He pulls back, teasing, mouths barely a breath away even as his fingers curl in Hawke's hair to keep him in place.] Verdict?

Oh, it's much too early for--conclusions.

[ The effect of this is somewhat lost by the fact that the m-dash there was occupied by more or less licking Anders' lower lip; isn't that what all pauses in conversation are for? He's ...definitely drunk, by this point, or hanging over the edge of genuine intoxication at least; without quite the initial burning urgency to propel that still leaves warmth behind, movement not slower but more languid, exploratory, learning what Anders likes, likes better, likes best. ]

That--that, though, that's--an increasingly favorable verdict. [ He tilts his head, chin lifting; if it echoes a cat encouraging pets that's absolutely on purpose, never mind his definitive status as a Dog Person ] You can keep doing that as long as you like.

[ He jostles Anders' foot with his own, more friendly than salacious, but his mouth stings from friction and fingers in his hair feel like they're liquefying his spine, so that gesture is perhaps the only not-salacious one in the entirety of particular nook of the bar. ]

Edited 2015-03-28 03:43 (UTC)

Like this?

[A murmur, rumbling in his chest, as he hides the curve of his smile against Hawke's exposed throat. He cards his hand through dark waves, lets his nails drag against Hawke's scalp. It's an intentionally indulgent motion, pressing his advantage for all its worth. He has, as it happens, spent a lot of time petting cats, both literally and euphemistically.

He nips at his pulse point, kisses his way back up to slant their mouths together again, unwilling to be left wanting for too long. He does love to kiss maybe most of all, so close to the warmth and breath and pulse of another person.

Well. Most of all out of what they're permitted to do in the back of a seedy bar in a tourist trap.]

I'd hate to get a lackluster review, after all.

[ Kissing appeals to Hawke for not exactly the same reasons, although they're all good ones. What he likes best might be more closely aligned with what Anders is doing to his hair, actually: the idea of intentional indulgence. Kisses like that mean the luxury of time, mean safety, as much as safety ever means anything for a mage outside the Circle. There's something to be said for every other kind of kiss he can imagine; the delirious, electric bites they were exchanging at first lacked for nothing (as what one might call an example close at hand, much like Anders' experience with literal and euphemistic cats), but the ones that seem to stretch out for hours--well, those are the kind that get bartenders to ask if you wouldn't mind taking the festivities elsewhere. In varying degrees of politeness a/o thrown crockery.

Which is probably at least a tenth of Hawke's motivation, once he recovers a little from the shower of sparks just poured over all the nerves down the back of his neck. The hand on the wall next to Anders' head curls into a loose fist and flattens out again, Hawke coaxing him closer, cupping the curve of his skull like it has to be weighted carefully. ]

Exactly like that. [ A grin spills into the edges of his voice, a tone shift ready to happen at any time anyway. ] Maybe a little too exactly like that, if you wanted to stay in this bar much longer.

[ Because murmuring that between biting kisses strung like beads up the underside of Anders' jaw is the absolute most helpful way he could be expressing that sentiment, yes? (No.) ]

Oh. [He arches slightly into the touch, turns the stuttering sigh that comes out of his chest into something extravagant and put-upon.] Want is a strong word, I think. As much as I adore the spit and the smell and the thin layer of grime over every surface.

[But he likes the direction this is going in much better. It's been a long time, by his standards, since he's so much as kissed anyone at all. Between the templars and the Wardens and now this ridiculous mess of overlapping timelines and hurt feelings, it's all ever been too complicated, each thread tied to another, and to another, and to itself.

This is simple. Easy. His head feels light and his chest feels warm, and he's always craved the proximity of other people. There are a hundred reasons not to do this, probably, if he cared to think about them, but at this point it seems like that's all he's ever been doing since he got here. Thinking and worrying and stewing in his own anger and fear and misery.

For this, he doesn't think at all.]

I have a room in the city that's a bit nicer. Quieter. More, mm. [His breath hitches.] Secluded. [Hands skate over Hawke's shoulders, picking at the fabric there. He turns his head so that his lips are set against Hawke's ear, voice pitched low.] Come back with me?

[ If there are a hundred reasons not to do this, Hawke can't summon any of them right now either; it helps, maybe, that he has literally nothing to lose. Nothing burns a person's bridges like what he's already done; this as much as anything lets him forget that, stuck at the back of his brain like - if you will - cobwebs. If he's focused on the little jolt down his spine when Anders' breath hitches, the heat of his hands through thin layers of fabric--it's not so bad to forget, once in a while. Anders, presumably, would recognize the sentiment. ]

Nicer than here? Surely not.

[ He actually has to take a second to make sure it's safe to stand up (har har); it is awfully convenient that the tunic is in fashion for the time period. If they were visiting the Regency it would take ages to get out of here. ]

Don't forget your cat.

[ So in other words: yes, immediately. ]

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