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Not a Prison Bitch

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"That's my bed."

Anders looked at the man standing in the corner of the cell. Tall, skinny, missing several teeth, black eye. Hair that looked like he hadn't washed in days and, Anders realized, he probably hadn't. Instead of arguing, he pulled his bag off the bottom bunk and put it on top.

"S'my bed too. In fact, they all are."

"Look, I have to sleep somewhere," Anders said, sighing. He was tired. A day of running from police, getting arrested, getting processed, getting… well. The details of his incarceration were best left forgotten. He had a meeting with a lawyer in the morning, not that he thought he had any chance of getting out. Not when they found him with the proverbial smoking gun. Then again, maybe if he argued his case, explained why…

In his distraction, he missed the man approaching and found himself pinned against one of the cold iron bedframes. The man's breath stank as if something crawled up into his mouth and died. Anders turned away, wondering if he could get away with head butting him and breaking his nose. A gnarled hand brushed his cheek, and just as he was trying to decide if being this man's prison bitch was better or worse than a potential shanking in the middle of the night, the door opened.


The man – Martin – backed off at once. Anders took a breath of fresh air and looked up.

Sweet Maker.

Framed in the doorway stood a tall, muscular man. A mountain man, Anders' subconscious provided unhelpfully.

"Yeah, Hawke," Martin mumbled.

Hawke moved aside, jerking his head. He didn't even need to say anything, Martin simply went. And Anders found himself alone with Hawke now, who was easily twice Martin's size, but at least he was much better groomed. His thick black hair fell in his eyes; he was in need of a haircut. His full beard and mustache, though the same color, had a few flecks of grey, and mostly hid a scar bisected by his left eye. He stepped into the cell and shut the door.

"Take the top," Hawke grunted, picking Anders' pack off the floor and tossing it onto the top bunk. He flopped onto the bottom one and pulled a book out from under the mattress.

"Er. Thanks."


"Hawke," Anders repeated dumbly.

Hawke glanced up over the top of his book, looking at him expectantly.

"Oh! Anders. Me. I'm Anders."

Hawke snorted and looked back down at his book. "What brings you to my humble abode, Anders?"

"I thought we weren't supposed to talk about that," Anders said, climbing up to the top bunk, if only to give himself an excuse to stop looking at Hawke. Or more accurately, Hawke's biceps. He had a strange, red tattoo on the left one. Some kind of calligraphy? Maybe a foreign word that Hawke thought meant 'death' but really meant, 'fluffy bunny.'

"You weren't supposed to do whatever you did to get yourself locked up, but you did, didn't you?"

"Well, how can I not answer now, with that kind of circular logic?" Anders retorted before he could stop himself.

Silence for a moment, then, "Suit yourself."

Wouldn't hurt to make a friend, would it? Anders chewed his bottom lip a moment as he thought. Sitting cross-legged on something that had no business being called a mattress, holding his meager possessions in his lap, his entire world stuffed into a bag…


"Really?" Hawke asked, shifting.

Anders glanced over the edge, looking down at him. "Really."

"Intentional, or did you just leave the oven on or some shit?"

Anders laughed. "It… it was very much intentional, yes."

"You kill anyone?"

Anders pursed his lips. "No. It was late at night, no one was there."

"Oh. That's good, I guess. Unless you meant to kill someone. Then you failed."

"I didn't! I didn't mean to hurt or… or kill anyone!" Anders sputtered. "It was a statement."


"…I burned down a church."

"Good on you, then."

Anders frowned. "Really?"

"I never liked religion."

"Oh." They looked at each other a moment before Anders swallowed and asked, "What about you? Why are you in here?" After all, Hawke was amiable, he didn't have horrible hygiene, and if they were roommates, he might as well be friendly in return.

"Killed a guy."

Oh. Well, that just figured, didn't it? "And… did you mean to or-"

"He raped my little sister. So yeah," Hawke said with another snort. "'It was very much intentional'," he mocked.

"…I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

"I meant about your sister," Anders corrected.

Hawke shrugged and disappeared out of view. "He can't hurt anyone else's sister, and I get three meals a day thanks to the taxpayers. Funny how justice works."



Over the next two weeks, Anders was established as, "Hawke's". Probably due to the amount of time he spent with the man who, despite his intimidating appearance, wasn't too bad of a guy. His father died when he was young, leaving him to raise his younger brother and sister while their mother drowned her sorrows in any liquor she could find. Anders guessed he was the first one Hawke told any of this to, and wondered what made him so special.

Special. That certainly was a word for it, he thought, tucked under Hawke's arm in the common room, standing against the wall. The guards cast a wary eye toward them – any kind of sexual activity was prohibited, after all. Not that Anders was even entertaining the idea of a sexual relationship with anyone in this place. He just wanted to do his sentence and get out. Fifteen months of this. He had plenty of time to write his memoirs. To turn his story into a book, to let the world know that they had a long way to go before discrimination was wiped from the planet.

Hawke's hand curled around his waist, warm against his side through the thin fabric of his prison garb. He felt the hem of his shirt inch up, fingernails scratching gently against his hip. While he'd gotten used to Hawke's casual affection, he wasn't sure what any of it meant. Maybe Hawke, like so many others, was just lonely. And was he, Anders, truly considering… what? Entering a relationship? A fifteen month relationship in which he was simply Hawke's prison bitch. He stifled a laugh.

"What is it?" Hawke asked, lips close to Anders' ear.

Anders shivered. He'd also gotten used to listening to that voice as he fell asleep, as he and Hawke swapped stories before bedtime. Not that he wanted to get used to prison of all places, and it was unfair that he considered Hawke a friend. The first friend he'd made in a long time.

"Just stupid thoughts."

"Want to talk?"

The fingers at his hip somehow found their way into the waistband of his pants, playing with the elastic of his boxers. Anders blushed, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. Was this it, then? Would they go off to find a private alcove and fuck? He couldn't decide if it was a bad idea or not. Which likely meant that it was.


Unfortunately his brain hadn't caught up with his mouth, and he let himself be guided out of the common room. Hawke's fingers loosely entwined with his, Anders' heart beating wildly. He followed him down the stairs toward the laundry room where three of their fellow inmates stood around, pretending to work. A glare from Hawke sent them scurrying out, and Anders marveled at the command Hawke possessed.

"Well?" Hawke asked, when Anders turned to look at him.


Before he could process what a terrible idea it was, Anders wrapped his arms around Hawke's neck, crushing his lips against his. Strong hands at the small of his back, and he was pushed backward. No pretense, no more questions, Hawke didn't even ask if he was sure – and as Anders wasn't sure, he was glad of that. His thighs hit the laundry table, covered in clean linens and prison uniforms. Hawke slid his hands down, gripping his arse tightly, pulling him up, flush against his hard body. Anders moaned into the kiss, cock responding eagerly to the none-too-gentle touches.

Hawke merely hoisted him onto the table, one hand to balance him. Anders wrapped his legs around Hawke's waist, desperately thrusting against him, needing that friction. Hawke broke their kiss, knocking Anders' chin up and out of the way as he attacked his neck, biting hard.

"Ow! Oh, Maker. Fuck. Please."

"Yeah, it's gonna happen," Hawke breathed against the bruised skin.

Anders let out a bubble of nervous laughter, Hawke's bluntness more of a turn on than he ever thought it would be. A calloused hand worked its way up under his shirt and he lifted his arms automatically. A quick and dirty fuck in the laundry room might easily be covered up if they'd kept most of their clothes on, but there was something inherently sexy about possibly being found completely naked, Hawke buried inside him. He hurriedly kicked off the non-skid shoes, letting them drop to the floor as his bare back hit the laundry pile under him.

"Say yes right now," Hawke said, nipping his collar bone, kissing lower.

"Maker yes," Anders replied at once.

Several towels fell to the floor as Hawke grabbed his prison bottoms and yanked. Anders clutched the edges of the table to keep from going with them. Naked now, he blushed, feeling self-conscious as Hawke's eyes raked over him.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous."

Well. That… that's that, then.

Hawke leaned down and pressed a scratchy kiss to his hip, and Anders gasped, thrusting upward toward his hot mouth as Hawke licked a trail up his slowly hardening shaft. Though his thoughts strayed more and more to what sex with Hawke would be like, he never imagined the man performing such a submissive act. But, he realized, as Hawke pinned him down and took his cock between his lips, nothing Hawke could ever do was submissive. Nails digging into the table's edge, Anders tried to thrust again, but Hawke held him down, laughing, causing a sweet vibration that hit his very core.

"Fuck, that's… Fuck," Anders breathed, legs spreading. "I want it. Hurry."

He pulled his knees to his chest when Hawke shifted, and gurgled incoherently as a hot tongue lathed his hole. Something cold replaced it, and he jerked away. A mistake, a second later a stinging slap against his arsecheek. He yelped.

"Hold still," Hawke growled.

Anders tried to hold still best he could as Hawke squeezed whatever lubricant he'd brought against his skin. Two fingers thrust inside him, a burning pain that did not dull the pleasure, the ache of his arse where Hawke spanked him made him feel deliciously… naughty.

"Do it again," Anders demanded.

"Ngh?" Hawke asked.

Anders glanced down, eyes widening as he saw Hawke's cock, jutting out of his prison bottoms. How in the Maker's name would he take that? "S… Spank. Me," he managed, feeling the heat rise in his face.

Hawke smirked and thrust his fingers deeper. Anders threw his head back, moaning, trying to press down against them when another slap sent him scrabbling back. Hawke grabbed his hips, nails biting into his skin.

"Gonna fuck you now, sweetheart. Hold still."

Anders gasped in pain and pleasure, trying to keep his eyes open, to focus on Hawke as his slicked up cock pressed against him. He whined, not having been stretched or prepared nearly enough, but was unwilling to tell Hawke to stop. His calves rested on Hawke's shoulders and he felt Hawke's hands on his thighs now. A soft, quiet grunt, and Anders forced himself to look up at Hawke.

"Maker," he breathed. "I… Fuck me. Hard. Hawke. I want it."

Hawke smirked, wrapping a hand around Anders' erection, stroking him, bringing him back to full hardness. Without warning, he snapped his hips, thrusting into him. Anders cried out, biting down hard on his fist. If some stupid guard walked in an interrupted them now, he would hate himself forever.

"Fucking gorgeous," Hawke grunted. "Just… Ngh."

Anders allowed him to set the pace, letting out a confused moan when Hawke shoved his legs off him. He lay on his side now, curling around the linens, a terrycloth towel pressed against his cheek as Hawke thrust inside him. Another slap to his backside and he needed to bury his face in the towel to muffle his cry. He reached down, stroking himself, squeezing with every thrust. He wouldn't last long, and it was ridiculous that he found pleasure in this, being fucked in the laundry room of a prison by a burly…

"Fuck, fuck," Anders hissed as Hawke pulled nearly all the way out before thrusting forward again.

He lost all train of coherent thought, trying to catch his breath as his entire body coiled, tightened. He squeezed around Hawke even as he stroked himself faster, coming to the very edge of pleasure, eyes shut tight against the sensation.

He fell, his orgasm touching every nerve in his body as he came, warm and sticky over his hand. In the back of his mind he registered Hawke's own completion, felt his seed against the backs of his thighs. Sweating slightly, his hips thrust almost involuntarily, riding the last waves of pleasure. The first thing he heard over the sound of his own panting was Hawke chuckling.

"Wha?" he managed, lifting his head to look.

"They'll have to do this laundry again," Hawke said, pulling a cloth from the table. He wiped the mess he'd made off Anders' thighs and cleaned himself up before tossing it into one of the empty washers.

Anders laughed, bringing a hand to his forehead, incredulous. "Hawke… Maker's breath."

Hawke grinned and fixed his pants before fishing Anders' clothing from the mess on the floor. "Here, love. Get these on before we're missed. Dinner's in ten."

Anders caught the bundle of clothes, started to sit up. He frowned, head tilted. "What?"


"You're looking at me… all weird." Anders slid gingerly from the table. He would likely be walking funny for a week. Carefully he slid his boxers and pants on, stepped into the prison issued shoes and pulled his top over his head before removing the tie for his hair which likely looked a sight, considering.

"Am I? Must just be admiring the view," Hawke said, grabbing him around the waist, pulling him flush against him. He leaned down and kissed him hard.

Anders whimpered, gripping Hawke's shirt, leaning up to return the kiss, sucking softly on Hawke's tongue before Hawke pulled back. Anders stumbled slightly into his arms.

"Easy," Hawke murmured. "You all right?"

"Mmhm." Anders looked up at him. "I… It was… good. Yeah." He bit his tongue to keep the idiotically sentimental thoughts from spilling out. I really like you. I think we'd be good together. Keep me close to you. Don't leave me.

But this was prison. Reality. Not some Friday night drama on television. In less than fifteen months he would be released. And Hawke would be in here for life, for the (probably) justified murder of a man who hurt his little sister. Even if he found himself with feelings for Hawke, nothing would come of it.

Hawke laughed. "Yeah. Yeah it was good." He brushed his lips against Anders'. "C'mon. Bet you'll want to clean up and I'm starving."

Anders jumped as Hawke smacked his arse once more, and scowled at the wink.

"Well," Anders muttered to himself as Hawke turned and walked out. He rubbed his sore backside, a whirl of emotion inside him. "Fuck."