#ser writes

He was so responsive, his body so pliant under their attention, like the strings of an instrument bending to a musician's hold. His cock straining so hard now it must be painful as he lay there, bucking, and writhing, and thrashing under them. Begging them to fuck him, to touch his cock, to let him come. To let him do anything but endure this any longer because,

“I can’t fucking take this anymore, Anders,” Hawke gasped out, crying out as his lovers flooded him with a joint wave of magical and spirit energy intertwined. “Justice…”

Hawke was a vision, spread out under them like this.

Chest heaving with harsh breaths, skin flushed and gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat. His cock jutting out proudly, flushed and leaking steady trickles of precome that made a mess on his stomach and slid down his shaft, over his balls, and to where Anders’ fingers were stuffed inside him as deep as his knuckles would allow.

So desperate Hawke was now, wrought near-senseless with pleasure. Bold, and reckless, and seemingly indestructible as he was by day, the nights so often saw him surrendering to Justice and Anders' touch. Willingly, completely. Beautifully. Giving in to their every whim, every command. And they commanded,

“Keep still,” two voices ringing as one.

Hawke bit his lip, teeth digging into kiss-swollen flesh so harshly Anders feared he would break it; then Justice pictured them licking the drops of blood off Garrett's lips, and a heady rush of arousal fast extinguished any and all sparks of concern.

Hawke tried, they’d give him that. His muscles rippling and convulsing with shudders as he fought not to buck into Anders' thrusts or to arch into Justice's ever more insistent touch. Justice drifted lower now, light-coated fingers sifting through sweat-damp hair, following the thin trail that led to the mass of thick, coarse hair at the base of Garrett's cock—and Justice wasted no time lavishing it with no less attention than he had been his nipples. Wrapped his hand around the length, engulfing hot, straining flesh with a stronger crackle of humming energy that seeped under Hawke's skin, seared through his nerves, and left him groaning under them. His chest heaving as he trembled, writhed helpless and weak with pleasure, a masterpiece of decadence. Justice worked his cock slowly, grip tight, and sure, matching the pace of Anders' fingers sliding in-and-out of Hawke's hole in a slick, perfect glide. Their skin sang with the echo of the Fade alongside the echo of Hawke's moans resounding off the walls of the spacious room. The sudden bursts of force magic slipping ever more often from Garrett's control disturbed the flames in the fireplace, sent the curtains dancing, and knocked some vase or another down, not that any of them had the presence of mind to care.

To care about anything beyond this. Beyond the pleasure simmering between them.

Garrett tried to hold still, and failed, and thrust once, twice, shameless and desperate into Justice's fist. Chased the touch that brought him so close, too quickly to the edge, but just as his cock jerked and he moaned a jumble of both their names, and begged—so prettily, yet futilely, for release—Justice drew back his hand to instead hold Hawke down by his hip.

"Still," he growled in warning, bringing his hand down with a hard slap on the side of Hawke's thigh, earning a sharp cry. "Can you not obey a simple command, mortal?"

Justice knew what he was doing, of course, loved to see how Hawke squirmed and moaned at the word which he insisted sounded 'dirty.' Loved to hear those strangled whispers of, "More," and, "please," and, "Let me," interspersed with breathy groans breaking into whimpers as Hawke's hips thrust into empty air, because following orders was apparently far too hard for his lust-addled mind.

So broken with need was he already, even as they were only getting started.

So delectable as he begged, with words, with moans, and with every movement of his body.

So beautiful in his defiance.

And Anders said, innocently enough, truly, counted is as no more than a simple jest,

"Maybe we should get you a collar." His voice came out as more of a growl as Justice seeped forth to retake control—of both hands this time. Digging one hard into Hawke's hip and adding a fourth finger to the one lodged in his ass, fucking into him with no hint of softness and dragging equally rough groans from Garrett's throat.

"Tie it round your neck," Anders went on, "and keep you leashed to us until you learn to do what you’re told. So you always..." He leaned down to place a firm, fleeting kiss to Hawke's parted lips, pleased to see the thoroughly dazed-out expression their love graced him with at the words, "always know who you belong to."

Anders had expected a reaction. Some sort of twisted excitement at the concept. Longed to hear those pretty little moans Hawke let loose in answer to all the darkest fantasies Anders found himself sharing with an eagerness he hadn't really had before—yet Hawke had the power to draw out every deep-seated desire in him, uncover every layer of depravity.

He'd expected... something, and definitely not the way Hawke all but shattered under him, all broken moans and stuttering breaths as his hips bucked and forced himself deeper against the press of Justice's fingers. And it felt oh so good when his hot, slick asshole tightened around them, just as his hands released torn, crumbled sheets to dig into Anders' shoulders and drag him close.

Anders hadn't expected the sudden twitch of Garrett's cock, how impossibly more precome splattered all over flushed, rigid flesh. Hadn't expected, too, Justice's shock—awe—need at the idea, the lightning-shaped veins of Fade energy spilling from where they were concentrated at Anders' hand and over to his forearms and to his neck and overtaking him near-completely. Image upon image came to life in shocking clarity in Anders' mind: Hawke's neck wrapped in leather, the collar tight enough to scrape against Hawke's skin with each moan, with each breath he took; sweat-slick tendons straining against the pressure as he groaned and screamed their names, fucked hard until all sense and thought abandoned him; a leash attached to the collar, gleaming metal in the firelight that Hawke wouldn't be able to see, blindfolded and tied to the bed, unseeing, unmoving—only feeling.

Only theirs.

Anders shuddered and groaned, eyes squeezed shut as he fought against the rapid onslaught of pleasure, tried to quell the scorching heat building low in his belly at the visions Justice showed him, unrelenting even as bursts of raw sensation left them dangerously close to the precipice. More than ready to let go, but they wanted, needed to be inside their love first, now more than ever.

"You’d really like that wouldn’t you?"

Hawke's voice was barely above a whisper, and yet still laden with amusement. Anders wasn't quite sure if his answering look was as much of a warning glare as he'd wanted it to be, if Hawke's widening smirk was any indication.

"Both of you, it seems." Hawke’s eyes darted to the rhythmically flaring light around Anders’ hand, which Garrett could see—but couldn’t feel the overwhelming surges of heated need that coursed from Justice and to Anders and back, making Anders' head spin from the sheer force of want they found themselves assaulted by. Their own cock achingly hard and aching to slide into Hawke's ass. So they could make him scream. Make him clench around them, and take everything they gave him, and beg for more. Beg until they deigned to let him come once, twice, again, and as many times as it took to leave Hawke completely spent and beyond satisfied.

Justice surged to the surface, coaxed Anders to the back of conscious mind, and told him as much,

"We would have you leashed to us, bound wholly to our mercy, to our command." He resumed his strokes, hand gliding slow and teasingly soft over Garrett's length, the fingers still buried in Hawke's hole matching the pace and lightly teasing at that sweet spot within him that coaxed Hawke closer right to the edge of completion, but not quite over it. Not yet, but soon. "Helpless and begging for our touch, yet we would gift it sparingly—"

"Fuck, Justice—"

"If you should behave." Justice followed the words with a harsher thrust and a firmer stroke. "If you should let go of defiance and let us do with you whatever we wish, however we wish it."

"Bloody—Void—please!" Hawke thrust into Justice's grasp, restrained himself, let out a ragged breath that was more of a sob than anything else. "Please, yesyesyes I'll do anything—"

"You can do better," Justice said, slowing his pace even more when Hawke's cock jerked, more precome spilling from the swollen tip. "Can you not? So beautifully you beg when you surrender all restraint. We would touch, and kiss, and unravel you with magic, and break you until you do, until you are too desperate for words." He leaned down, and Anders rushed to the surface to meet Hawke's lips in a kiss. Their tongue sliding into his mouth, hot, and sweet, and perfect, the blinding sizzle of pleasure all over their body and over Hawke's growing ever brighter until it felt like too much, until the both of them had to cling for control just as much as Hawke did. "You would really like that." Justice drew away, echoing Hawke's earlier teasing. "Would you not?"

"Maker," Hawke gasped, "Anders, Justice, I—"

Another long, languid stroke—and their hand was coated in the hot spill of Hawke's seed. The shock of it had them frozen as Hawke fucked into their hand, groaning at the friction, at the tingle of magic, chasing the drawn-out release he'd seized without permission.

Justice drew back his hand and sank his fingers into Hawke's side, nails digging in sharply enough to leave dented crescents on heated flesh and to make Hawke hiss amid the shameless moans of pleasure. They needed no words to make their displeasure known; a sharp twist of mana sending electric energy from Justice's hand and onto Hawke's skin, resonating through his entire body and bringing him to his senses, his eyes widening as he realized his transgression.

"I-I’m sorry…"

"You'd better be," they growled, another current creeping over Hawke's skin, making him squirm and cry out in pain.

"You’re just so…" Hawke tried, "you’re too…"

"We do not wish to hear excuses," Justice said, sliding his fingers from Hawke's hole and flipping him around effortlessly to lie on his stomach. "You will be punished for your insolence."

"Oh, fuck," Hawke gasped, just as their hand came down hard on his ass, the sharp slap ringing in the otherwise silent room and sizzling with the angry crackle of raw lightning that elicited a sharp cry.

"You could've had us, love, right now, were you just a little more patient," Anders cooed gently, bringing their hand down again in a harsh contrast as Justice trailed the other to wrap around Hawke’s throat in a silent promise of a later game, their reward another loud groan. "Now, let's see how much pain," Anders struck him again, drawing a strangled whine from Garrett's throat, "you can endure before you do your best—" another blow, "to beg us," and another landing so hard this time Garrett screamed, "to give you what you want."

"Oh, please. Please, please!" Hawke's breaths came harsh and ragged. "Fuck, I'm begging now—I'm sorry—please—"

Another spank left a red handprint on the taut skin of Hawke's ass, and he both leaned in and away from it. Moans stuttering as he shuddered in anticipation of more, and more they would give him, pain and pleasure twined into one, only they'd wait until he'd least expect it.

Their hand shifted over Hawke's skin, kneaded the firm flesh of his ass cheek, and slid upwards to glide over the hard muscles of his back. Without warning, drawing back and landing hard across his ass. And again. And once more, and unrelenting, both of them relishing the way Hawke came undone under them.

The way he moaned, and melted into the sensation, and let them give him everything he craved.

~

thank you for the read💙

Garrett bucked his hips against Anders' at the thought, tingling warmth pooling in his groin as he felt his lover's rock-hard length nudging his thigh. He couldn't resist rubbing against it, shameless, moaning wordless pleas into the kiss as Anders returned the favor. Grinding against Hawke's length, low groans slipping past his lips, his hands clawing at Hawke's shoulders in a vain attempt to pull him closer—even as they were already wrapped as close around each other as they could be.

That they were still clothed seemed nothing less than a crime.

And yet still, Anders simply kept kissing him, hands pressing against Garrett’s chest to keep as he ravaged his mouth. Teasing him with the occasional flare of magic over hardened nipples or a rough thrust of his hips that brushed their lengths together, the friction of it divine. A smirk played on Anders’ kiss-swollen lips as he drew away for but a short breath before recapturing Hawke's mouth in a dance that flooded him with pleasure and yet still left him aching. Kissed him as if kissing was the air Anders needed to breathe lest he suffocate.

So the world became just this: burning lips, and heated hands, and the telltale rising temperature of Anders’ body, the once faint crackle of magic pulsing stronger with each brush of their lips. Hawke lost himself in the gentle hum of it. Of that beautiful song that blended so well into the staccato rhythm of Hawke’s lightning-bright mana also straining against the bounds of mind and body as Anders unraveled him bit by bit, pressing him harder against the wall.

The Chantry wall, of all places Hawke had never thought he’d be happy to be crowded against. 

Chantries were usually deserted at night, some regular hours of peace and quiet maintained nightly in the house of the Maker to appease Him; but at any moment a wandering visitor too distraught to wait for the morning sermon or a passing Templar guard could set off the barrier they built. And their luck's past track record left little hope in the way of avoiding that.

So Garrett untangled his mouth from Anders', a slow, painstaking effort.

So many years after that last escape attempt—not attempt, he corrected himself, but a proper escape. One that led him to his dear friend become hero, to the Wardens, to Justice, to Kirkwall, and to Hawke. 

To Hawke, who stole his heart with frightening ease and made Anders forget what it's like to be afraid. Hawke, who stood by him, never faltering, even when Anders would beg for him to step back, if only to keep himself safe.

"I don't want safe," Garrett would say, incurable romantic that he was, "I want you."

One more dangerous, reckless step they took, tonight, on this path to once impossible freedom, seeing hundreds released from Kinloch's unyielding hold. It seemed a dream, and Anders would think it one, if not for his wounds still healing and echoing with pain. A good pain. A reminder that he was alive. That he was free.

They all were, now.

Anders leaned against the railing, closed his eyes, and breathed.

It had seemed too hard, at times, to breathe in this tower. They were never kept in the crowded dorms for days on end, and the classrooms were spacious, the dining hall fit for a palace, really, the corridors winding, confusing, but wide and often likely to lead to unexpected, undiscovered, and deserted places. Somewhere one could hide and contemplate the burning wake of an imprisoned existence, if one wished to.

Anders had wished to. Many times, far too many. That it was gilded didn't make this wretched place any less of a cage after all.

Now, taking a deeper breath didn't seem like much of a chore. Neither did smiling. Neither did leaning against Hawke's side as his lover approached and wrapped an arm around his waist. Warm. Gentle. Safe.

Happy, so ridiculously happy as Anders never thought he'd get to be.

"The last are out," Hawke said, just shy of whispering too, though they were the only ones here. "Some waiting for us, some off to... wherever else. Safety in numbers and all but I can't exactly tell them what to do." He pressed a soft kiss to Anders' temple, and Anders couldn't help but nuzzle into the touch. "No one can, now."

And if Anders had any say at all in the matter, no one ever would again.

"I'm sure they'll be safer with Fiona's forces."

Maker knew their small, if rapidly growing, chunk of the rebellion was a risky gamble, to say the least. With their stronghold built with magic and concealed with it, still a noticeable beacon to a templar sensitive enough. With the deliberate ambushes of templar camps holding mages prisoner, and now—even a venture to a Circle destabilized enough to be overrun and cleared of the Chantry's occupation.

"Don't think that's where they all went." Hawke tried to conceal his frown, focusing on the splatters of stars glittering in the distance, doubly bright now that the moon hid behind a cloud. Anders felt Garrett's magic push outward and coil into an invisible pool of energy right above the window glass, a buzzing siphon that summoned a handful of wisps that spun into what looked to be the burgeoning of a constellation. "Some just prefer going it alone."

Anders shrugged, watching as another wisp slid into place, forming a very familiar, very predictable figure. 

"Alone, not alone, doesn't make a difference. Away from the likes of me's all the better." He pressed his lips against Hawke's before he could protest. "Hush, love. I'm not upset—I just notice how some of them look at me. It's a bit unnerving but understandable." Anders smiled, hoping it seemed reassuring. "Me a decade ago would probably be horrified by me now, you know."

"Anders, I..." A few swift, a tad violent swipes of Hawke's hands summoned a few more wisps to add to the pattern. "I don't think there was a single person out there who wasn't grateful for what you did here tonight."

Anders placed a hand on his. "What we did here tonight."

"What you began." Hawke's hand slipped as he rearranged the wisps, and Anders gently nudged the would-be stars into their proper place. Hawke's smile was tentative, rueful. "The only one in Kirkwall brave enough to do something."

"With Justice," Anders corrected him, feeling pleasant warmth blooming in his chest, "and with you by my side. We did that, love."

Hawke huffed. "I don't remember there being a 'we' when you were making the Chantry into fireworks." A burst of wisps shot from his palm, some dying out, some painting the glass with the tail of the constellation—a firm finishing touch. "Without me, by the way."

The smirk was there, and Hawke's tone was light, teasing. No reason at all to make Anders' insides run quite so cold.

"I—" Anders swallowed hard. "I-I know you're still—"

"Shit." Hawke's embrace was sudden. Warm. Lovely. Feeling like home. "Listen—I mean, don't listen to me. Talk. Stupid shit. Sorry. Just messing with you. Of course I'm not upset."

That particular brand of furious Hawke had been back then mellowed down to upset, and anymore left unsaid. Even so, Anders only burrowed his head in the crook of Hawke's neck.

"If you say so."

"I do." Hawke pressed a light kiss to Anders' temple. To his cheek, then the other. Kissed his nose, his mouth—and drew the last one out in a languid glide of soft lips and twining tongues, kissing Anders deeply, thoroughly. It was nothing less than perfect. "Just, you know," Hawke said against his lips, barely pulling away, "next time you're planning treason or something, consider letting me in on the fun? I hate missing out on the good stuff."

Anders allowed himself a smile. "It's fun to you, is it?"

"Sure is."

"Dangerous ideas of fun, love."

Hawke laughed. "Have I ever been anything but turned on by danger?"

"Perish the thought." Anders rolled his eyes. "I mean, there's your unhealthy obsession with dragons."

"Mm, wouldn't call it unhealthy, and obsession is such a strong word..."

Anders gestured to the miniature constellation pulsating with Garrett's magic above the window glass in perfect resemblance of Draconis shining in the corner of the sky above them. "Case in point."

Hawke sighed in mock frustration. "Anders. Love. Sweetheart. Light of my life." Those gold-bright eyes stared at him with all the almost childlike earnestness Anders was glad Hawke hadn't lost through those grueling years of the misery that was Kirkwall. "Your stubborn refusal to accept that dragons are awesome is only keeping you from enjoying life to the fullest."

"Bullshit."

"It's true!"

"Cats are awesome. Dragons," Anders scoffed, "are scary and want to kill me. The only 'awe' that is is awful."

"If you can't see how cats are demons in disguise with their—with their deadly claws and fangs and Maker the glares and the hissing..." Hawke shuddered, shaking his head in disdain. "You're beyond help."

"Cats," Anders insisted, "are fluffy balls of joy."

"Demons," Hawke said, "in disguise. Ser Pounce Junior's tried to kill me at least half a dozen times—all in the past week, too."

"With his... little claws and... half-formed fangs?"

"Yes, with those!" Hawke pouted. "And the scratches hurt like a bitch."

"Oh, don't worry, love." Anders leaned in to hide his smile in a kiss. "I'll protect you from the big bad scary kitten."

"And I will protect you from majestic, beautiful, awesome dragons," Hawke declared, his lips curled into a goofy grin, and kiss-swollen, and so tempting Anders had to steal another sweet, fleeting kiss. "Fair deal?"

Anders knew he himself was smiling like an idiot, too, but couldn't quite stop.

Didn't want to.

"I love you." It wasn't a whisper, and it echoed in the empty room, seeming so loud, too loud for a place like this. Where sentiment used to be almost a foolish a risk as blood magic. Where such words whispered would sooner lead mages to ruin than to any semblance of joy. "I love you," Anders said, and it was as easy as breathing. "I love you," flowed freely from his lips, making him all kinds of giddy, and happy, making him feel complete, "I love you, I love you, I love—"

The rest was drowned out as Hawke drew him into another kiss. Anders drank him in, and moaned against his lips, and wrapped his hands around Garrett's neck, drawing him closer. Kissed him long, and hard, and deep until they were both of them left breathless and dizzy with it, smile pressed against smile, unwilling—or unable—to part.

"I love you too." A small blush sprang to life on Hawke's cheeks, even after all these years. Words spoken so softly it almost sounded as if his voice was trembling, and a look of such unbridled adoration in his eyes that it made Anders' heart skip one beat, and a few more. "You know that."

It wasn't so much a question, just a hint of it. Just a touch of hesitance—but Anders said firmly, "I do," because Garrett had never given him reason to doubt. Even when he should have. Even when the best thing to do would have been to leave.

Yet here they were.

Constellations above them and the walls of a tower finally empty of prisoners and so only echoing with pain, not screaming raw with it. Beautiful, boundless skies above them, and yet they stood with gazes locked, and Anders sought instead the constellations borne of reflections of light in Hawke's eyes.

In the Fade tonight, Hawke couldn't save Carver from the Blight. Lost in the darkness of the deepest roads underground, he called for Anders who was nowhere to be found. He carried his brother through red fog and over mires of darkspawn corpses, searching for Grey Wardens and only finding bones, lifeless bodies, and decay. He fell to his knees and held Carver close, rocking back and forth like he used to, back when he was the all-grown-up child lulling the twins to sleep with a song barely discernable against their insistent crying.

Carver wasn't crying now. Simply smiling, the smile a fragile, broken thing, trembling lips tinged with blood and framed by black veins spread out all over his face, over his skin, pulsing with the lullaby of death.

Garrett couldn't breathe when Carver took his final breath, suffocated by sobs that tore through his chest painfully enough to rival the excruciatingly constricting thump-thump of his racing heart.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

Was it?

It couldn't be.

"This isn't—" Hawke tried.

Tried and failed to will the vision away and succeeded only in summoning a more recent horror.

"...real."

In the Fade tonight, his mother stood before him on quivering knees, bones showing through knit-together skin, dusty, and pale, and bloodied.

"Garrett," she—it creaked, staggering closer as Hawke reeled away, his back hitting the cold stone wall of the tomb they now stood in, "my little, weak boy," the space getting smaller and smaller as the thing-that-was-not-his-mother crumpled to its knees and continued its journey towards him, crawling now through a floor littered with detached limbs and torn entrails, "such a disappointment."

"Stop."

"Such a waste."

"Please—" There was no way out. Only darkness. Only it. "Stop—"

"I never loved you."

"STOP!"

Hawke fought through the numbness and forced his mana outwards in a burst of blinding electricity, banishing the apparition, toppling the walls, submerging the darkness in blinding white—

Only to come face to face with Anders' blank expression and empty eyes. Blinking measured, steady. Back straight as it never was, posture stiff and still, no hint of Anders' usual fidgeting.

"Hawke." A voice so perfectly emotionless. But still his. "I did tell you to kill me. If they'd ever make me Tranquil."

Hawke's hands shook, and his legs were all but giving out. With tremendous effort, he took a few steps back—and there was everywhere and anywhere to run in the spacious meadow that he recognized as the first place he and Anders had ever found themselves alone together, all those years back when tentative friendship simmered with something that turned out to be so much more. That turned out to be everything—

And in the Fade tonight, Hawke's everything was taken away.

The few steps he managed made no difference, and Anders was still there, so close and yet the furthest distance away, so familiar and yet a stranger that wouldn't—couldn't hear Hawke's whispered,

"Love, please."

"But I have no desire to die." Not-Anders went on, staring at his hands with a slight frown. Run, run, run, Hawke's mind screamed, stay, stay, STAY, the Fade seemed to command. "Hawke." Anders—Not-Anders looked up at Garrett, gaze sparking with the barest sheen of confusion. Hawke couldn't turn away, even when he did. The sunburst, and cloudy eyes, and Anders' chest pierced with the sharp end of Hawke's staff were right there before him no matter where he turned, no matter where he tried to run. "Why would you kill me?"

"No." Running was pointless. Closing his eyes changed nothing. Screaming only made Anders' voice louder, only made blankly spoken words of blame a roar of thunder in his mind, all-encompassing and damning. "NO!"

I would never.

"But you did."

This isn't real.

"It will be."

I'll keep you safe.

"Just like you did everyone else?"

STOP!

"Stop!" Hawke screamed.

"Stop—" the scream died in his throat as he awoke, chest heaving with rasping breaths, his whole body shivering from much more than the chill of sweat.

Hawke stumbled out of bed, not quite making it to the window and instead slumping to the floor and curling into himself, arms embracing his knees as he tried, and failed, and tried, and failed again to take a deeper breath. To blink the tears away, to cease the pathetic whimpers escaping his throat. Evidence of his weakness. The result of the misery he himself caused. Because he could have been faster, and he should have been stronger, and then he wouldn't have to carry the blame, and the fear, and the loneliness.

It took him a while to blink away those tears—and the remnants of the visions that still clawed at his mind through the Veil.

It took him a longer while to see it—the room, his and Anders' room. The faintest rays of burgeoning morning light trickling through the window. Not quite safe—never safe, in this city ripe with blood and subjugation—but quiet. Peaceful.

It took a yet longer while to hear the voice whispering words of comfort in his ear. To feel the hands rubbing his back and massaging his arms from behind, to feel the gentle pull of Anders' mana, the familiar energy of it weaving in coils of humming warmth to untangle the ragged chaos of Hawke's own.

"It was just a dream, love."

"I'm here."

"Everything's going to be all right."

But...

Barely anything was, at this point.

Hawke stayed silent, focusing on his breathing, forcing the fear that gripped him still, tight as a vice, to quell. Hesitant, he craned his neck to get a glimpse of his lover, and only the sight of a forehead free of the brand and marred only by frown lines made him sigh in relief.

Safe.

Alive.

Here.

(For now.)

"I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize, love."

"This is, what, the third time tonight?"

Anders hugged him tighter, his magic warm, so warm, so close. So soft as it hummed against Hawke's skin that he allowed himself to melt into the embrace, just a little.

"It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" Hawke snapped. "I can't—I'm a fucking mess, Anders."

"So?"

"So..." Hawke sighed, closed his eyes, then quickly opened them when the darkness yielded to more flashes of the nightmare. Of Anders not quite dead, yet gone. "So nothing."

"Love?"

"Fear," Hawke said, "and Despair. I think. They won't leave me alone. I can't... everybody dies. Keeps dying. And I can't do shit about it. I never can. You..." Hawke couldn't quite bring himself to say it. Couldn't share the pain of it—he never could—and as always, Anders didn't pressure him.

"Love, it's going to be all right," Anders promised instead, and Hawke couldn't pretend to believe him. Not now. Not as he was. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm here."

But not for long.

Not forever, because Anders could never promise him that.

Because Hawke couldn't save him, just like he couldn't the rest of his family. Because even with Carver alive and with the Wardens, it's the younger Hawke set to die first because of the slow but unrelenting corruption. Because Garrett would likely lose Anders to the Taint sooner than to any templar's cruelty.

There was nothing he could do about it.

No more books left in his or any blasted libraries in this Maker-forsaken city to seek answers from.

No Tevene scholars, or Avvar nomads, or immortal Warden magi offering any answers that didn't involve blood magic and violent sacrifice.

No miracles, no hope.

He was so tense, all over, muscles locked in knots and old wounds tugging at his skin with phantom pains. The wide scar on his chest, from the Arishok's blade, seemed to prickle, and Hawke caught himself wondering, for the split flash of a second, if it would have been best, had he never survived that duel.

(Why do you get to live and I don't, Bethy had accused him in an earlier dream. He could come up with no reason good enough, only pathetic pleas to stop and ever more pathetic sobs when he failed to escape the twisted dreamscape.)

He was so fucking weak, and yet—

The tension did slip from his limbs, bit by bit, and the darker thoughts lightened as Anders began spinning a story, wild, and exciting, and bit ridiculous, as all his stories of his time adventuring with Hawke's cousin usually were. It was a familiar one, about Amell's disastrous attempt to tame an injured dragonling, much to Anders' annoyance. Two days and three nights spent healing it and training it to eat from Amell's hand without biting it off—and still, it ended up crying for and summoning its mother, much to Anders' total exasperation.

Anders' mana flared and sizzled whenever he got riled up, and Hawke couldn't help but press closer to him, all but using Anders' chest as a pillow and his mana as a blanket as they ended up lying on the floor, entangled, the bed and sleep forgotten for the while.

Tears were forgotten, too, as Anders' fervent complaining about his best friend's lack of brain matter inevitably made Hawke laugh.

Anders stopped in his tracks, a flash of surprise on his face, then promptly captured his smile with a kiss, soft and lingering. The sweetness of it a blissful reprieve from the crippling fear.

"Feeling better, love?" Anders murmured against Hawke's lips.

"Mm." Hawke nuzzled into his neck, trying to get as close as possible to the comforting warmth that was Anders' magic, that was Anders himself. "You magic—it makes me feel safe."

Another flare of the tingling heat of creationism followed the admission, as did another kiss, a gentle press of lips to the top of Hawke's head.

"You are safe," Anders said, and shallow as Garrett's smile still was, he found it in himself to pretend to believe him this time. He pressed feather-light kisses against Anders' neck, feeling the heartbeat there, breathing in the familiar scent of elfroot and the sharp, lyrium-like tang of the Fade.

Real.

Alive.

Here.

"We both are," Anders whispered.

Hawke chuckled darkly. "For now."

Anders carded a hand through Hawke's hair. Tender, comforting. "For now," he echoed, because Anders couldn't promise him forever.

But morning came, and so did yet another day with Anders beside him, both of them free still in a city of tightening chains.

And Maker damn it all, Hawke would fight for and cherish however long they'd get to have.

~