#Soulrebel Writes

[gakumo]

DAY 97/365 ||A SOUL ON A JOURNEY|| [PERSONALITY] ~O.T.D 3 YEARS AGO 📍 NANYUKI EQUATOR~ Often, people build stories in their mind which have no basis in the contours of reality. Those which build these images, are building such images which are based on their relatively limited sense of understanding about the particular subject or person. This is a "fill in the blank" reality, which often manifests itself into the hearts and the minds of those who have a "fill in the blank" mindset, not the person with the here said reality. The universe is designed in a way that reflects itself, just like a mirror, showing you exactly who you are to yourself, not who others are. Your largest and most concealed insecurities have their way of presenting themselves to you in a fashion that is relative to your self designed way of communication. This short writing is a reminder that your preconceived notions on a particular subject or person, are a construct of your inner mind and emotional-relational well being and not of others. This is one of the largest fundamental truths in which you must have large insight to carefully watch who and what you massacre with your personal thoughts. Having a keen sense of control on this subject will lead you to enlightenment in many platforms of life.” #ASoulOnAJourney #SenSima #365Project2k22Ke #SoulRebel Day 97 (at Equator) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfHf75Co2sE/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

For the kissing prompt meme, I'd love to read your take on number 17, for your favorite pairing (and no pressure, only if you feel like writing it!). Thank you!

17. Tucking their hands beneath the other person’s shirt, just to watch them break the kiss and gasp in surprise at the sensation of cold/warm hands on their skin.

From the prompt list "50 Types of Kisses - Writing Prompts"

Pairing: Alistair/Zevran

Tags: angst

1441 words

====

When Zev kisses him for the first time, cradled in the lee of a tree just beyond camp and lit gently by scattered moonlight, it's both completely foreseen—reasonable, really, after their strange almost-courtship—and terrifying.

Alistair doesn't know what to do with his hands. He doesn't know what to do with his nose. It’s not that he’s never kissed anyone, not really, but he’d been lonely as a kid, and lonely as a monastery ward, so it’s not like he’s got a lot of experience to draw on. Zevran leans up on his tiptoes against the tree at his back (he’s so small, and that sets something twitching in Alistair that he’s not-quite-scared of and entirely too interested in for sanity’s sake), and is he supposed to lean down further? How does everyone do this so instinctively?

"Maker, I'm bungling this—" he tries when they pull apart just enough to breathe.

"Nonsense." Zevran's smile presses again into Alistair's lips. His hands, with their interesting, deliberately lotioned callouses, rove over the linen of Alistair's shirt. "As long as we both are enjoying ourselves, that is the important thing, yes?"

Alistair laughs nervously. "I don't even know..."

"Mm?"

"...if I'm doing this right."

Zevran grins at that, smooths his long-fingered hands up Alistair’s chest to toy with the hair at his nape. “I would say so,” he murmurs. “I, for one, am having a very good time. Are you?”

“I--yes. Yes. Very much so. Just…nervous.” Alistair watches the way Zevran’s pink tongue licks at the swell of his lip and gulps, heat crawling through him at the sight. “Very much so,” he repeats breathily.

“Well then, if I might make a suggestion?”

He steels himself against what feels will surely be one of those suggestions that really means, do better, Alistair, don’t do that, Alistair, quit messing up, Alistair. “Yeeees?”

Zevran almost purrs it when he says, “Practice makes perfect. So...”

It takes a moment of owlish blinking, his mind whirring, before Alistair can manage to speak again. “I, uh.” He blushes furiously, he can feel it, scorching up his face like a fire. His tongue is too thick to talk, damn it all, and he can only stammer as his brain struggles to catch up with the last few seconds. “You mean—”

“I do,” Zevran laughs. His finger twists into the unruly baby curls that signal Alistair’s need for a haircut. “Shall we?”

Zevran’s skin is pale gold in the moonlight, and Alistair drinks it in, the way the light clings to the angles of his face, shadows casting him in sharp relief. His eyes, honey-amber, are filled with their own inner glow. Even his hair is gorgeous despite a long day’s trek through the countryside. Everything about him is something that draws Alistair in, and if it’s a trap he thinks he might as well walk in by now.

“Please,” he groans, and they meet in the middle again.

It’s not that Alistair has never thought about kissing a man. He’d entertained the idea as a kid after spying two men holding hands share a kiss in the Redcliffe castle courtyard. He’d thought about it later, too. Growing up with a bunch of other unruly boys would surely do that, especially while coming into that special time in a boy’s life as he starts to understand certain things about himself. It was just that he hadn't had much opportunity to think about it with any seriousness until after he’d left the monastery with Duncan only a short year ago.

And it wasn’t like he’d known Zevran back then, anyway.

Zevran, who not too long ago he had emphatically disliked and distrusted, especially after he’d convinced Alistair’s fellow Warden to allow him to join their bunch of mish-mashed puzzle pieces. Zevran, whose fingers are calloused because of the very dangerous daggers he kept on him at all times (“They’re probably not poisoned. Perhaps I don’t quite remember,” Zevran had said blandly when a suspicious younger him had inspected them, and the bored look he’d given then had intimidated Alistair into hastily dropping the blades into the dirt, muttering under his breath).

Zevran, whose hands are damn ice when they slide down his sides and land in the curve of his hips, fingers tucking tidily beneath the hem of Alistair’s shirt to steal the heat from his skin.

Alistair gasps and jerks at the touch, accidentally biting Zevran’s bottom lip in his clumsiness—and Maker’s breath, the noise that Zevran makes is sinful enough to resurrect the ghost of Revered Mother Edith to rap him upside his head with a ruler. Zevran pulls him closer, all but clinging where they touch. It’s addicting. His kisses turn greedy and Alistair gingerly tries it again, pulling a moan from him.

“Ah,” Zevran sighs. His fingers dig into the swell of Alistair’s hips. “Alistair…”

It’s like something in Alistair unclenches at the sound of his name in Zevran’s mouth, how soft and gentle it is, hushed here in the quiet of the middle of the night. His hand moves to cup Zevran’s nape and he holds him close and kisses him again and again, dizzy for that softness.

And he’s not doing too bad of a job at it if the satisfied little noises Zevran makes are anything to go by.

But Zevran’s boasted about his conquests before, of which there have apparently been many, and something sour winds its way into Alistair’s stomach against his will. He pulls back, hating himself even as he blurts out, “This isn’t some game, is it?”

The quirk of Zevran’s brow meets the question. “Game?” he asks, a smile curling over his lips. “It could be if you wished it. Could be quite fun.”

“No, I mean--” Alistair grunts and steps out of Zevran’s grasp and hates himself even more for the way that smile fades, smoothing into something less open, less inviting. “I mean,” he barrels on because he’s already in it for a copper, might as well be in for a sovereign. “I mean, you’re you, and I’m, well, me.” Alistair chuckles weakly and rakes his fingers through his hair. “I—this is great—really, really great—but I just...”

A frown creases Zevran’s brow. “You mean to ask, am I playing with you? As if a toy?” he asks flatly.

“Yeah.”

When Zevran’s face goes blank, Alistair rushes to continue. “I just. I don’t, I don’t know what I’m doing, really, and you, well. You are…”

“You can say it. I’ve been called a slut many times.” He smiles, though it’s forced and wan. “If you’re good at what you do, why worry what people think, hmm?”

The words hit Alistair like a slap. “I was going to say ‘so fascinatingly beautiful,’ actually.”

A complicated flutter of emotions plays over Zevran’s face, quick like a flickering flame. He takes a seat upon the exposed gnarled roots of the tree at his back, shakes his head, and pulls a flask out from some hidden pocket. A deep drink later, Zevran holds it out toward Alistair.

Sighing, Alistair sits down beside him and takes the flask. Even with the whisky burning down his throat he still manages to feel cold without Zevran’s warmth. “I didn’t mean for it to be an insult, for what it’s worth.” He passes the flask back and scrubs a hand down his face, scraping against three-day-old stubble. Maker, he needs to take care of himself better. A glance at Zevran’s face, even in mostly-profile like this, reveals red irritation along his chin and cheek, though it could also be his imagination. “I just… No one’s ever wanted me. Not really. So now…”

“You’re scared.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Zevran hums softly to himself as he takes a drink, not so much an invitation but acknowledgment, but says no more. Embarrassment burns Alistair's cheeks as the silence grows. He wipes his hands on his trousers. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I’m… I’m just going to go to bed now.”

Alistair heaves himself up with a grunt. He catches the slight turn of Zevran keeping him in his peripheral vision as he rises. His stomach wobbles at that, at all the things and possibilities he doesn’t quite understand that he’s leaving, but he can’t stay, not with the deep insult he’d just inadvertently made. “Goodnight,” he says softly.

It isn’t until he’s just barely in earshot that Zevran says, hushed in the stillness of the woods, “Goodnight, Alistair.”

It cuts into him like a dagger.

[vikasvikku]

#quotes #poetry #poems #quote #writings #musings #dreamers #rebels #free #freespirits #gypsysouls #hippies #soulrebels #curious #shy #quiet #fiery #furious Follow @vikkoo on @mirakeeapp #mirakee #poems #poetry #writersnetwork #quotes #quote #writersofinstagram #stories #ttt #quoteoftheday #writersofig #writersofmirakee #wordporn #writing #writer https://www.instagram.com/p/BsZhSVIFB8B/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=b7qnwbetyx2l

[pinayelf]

ocean-in-my-rebel-soul replied to your photoset “Something I drew for my one-shot “A Little Bit of Healing”, aka my...”

Wait - I saw this on AO3 randomly like a million years ago. I didn't realize I follow you! Hello! I'm SoulRebel on AO3!

Oh hi! You’re the one that’s writing that amazing Cullen x Josie x Adaar that I constantly check for updates on

Haha nice to meet you on here too ^_^

[deathlock-73]

So... rewatching Empire for the unpteenth time, and something just occurred to me. An entire planet where Yoda could live - and Luke just happens to crash nearby? Pretty convenient of the Force to do that... don’t you think? Or just lazy writing? You tell me... #positivity #positivevibes #goodvibes #love #pma #stoked #noelectrons #soulrebel #shaka #aloha #giveback #payitforward #bjj #muaythai #boxing #mma #surf #SUP #SUPsurf #skate #yoga #gnar #nothingstoognarly #lifeisrad #LiveLikeKeanu https://www.instagram.com/p/B6lxmuWp11y/?igshid=1ggnuemnsj65h

[ao3feed-handers]

Alone

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2LR8QRD

by SoulRebel

No one could say that Marian Hawke lacked for an imagination. In fact, that seemed to always be her problem.

Words: 2297, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 1 of August 2018 SmutFest Writing Challenge

Fandoms: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/F, F/M, Multi

Characters: Marian Hawke, Isabela, Merrill, Fenris, Anders, Varric Tethras

Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Anders/Female Hawke, Female Hawke/Isabela, Female Hawke/Varric Tethras, Female Hawke/Merrill

Additional Tags: Smut, Orgy, ish, Vaginal Fingering, Anal Sex, Vaginal Sex, Hand-job, Cunnilingus, Tribadism

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2LR8QRD

[gakumo]

DAY 95/365 ||A SOUL ON A JOURNEY|| [YOU] Who you are is not determined by what you wear, the money in your wallet, nor how you look. Who you are is simply determined by who or what you follow. If you follow money you will only seek after such, giving your all for it. If you seek after what they call, 'fun,' your life will be aimed towards finding a way to fame, or a new way to party. If you follow the Lord Jesus your life will be given to Him, and the hopes and dreams you have will be in pleasing Him!! Everyone follows someone or something. Who will it be? Choose wisely- you are important!! Often, people build stories in their mind which have no basis in the contours of reality. Those which build these images, are building such images which are based on their relatively limited sense of understanding about the particular subject or person. This is a "fill in the blank" reality, which often manifests itself into the hearts and the minds of those who have a "fill in the blank" mindset, not the person with the here said reality. The universe is designed in a way that reflects itself, just like a mirror, showing you exactly who you are to yourself, not who others are. Your largest and most concealed insecurities have their way of presenting themselves to you in a fashion that is relative to your self designed way of communication. This short writing is a reminder that your preconceived notions on a particular subject or person, are a construct of your inner mind and emotional-relational well being and not of others. This is one of the largest fundamental truths in which you must have large insight to carefully watch who and what you massacre with your personal thoughts. Having a keen sense of control on this subject will lead you to enlightenment in many platforms of life. #ASoulOnAJourney #SenSima #365Project2k22Ke #SoulRebel Day 95 (at NAX7) https://www.instagram.com/p/CfCNKsJoy3E/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[gakumo]

DAY 89/365 ||A SOUL ON A JOURNEY|| [LIFE] Write stories about your life. The difficulties you have faced, all your faults and fears. Write them for yourself, write them to understand yourself fully. #ASoulOnAJourney #SenSima #365Project2k22Ke #SoulRebel Day 89 (at mkarafuu) https://www.instagram.com/p/CerS8XNo0B4/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

Stay here tonight, Varric slurs to her one night after cards, after far too many bottles of wine and pitchers of ale.

Hawke protests weakly and has to hold up her head with her hand, half-slumped as she is over the long table. She’s been in that hazy, almost-asleep state for the last twenty minutes; her eyelids fall closed, only for her to jerk violently and wake herself up as soon as they do. Varric snorts. Everyone else has gone home, tottering off to their various beds and hidey-holes. Hawke sways when she gets up, an unsteady baby bird, and though the floor tilts under Varric’s feet when he does the same, at least he could still feel his ass, unlike someone he knows.

Read more on AO3!

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

hey how about some Handers from the platonic (or not-so-platonic) touch list: Fixing shirt collar

ahaha Handers, my kryptonite!

@dadrunkwriting

==

"Oh, wait."

Garrett pauses. Anders rises from the settee that's been pulled closer to the fireplace. His hair is burnished gold, his skin cast aglow by the flickering flames. He pads silently toward Garrett as an unreadable expression overtaking his features.

"Your shirt collar--here, let me--"

Slender fingers reach out. Garrett's breath hitches at his throat. Anders fixes his collar, adjusting the wrinkles and twists out of it. He glances shyly at Garrett as he does, and Garrett wonders, not for the first time--

"When are you going to let me kiss you?"

"Oh, soon, most likely." Almost as if he only registers the words once spoken, Anders stills, his hands pausing in the way they smoothed over his lapels. He springs away. "Knickerweasels--"

A few short strides brings Garrett close again, and he reaches for Anders' sleeve, catching it at his wrist. He tugs gently until Anders faces him again. "I'll wait," he promises. "I can wait. For you. I will wait."

"Garrett--"

"I want to."

Anders squints. "It's dangerous," he says, the words sharp, but he doesn't pull away. "I'm dangerous. A mage, an apostate." Anders laughs wryly and pushes his free hand through his hair. "An abomination. You don't want me, Garrett. You shouldn't want me."

"That doesn't make me want you less." Garrett lets Anders' sleeve slide from between his fingers and tentatively draws his hand down Anders' own. He nudges Anders' fingers. "You may be all that, but you're also compassionate, and witty, and funny, and driven. I could talk about you all day if you'd let me, you know."

The stiffness bleeds away slowly, but Anders eventually sighs. He curls his hand into Garrett's own and laces their fingers together. "I... I want you too," he whispers. "So much. Too much. And I'm afraid." Anders lets himself be pulled in and leans his head against Garrett's shoulder. "I've only loved one man," he mutters into Garrett's jacket, "and I got him killed. I killed him. I can't--I can't let that happen again."

"The killing part?" Garrett speaks the words into Anders' hair. "Or the loving part?"

"...both," comes Anders' miserable reply.

"Okay. It's okay." He brings his free hand up to rub soothing circles into the sharp blades of Anders' shoulders. "We can talk about it sometime later, if you want. Whenever. I can wait."

They stand tucked into each other until Anders finally pulls away. "You're going to miss your meeting," he says gruffly, wiping at his eyes.

"I don't care about the meeting. Are you going to be all right?" Garrett fights the urge to follow. That's not what Anders needs right now.

"I think... I think I might have to take your mother up on that offer of tea," Anders mutters. He scrubs his hands down his face and rubs at his mouth.

Garrett smiles. "Well, she'll likely be home in a couple of hours. I think she said she was meeting with some old friends." Probably to try to marry him off, he doesn't say, even though it's the truth. She's been introducing him to some of the local families' daughters, all noble-born and perfectly lovely but boring in a way that makes him wish for wings to fly away with.

It's not their fault his inclination lay in other directions, though, and he can't blame anyone for trying to make a good match. He tries to make sure every "accidental" visit for tea leaves everyone in a pleasant mood, even if he's getting tired of it.

"Go," Anders says, interrupting his train of thought. "I'll be home when you get back."

"I know." Garrett turns to make for the door and stops short of walking through, hanging onto the doorframe. "You know, I really like that," he says, voice soft. "Even if we never talk about it ever again, I am grateful that you choose to live here. It's... nice, honestly. This place is too big for just Mother and me."

"Well, you know..." Anders shakes his head. "Go. Come back. We'll have some tea and supper."

Garrett grins, heart light. "I'll hold you to it."

Anders smiles back. "I know."

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?” for hhAAAAAAAAAANDERS or any other pairing of your choice lol

Thank you, friend! You and @fairfaxleasee ended up sending in the same prompt at some point! (I am suuuuper behind on my prompt backlog, whooooops.)

So without further ado, here's to you and @dadrunkwriting for enabling encouraging my Handers obsession, lol.

Marian Hawke x Anders, 2k words. T rating.

Getting together, hurt/comfort,

cw: temporary major character death, blood, injuries, surgery and healing, aftermath of battle

--

"Why haven't you kissed me yet?"

Anders startles out of his careful examination of one of the wounds in Marian's bared shoulder. "I—uh—what?"

"I think it's a perfectly rea—reasonable question, given everything." Marian's eyes are bright and glassy in the dim light of the nearby lanterns. A mulish sort of line twists her lips, which are suddenly too close and too centered in Anders' vision, before she smiles up at him.

"You could, you know," she says conspiratorially. Marian jerks a thumb vaguely upward, or what would be upward if the thumb was properly splinted instead of set in the hasty binding that was managed on the road. He doesn't ignore the wince that creases her features as she goes on. "I won't tell Choir Boy if you won't."

"He'd be scandalized, I'm sure," Anders quips, deadpan, before he can catch himself.

"Beside himself with concern, for certain." She chuckles weakly. "You know, I worry about him sometimes."

Anders shakes his head and sets himself back into examining the wreckage that is her left side. "Someone has to, I suppose," he allows magnanimously. "Won't be me, but someone. Now if you'll just sit still..."

It's still a mess, now most of a night since Marian had been carried into the clinic by Aveline, Sebastian, and Fenris. They'd been caught up by smugglers while on an unofficial patrol of the coast, and Marian had been caught in a knot of blades before being pushed from one of the cliffs to a blessed ledge some ten or twenty feet below. She had been unconscious when they burst into the clinic in a cacophony of clattering armor and panic, and had only woken a handful of minutes ago after a long night of emergency surgery.

Sweat gathers at the nape of Anders' neck while he works. He wills his hands not to shake as he pleads for her blood vessels to mend, muscle fibers to knit back together, but it's not enough; he can hardly make her flesh listen to his will, as exhausted as he is, scraping at the bottom of a barrel only to come up empty. Her skin, normally a sun-kissed tan, is sallow and mottled with bruises beneath his shaking fingers.

"Anders?" she blurts out of nowhere, and it nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

"Can you just—!" Anders wipes his neck with his forearm and scowls at her. "Can you just sit still for one damn minute while I save your life?"

Marian gives him a goofy grin, its shape lopsided with the strength of the potion Anders had poured down her throat a few minutes ago. "You know, tech—technically"—she bobs her head on each syllable, the words slurring slightly like a spoken cursive script—"you’ve got me down to nothing but my knickers and a borrowed chemise." She gives as scandalized a gasp as she can manage, which isn't much by Anders' estimation. "You saw me naked! Not how I thought it'd come about, but I'll take what I can get."

"I—what?" Anders pinches the bridge of his nose with a huff. "Just—come on, Hawke."

He takes a steadying breath and reaches for her shoulder once more before pausing. "Are you still in pain? I can give you some clove, that will help, just sit still." He speaks as he reaches for the makeshift table that sits beside him, a chair methodically laden with tools, vials, and jars. Anders retrieves the jar of clove oil and, with a single hand, unstoppers it, dips a small wad of fabric into the astringent liquid, and closes the jar again.

"Impressive," is what he assumes Marian tries to quip, but the word is broken by a sharp hiss when he presses the cloth to the red, raw skin of the wound he’s been checking.

"It'll help," he says, even as she whines with obvious disbelief. "Just hold still. And don't move," Anders warns sharply. "This is still only one of a handful of open wounds. Bloody void, Hawke."

She is blissfully quiet as the clove works its magic to relieve some of the pain, and Anders rubs his aching temples. Thank—well, thank Hawke's amazing propensity for unlikely friendships that she is even awake right now to fight him. Anders is grateful, he is.

But Anders also hasn't slept in most of two days, and the thin stew Merrill had thoughtfully gifted him, alongside a small hunk of bread and a knob of cheese, had been his last meal the day before. Everything in him aches with the strain of nearly continuous healing, stopping only when he physically couldn't hold onto the spells any longer.

He bites back a tired sigh. Marian is alive, and will, if Anders has any say in the matter, stay that way. That's all that he can focus on—everything else is just a detail. His chair groans beneath him as he shifts to ready his suture kit. He threads the curved silver needle with thin catgut. His fingers shake; he misses the needle's eye twice before he succeeds and secures the thread.

"This won't be particularly elegant," he mutters to himself. Almost like a reflex Anders reaches again for his magic, for Justice and their connection to the Fade, but finds the expected nothingness of his limits. He takes a deep breath and turns his attention back to Marian's face.

She stares at the needle. Marian is a careful study, Anders has found, attentive to detail and thorough. She swallows thickly. "Maybe, maybe some more clove?" Marian asks. "Or more elfroot."

"I—no, no more elfroot for at least another four hours, you just had a potion," he says. At the soft distressed noise Marian makes, he relents. "I can give you more clove, though." Anders reaches for the jar again to dip another small pad into its depths. With a practiced hand, he dabs the precious liquid at the wound sites that litter her shoulder and chest. She hisses again at the contact and he murmurs softly, letting the oil seep into her skin a bit before wiping it all away with a clean cloth.

"You have," she says, trails off, and tries again, "you have a delightful bedside—bedside something, something healer-y?"

Anders snorts. "You'll decide otherwise in a moment. Hold still."

She jerks and sucks her teeth when the needle digs in, but thankfully that's the most of it as he works. Slowly the wound closes up, held together with what feels like little more than hope. Anders works his way through another puncture, and another, exhausted pride welling in him as he goes.

Marian gestures vaguely upward when he’s somewhere near halfway through. "Do you think there's really an afterlife?" she asks. "A real one, not—not some story."

Anders pauses. "What?"

"You know. Big light at the end of the tunnel and all, warm and hazy and such." She winces as he places another stitch. "Grass beneath my feet and everything, smelled honey oat cakes toasting on the hearth. And then I wake up on the cot. Is that normal?"

Anders bites his lip and finishes suturing a gash that runs from her shoulder down toward her armpit. She was so lucky, he thinks, that she wore any armor at all, for all the good it did her. He sets the suturing kit down on the chair beside him.

"Anders?"

She's watching him with those beautiful blue eyes. He reaches to cup his hand along the sharp wing of her cheekbone. Marian makes a valiant but unsuccessful effort to raise her less-damaged hand to meet his own; she tries again anyway, even when he sighs.

"You died, Marian," he says with a trembling voice. Anders brushes his thumb over her skin, thankful beyond measure for its warmth. "You died on my operating table, and I almost couldn't get you back." He purses his lips against a whimper that threatens to escape. "I didn't think I would, but I tried anyway," he breathes. "I had to."

Her throat bobs as she swallows. Marian finally does manage to reach him, her fingers light but insistent where they curl around his wrist, coaxing him closer. "But you did," she whispers. "Miracle upon miracle, you saved me."

Anders lets himself be pulled and presses his forehead against hers. The sight of her mangled body is etched into his lids when he closes his eyes. She was so still, so small when they'd all arrived. Marian Hawke was certainly no waif, no shrinking violet, but she might as well have been a porcelain doll, held aloft between Aveline and Sebastian. It's a memory Anders hopes to never see again, even as he knows it will stain his dreams for years to come.

She speaks again, so soft he almost doesn't catch it. "You're always saving me, Anders."

"But you died," he stresses, and it's now that his composure breaks—a sob breaks past his barriers and it's over. Tears flow like a spring down his cheeks; they'd been held back by the violent waves of adrenaline that raced through him as he'd operated, then by the consuming worry and attention he'd wrestled with at her bedside as she lay unconscious. Anders can't bite back the panicked gasping of his breathing, the metallic scent of her blood heavy in his nose, almost enough to taste. "I don't know what I would have done had I—had we lost you."

"We've, we've—we've had close calls before."

"Not that close. Not like this."

She makes a noise at that, something undecipherable. Anders pulls back to study her face. "I never want to do that again," he murmurs. He rubs his thumb over her cheek again. "I never want to see you hurt like that again. Please, just—please be more careful, okay? I don't... I don't think I'm strong enough."

Marian smiles wanly before turning her head to press a kiss awkwardly to Anders' wrist. "You're a fantastic healer, Anders. Powerful. I trust you."

A hiccupping sob wrenches through him. "You—Marian. Marian."

Her lips are chapped and dry when he brushes his mouth over hers. She tilts her head at his gentle direction and he kisses her once, twice, thrice, so light it's more a mingling of breath than anything else. Marian's smile presses against his lips and she nuzzles the light stubble that dusts Anders' cheeks.

"That's hardly a ghost of a kiss," she whispers.

"You're still hardly a ghost of a woman.” Anders presses a last kiss to the corner of her mouth and comes up to find both of their faces wet with tears. He wipes his face with his other hand, loathe to let her go as he fights to steady his breaths.

Marian rubs her cheek into his palm. "Anders."

"Marian."

She smiles, watery but there. Her fingers tap against his hand. "I like the sound of my name in your mouth," she confides. It startles a surprised snort out of him.

"I—I do, too," Anders admits after a stunned beat, once the last ten seconds catches up with him. He doles out the truth like a miser, each word a precious gem. "And mine in yours, perhaps... perhaps more than I should." The admission feels like a knife to the gut but the softness of her smile rivals any balm or salve he could possibly make.

Marian hums and closes her eyes. "Well, oh powerful healer," she says, turning back to lay flat on the cot, "I think we have some more work ahead of us." She slants one eye open to glance at him once more. "I have to survive this to get more kisses."

Something like hope sparks deep in Anders' belly. It's as surprising as it is unfamiliar, and he grabs for it with both hands, ignoring the warnings in the back of his mind.

"Yeah, Hawke," he breathes. She settles once more at that, and he preps another wound for suturing.

I'd give you anything, Anders thinks as he threads the silver needle again, and knows it to be true.

Anything.

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

Gifted to @pinkfadespirit for the @handers-time 2021 Handers Gift Exchange!

Words: 22.2k

Relationships: Anders/Garrett Hawke

Additional Tags: Separation; Reunions; Descriptions of magical and surgical healing; Blood and Injury; gratuitous use of headcanons; and obscure Fade lore; Fade ghosts; Temporary feigned major character death; Kidfic; ish; Semi-Public Sex;

Excerpt

The girl’s leg was broken, Anders could see it from where he stood, outside the milling circle that grew around the girl and her father--Anisa and Gerrin, he was pretty sure. If he didn’t do anything, she would die of poisoned blood or internal bleeding; if she managed to survive the break without him, she’d lose the limb entirely.

A hand tugged at the sleeve of his coat and broke his focus. “Don’t,” Renata hissed, her eyes wide. Her gaze darted around them pointedly, taking in the houses of the village they were passing through, at the people gathering outside the family’s barn, and then down to where blue-white light spilled from the exposed skin of his hands. “We need to make it to Redcliffe—all of us.”

“She’ll die if I don’t do something.” His fingers flexed, the hum of magic building beneath his skin. Anders reached into his pockets for a pair of leather gloves and pulled them on; it was eerie, the way the leather sat over his Fade-cracked skin where he and Justice shared their body. “She needs help.”

Another tug, sharper. “If you do something we’ll all die. You know people fear what they don’t understand.” Renata’s voice quavered. “Please, healer.”

Read more on AO3!

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

Handmade Hearts

A sweet, fluffy commission for @tea42, featuring their genderfluid Jurian Hawke (he/they) and Anders! Also, bonus Merrill and Anders friendship!

Handmade Hearts (read on AO3)

Characters/Relationships: Genderfluid!Hawke/Anders, Merrill & Anders

Rating: T

Words: 2,632

Tags: Knitting, fluff, romantic fluff

Anders learns to knit and finds it extremely rewarding.

The fire burns cheerfully in the main room of Merrill’s home, keeping warm against the rainy day outside. Dried herbs and flowers scattered upon the cinders perfume the air with a delicate sweetness, the perfect accompaniment to the long-cold tea set and a small plate of cookies that sit on the table between Anders and the hearth. The snaps and crackles of the hearth break up the quietness of the room; Merrill hums from her bedroom, the open door letting it float to his ears where he sits on the sofa.

Anders readjusts the deep red working yarn over his hand. He can’t help the way his hands want to cramp, or that his tongue sticks out from between his teeth. A length of lumpy knitting drapes from between the four needles, something that might become a sock but is still yet far from it. Frowning, he calls out, “Are you sure I’m doing this right?”

“Hm?” Merrill pops her head out through the doorway. “Oh, I’m sure you are,” she says airily, dismissing his worry with a wave of her hand. “You are an excellent student, Anders.”

“‘Excellent student’ my arse,” Anders mutters. He’s half-tempted to rip it all apart and start over. Again. The motley yarn is relatively soft but inconsistently spun, a fact he’s been wrestling with for hours. “You didn’t see me in the Circle.”

“You’re so smart, you couldn’t have done too badly.” She returns with a project of her own, a half-woven… something stretched out on some sort of loom and an armload of small yarn balls. Merrill sits on the floor beside him and sets her contraption up against the table. It’s built of scraps, small bits of wood tacked and nailed together into a frame and the various other bits of it. Thin strings run the length of it and hold up a section of the variegated blue weave.

He watches her from over his misshapen sock. You couldn’t have done too badly. If only that were the half of it, he thinks, but he keeps that locked tight behind his teeth. No need to drag her down with him, or any of them, for that matter. Anders has tried to let go of the fierce jealousy, the rage that simmers in his gut when he thinks about it too hard, but it just sits there and curdles. He had overheard once, from the whispers of templars too loose with their tongues, that the Dalish mages were wild, almost feral; that they were simply too dangerous to try to bring into the Circle. Apparently, a friend of a friend of a colleague of someone they’d trained with had been killed by a Dalish clan when they tried to capture one of their young mages, and to hear it told in the frigid corridors of the Kinloch Circle, the clan had sent that knight back to the Circle in a crate.

Merrill smiles to herself absently as she threads the shuttle through the warps, building up the next row of soft blue. It’s so serene, too much so compared to the way he’d watched her suffocate a man to death with thick, thorny vines just the week before. He’s very glad for the tenuous olive branch of peace between them, more for Jurian’s sake than anything, but he’s still glad.

“Oh, you’re holding it too tightly,” she murmurs.

Anders jolts back into himself to find her frowning softly at his knitting. Dismayed, he sees exactly where he’d gone wrong; the thin yarn draws the already bumpy fabric into a bunched-up wrinkle, and he’s let the stitches slip and go wonky. Anders tosses the mess onto the sofa behind him and buries his face in his hands, fighting down the urge to scream. “I am a Maker-damned surgeon,” he bites out. “Why can’t I get this?”

The sofa shifts and creaks when she perches upon it. “I think we can fix it,” she says, like it’s easy, and Anders peeks out from behind his hands. Merrill picks up the discarded sock, or what this third attempt tries to pass as being a sock, and eyes it, prodding here and poking there. Her deft fingers wrangle it back to being mostly flat, not a small victory. She realigns the knitting needles for him before handing it all back.

“Here,” she says, and Merrill takes his hands in hers. The shallow scars that mar her palms press into the backs of his hands. It’s an immense effort not to shudder at the way they brush his skin as she repositions his fingers over the needles and shifts the working yarn. “There, that should help.”

He looks dubiously at his project but works the next stitch, then the next, and then the next, until he’s got another row down. “Oh,” he says, relieved, “that actually does help. Thank you.” When Anders looks up, Merrill wears a soft expression, a tiny little smile so different than the one she usually wears for him. “You’re really good at this,” Anders mutters. He looks away, unable to take in the surprised gratitude in her expression, knowing that he’s rarely as kind as he could be, should be toward her and too cowardly to admit it.

Anders puts the haggard sock down long enough to trace small glyphs upon his palms with his fingertips and grabs the cold ceramic teapot from the table. He focuses intently on his hands and a moment later warmth builds; in the span of a few breaths the tea is hot again. Merrill watches him from the corner of her eye as she works on her own weaving, and when he pours her a fresh cup, she smiles brightly at him.

It’s a new, fragile peace, but it’s theirs, for as long as he can manage it. They sit and chat and work into the late afternoon and Merrill eventually teaches him how to finish it, to wrangle the messy bits into a semblance of proper, useful purpose. It isn’t until night truly approaches and the rain pours down in sharp, heavy sheets that he packs away his project. He leaves with a bag heavy with his gifted supplies and a heart all the lighter for it.

-------

“That’s almost right,” Anders mutters to himself, relaxing further into the plush cushions of the sofa. His hair is still damp from the frantic walk back to the estate, but he’s long forgotten the dwindling flames of the hearth. He slips the last few stitches off his needles and reworks them, only to sigh and pull them apart again. Anders frowns at the pinched area in question. “How did she do that, again…?”

A voice breaks through the quiet solitude of the den. “What are you working on, love?”

Anders scrambles and drops the half-finished sock altogether in his fumbling. Jurian leans over the back of the sofa to hug him from behind, their chin resting on his shoulder. “Knickerweasels, Jurian, you surprised me!” Anders tilts his head to rub their cheeks together, the stretch a bit awkward for a kiss but still wanting the contact. “Didn’t expect you back yet.”

“Got home early. Mind if I join you?” Jurian murmurs. They lay a kiss on his temple and round the couch when he nods, reclining against the arm to watch him.

“Well, it seems the cat’s already out of the bag.” He retrieves the wayward sock from the floor and shows it off. “Your birthday’s coming up, and I thought…” He trails off at the way Jurian stares, blank-faced, at the sock. “I thought it’d be nice to make you something,” Anders finishes weakly, unsure. “A—a surprise.”

Jurian lets out a shaky sigh. “Come here?”

Anders goes immediately, and Jurian’s arms are strong and secure where they wrap around his ribs and hold him to their chest. “What’s that face for?” he asks against their collarbone. “Do you not like it?”

They nuzzle his hair, and they’re so quiet that Anders can hear their heartbeat. “It’s been a while since anyone made me something, let alone for a birthday,” Jurian eventually says. They hum. “I think… I think maybe it was Bethy; she knit a scarf for me, the winter before the blight.”

“That was years ago…”

“Yeah,” they mutter. “Mother… Mother would make us things through the year—scarves, socks, mittens, things like that. But after Father died… She got so busy, selling her skills to the others in town. Mother’s a rather brilliant embroiderer, you know, and she took to other fiber crafts like a fish to water. But she got so busy that she was tired, all the time. It was all she could do to keep up with the work, it was hard enough to take care of us.” They pause. “I don’t mean she wasn’t a good mother, but… She just wasn’t the same after Father died.”

“So Bethany took on that job.”

“Pretty much. Carver enlisted in the militia as soon as he was old enough; it was good money and good training, and no one could blame him. I had to run the house when Mother couldn’t and so I took a job closer to home, to keep an eye on things.”

To keep an eye on Bethany, Jurian doesn’t say, but Anders hears it all the same.

Anders presses a row of kisses along the column of their throat. “You deserve all the softest things, Jurian,” he murmurs into their skin. “You deserve everything.” Anders pulls back, not quite lifting from where he lay draped across their chest, just enough to shyly look them in the face. “Do you want to see them? I’ve finished the first one. You could—could try it on, if you wanted. Actually, if you could make sure it fits, that would be great.”

Jurian kisses the tip of Anders’ nose. “I’d love that.”

Anders gets up from his comfy perch and reaches over the couch to snag his project bag. He yelps; Jurian’s hand rubs against his rear, soothing the playful smack they’d just left as he bent over. “You’re a menace, my love,” Anders laughs, and he leans back into the plush cushions. He fishes the finished sock from the bag; the main red coloring is deep, almost more black than anything else, but it’s offset by streaks of gold-ish yellow that Merrill had helped him with. “It’s a little… rough,” he allows. “The yarn is mostly scraps and discards. And I’m not very good yet—”

“It’s perfect,” Jurian whispers, taking it in hand. Their fingers rub against the wool; it’s still a little scratchy, at least to Anders’ sensitive skin. The sock crushes in their hand and comes out just fine, and Anders smiles.

“Try it on?” he coaxes.

Jurian snorts but dutifully takes off their slipper and rolls up the leg of their trousers. Anders isn’t sure who’s more nervous as they slide it on, himself or Jurian, but it’s worth the nerves to see the way Jurian’s face lights up at the way it sits halfway up their calf. “It’s beautiful,” they say. “Perfect. Just like you, Anders.”

A warmth builds in Anders’ chest at that, and he blushes, looking away to dodge the weight of their quiet declaration. “I—well. Not perfect, certainly, but—”

“No.” Jurian shifts to face him. Their brow pinches and a soft frown pulls at their mouth. “My love, I cannot help the way you feel about yourself,” they start, and they crawl forward, slowly pressing Anders onto his back. “But please don’t try to qualify my feelings for you.” One hand holds a position just above Anders’ head and the other clutches the arm of the couch behind him. They lean down. “I say you are perfect because to me you are perfect.”

Anders sighs into the kiss. Jurian’s weight above him makes the fluttery thing in his gut settle. His hands wind into Jurian’s hair, anchoring them together, and the pressure of teeth nipping at his bottom lip draws a moan from him. It’s not rushed, it’s not frantic, but it is thorough—teeth and lips and tongue, hot, scorching breath and soft gasps that hitch between them. He wraps his legs around Jurian’s own, hooking his knees over the back of their thighs, but Jurian doesn’t stop the slow, methodical work of taking him apart.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s lightning in his veins, velvet on his skin. He makes a noise, a punched-out little whine, at the blissful sensory overload. They part enough for Anders to nudge his forehead against Jurian’s own, and the face they make is so sweet it makes him ache. Anders has to fight to gather his thoughts again, cheeks flushing at the way Jurian lay between his thighs. “You drive me crazy,” he groans. Jurian grins and bends to dust light kisses just at the edges of his mouth.

“Good,” they say, “means I’m doing something right.” The breath of their gentle chuckle is warm against Anders’ reddened cheeks. “Thank you.”

It takes Anders a full ten seconds to place what for. He follows Jurian’s wandering mouth and kisses them sweetly, his hands coming up to cup their face. His thumb drags along the rise of their cheekbone. “You deserve it,” Anders murmurs. “I mean it. You deserve it, and more, more than some socks—and I promise to make you everything I can, to take care of you the best I can. But you’re welcome, for the socks.”

“You do, too, love.” They smile and lean down to press kisses along his hairline, over his brow, along the ridge of his nose. Their lips brush over every inch of his face before returning to his mouth and Anders can’t feel anything over the sheer vastness of everything blooming in his chest, security and desire and yearning and things he can’t even begin to name feeding the growing warmth in his belly when Jurian next speaks. “And I’m going to show you, care for you, in every way I know how.”

His breath escapes him with a shuddering sigh at the low promise. “Ah, you keep talking like that and I won’t be able to get anything done on the other sock…”

Jurian hums against his cheek. “I think maybe we can be done with knitting for the night?” they suggest, nosing along his jaw. Jurian presses a kiss just below the hinge of Anders’ jaw. “Haven’t seen you in three days. I missed you.”

“A dreadfully long time, that,” Anders wheezes. His hands clench in Jurian’s hair and it’s a hard decision, staying like this or following the possibility in their words. The anticipation wins out, helped by the desire that simmers in Jurian’s gaze. His heart thumps painfully in his chest. “I think I’m a bit knitted out, actually. Think I can be persuaded into something else.”

Jurian laughs at that. They help Anders off the couch and wrap him in their arms again. “You’re going to be mismatched until I finish the other one, you know,” he says helpfully, and Jurian grins.

“I’m not worried.” They brush their noses together in a butterfly kiss. “You can take your time. I can wait.”

“I can’t,” Anders murmurs, catching Jurian’s gaze meaningfully. He looks off in the direction of the stairs and back in open invitation, and it takes exactly two seconds for Jurian to walk him backward toward the door. Together they manage to stumble from the den, draped along each other, arms wrapped around ribcages, unwilling to part even for a moment as they make their way upstairs. Anders leads them into the bedroom and closes the door behind him with a satisfied sigh.

“Now,” he says, cupping Jurian’s jaw, “let me show you how much I missed you.”

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

Excerpt from "My Boy of Blue" (working title), Handers.

Sequel to "It's the Cracks that Let the Light Shine"

cw: Garrett helps Anders fake his death by stabbing him.

tw: blood, violence, harm to Anders

The world around them is covered in soot, ash, fire, and blood.

“Remember what you told me about that night with Rolan? When you and Justice merged?”

Anders shivers where Garrett's got him wrapped in his arms. Garrett’s blood thunders in his ears. This was not how tonight was supposed to go. For what it’s worth, this is not what they hoped for.

“I—yes.” Anders shuffles to move but Garrett holds him fast, his palm heavy at Anders’ nape, keeping him cradled against his chest. He buries his nose against the thrumming pulse point of Hawke’s throat.

“Tell me where,” Garrett murmurs against his hair. “Help me get you out of here.”

“Garrett, you can’t—”

“Please, Anders. I can’t lose you like this.” Garrett sways under the force of the adrenaline burning through his veins. His arms fall to wrap loosely around Anders’ middle and Garrett turns them ever so slightly, angling Anders that much more out of sight from the others behind the wall of his body. “Please,” Garrett breathes.

Anders pulls away just enough to cup his hands against the stubbled planes of Garrett’s cheeks. His eyes are wet and shadowed, bruises lingering deep under his eyes from long stretches of sleepless nights. “I can’t let you do that, Gare,” he says solemnly. A tear drips down his cheek, followed soon by another, and another, until his cheeks sheen in the chaotic flickering of the fires around them. Garrett’s own face burns in kind, wetness dripping down Anders’ fingers. "I can't let you destroy yourself to save me. I know that sin too well."

Voices call out from behind them, but Garrett can’t stand to hear what they say. “I said give me a fucking minute,” he snarls over his shoulder. It’s enough to quell the shouting, though not by much. He turns back to Anders. “It has to be now, Anders.” He searches his face, memorizing it; every little scar, every little nick from his shaving razor, every smudge of dirt, every freckle. “You have to get out of here and it’s the only way.”

Anders surges forward into a frantic kiss, one that has him scrabbling against the hard half-plate of Garrett’s armor. “Just below the belly button,” he gasps into Garrett’s mouth. Anders hiccups a soft sob as Garrett drops his hand to the dagger at his left hip, and Anders slips his hand down to twine their fingers together, holding the blade between them. His breath shakes and he pulls away to look at Garrett, gaze heavy like a physical weight, etching it into his own memory. “Straight in. You can’t hesitate.”

“I love you.” The words break on Garrett’s tongue. “Get out of here as soon as you can.” He unsheathes the dagger and slides it home as directed into Anders’ gut. Scalding wet heat spills across his fingers. Garrett swallows the pained grunt that slips from Anders’ lips and follows him down when Anders falls to his knees. The world stops. They hold each other, suspended in time.

“I love you, too,” Anders sighs. He slumps onto his back across the ground, wet from earlier rain. His hands press against the wound in his gut, fingers carefully wrapped around the hilt of the dagger, and his honey-gold eyes stare up at the smoke-filled sky for a moment before closing. “Make it count,” he whispers.

Red stains Garrett’s hand when he finds his feet again. He wipes his face on his sleeve and tears his long coat from his body to drape over Anders’ still and barely-breathing form. “We’ll find each other again,” Garrett murmurs, and he draws the coat just up to Anders’ chin as if he were simply sleeping.

When he turns back to his posse, he takes in their faces. Merrill, shocked, holds her hands to cover her mouth, though the anguished squeeze to her eyes is left plain to see. Fenris’ brow is pinched with heavy thought and smooths into a neutral mask when Garrett looks at him. Isabela and Varric both look past him towards where Anders lay supine, varying shades of alarm playing over their faces. Sebastian and Aveline, both so adamant about their ideas of what justice was and how it was to be served, now stare at him, and something haunted stains Sebastian’s face. What must his friends think of him, of both of them? Blood drips from his fingertips, every drop a nail in his coffin in their eyes.

Sebastian steps forward from where he stands at Aveline’s side. “You did the right thing, Hawke,” he mutters; the words ring hollow in Garrett’s ears. His shoulders, puffed up earlier in his rage, slump slightly. He offers an open palm and shakes his head. “I know it must be hard.”

Garrett glances down at Sebastian’s hand and walks past him, instead dragging his bloody fingers across his face. “You’d best get back to Starkhaven, Prince Vael,” he says lowly over his shoulder. People scream around them as they navigate the rubble of the ruined Chantry that lay strewn across the Hightown square. “Kirkwall isn’t safe anymore.”

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

from the setting prompt list: "On a farm" + "Witching hour" + whoever you'd like!

Thank you for the prompt! @dadrunkwriting

==

The scent of rain blows in on the eastern breeze. Garrett blinks muzzily in his bed. A flutter of fabric draws his eye; the loose latch of the shutters has fallen aside, letting the wind nudge them open and blow into the small bedroom he shares with a snoring Carver. He yawns as he rises and digs his knuckles against his eyes. A heavy breath of ozone brushes past Garrett's nose when he approaches the window sill, and it's enough to draw him into full wakefulness, blinking into the dull night.

Lightning.

It skitters up his arms, drawing goosebumps along his skin in its wake. He steals from the dark of the bedroom before he can decide otherwise. Garrett only belatedly remembers to grab his coat before he shoves his feet into his boots and dips out of the door, and he's glad for it when the sky opens up in fits and bursts.

The storm builds almost before his eyes. Over the long plains outside of Lothering, lightning cracks across the sky like ceramic hurled against cobblestone. Garrett runs through the ankle-high grass toward the barn just as the rain starts to dump down, bucketful after bucketful, set to the sound of thunder that rumbles like a rockslide at his back. His arrival is a subdued thing, hardly acknowledged within; the family's two cows low sleepily from their bedding, and a hen ruffles her feathers at his intrusion, but other than that, it is peaceful within the barn. Garrett wipes the rain out of his eyes and makes for the ladders.

Even in the dark, it's easy to creep up into the hayloft, and it doesn't take much for him to reach the next ladder and climb up. The latch of the access door gives way before his fingers. Shaggy brown hair clings to his forehead, plastered to his skin by the rain. Garrett pushes it aside with a shaking hand as white-hot fire stabs at the earth, over and over and over again. Thunder reverberates within the cage of his ribs and shatters against his spine. It beats at him like a punch to the gut. It shakes him from the inside out.

It’s not enough.

In the span between one breath and the next, Garrett is on the roof, pelted with waves of ice-cold fury.

Lightning streaks down from the sky into the hills outside the village. Garrett moves to sit down on the center beam of the pitched roof, only for his foot to slip, swayed by the wind. Blood roars in his ears. A sharp cry falls from his lips; the sound is drowned out by an earth-breaking shatter of thunder. Garrett stumbles and tips forward, and instinct takes over. There’s no time to do anything but throw out his hands against the inevitable.

“—rrett!”

His collar wrenches to his throat, tight as a noose, and Garrett can’t even shout at the pain. He jerks and scrabbles at the rain-slick shingles with everything he can muster, hardly registering the slow but steady hands that pull him upward.

“You Void-damned git!” Carver screams. His voice is almost lost in the wind. “Flames, what do you think you’re doing?”

Carver is older than his sixteen years when he hauls Garrett back to the door and all but shoves him inside. He closes the roof access with a grunt behind him and jumps from the ladder. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he shouts again, worry and frustration warring in his words, “What were you thinking, Gare?”

“I—I can’t—” Lightning cascades the barn in a blink-and-you-miss-it flash of burning light. Garrett whips around to catch the next one across his face. “Can’t you feel it?” Garrett says reverently as the thunder rolls around them. He leans into the nearby wall and gently slides down it, boneless. “It’s like it’s calling me.”

Carver shoves his shoulder against Garrett’s arm. “Yeah, well, quit listening already,” he yawns. He wipes the lingering rain from his face before settling in beside Garrett. “Dad said you gotta be more careful. You're getting too wild, you know. Don’t got the sense the Maker gave a goose.”

A quiet laugh startles out of Garrett at that. He thumbs the drips of rain from his eyes before dropping his hand between them. Another peal of thunder rolls through him, and he closes his eyes.

After a moment’s pause, Carver knocks his knuckles silently against Garrett’s own. Something familiar and unnameable settles in Garrett's middle.

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

From the kiss prompts: 3. kissing so desperately that their whole body curves into the other person’s - for M!Hawke/Anders!

Yessssssss, so excited! For you and @dadrunkwriting !

cw: blood, violence

Rated: T/M​

====

No one should have been able to find the cabin. No one should have been able to find the cabin, and they still did.

Anders was reaching for the bag that lay ready at the foot of the bed, hidden beneath by the haphazard sheets and blankets strewn carefully carelessly across the mattress, before he could blink. 

No one should have been able to find the cabin, and they still did, and Anders needed to run.

“Fuck--fuckity fucking fuck.”

He all but jumped into his boots. They were the last thing he’d kept from Kirkwall, a gift from Hawke before everything went... well, before everything went to shit, to borrow Varric’s turn of phrase. A long sweater slid over his shoulders, followed by a nondescript furred coat, sadly devoid of his familiar feathered pauldrons, or any enchantments. Even in the Wilds, he couldn’t risk being caught out as a mage. He’d heard that the Chasind and the Avvar both held more tolerant ideas on magehood, but--

Anders shuddered. 

He couldn’t risk it. Anders pulled his coat tighter around his lean frame and fastened the belts. Ducking into the small kitchen, he pulled waxed bags of dried fruits and hunks of cured meats from the various cabinets. A small clay cup shattered at the wild brush of his hand, jostled from its place on the counter. Anders winced at the noise; he had to leave it behind, leave it all, everything he’d spent the last five years building for himself--

The final wards leading to the cottage shrieked at his back. Flames erupted from his fingertips, singeing the hem of Anders’ coat.

He’d run out of time. 

Tears trembled down Anders’ cheeks even as Justice burst from his skin in an explosion of blue-white light. 

You will never take another mage as you took him!

Anders closed his eyes and let himself sink into Justice’s familiar blaze. He couldn’t face them, not again. Not this time. 

==

It was deceptively easy to escape this way. 

Justice controlled their limbs, their eyes, their mind. Anders was only distantly aware of the fight. From his corner of the Fade, he heard Justice’s roar like a howling wind from outside Vigil’s Keep. It was intense, in its own way, but still far-off. A storm on the horizon. 

Anders cowered with his knees to his chest, his arms wrapped tight around himself. “The storm is out there,” he muttered into his knees. “It can’t touch me here. The storm is out there. It can’t touch me here.” 

Anders.

“Go away, Justice.” 

Anders.

“I can’t hear you.” 

Anders. 

“You can’t make me--” 

You need to see this. 

And with that, Justice opened their eyes. 

The cottage was on fire. Anders didn’t make himself take control, hovering only at the precipice of true awareness, but he couldn’t stop the glacial terror that stabbed into his stomach. 

Five years. Five years, down the drain. 

Five years of waiting. Five years of hiding. Of learning, of teaching himself how to survive the Wilds, of sneaking around the small villages in the region, trading for what he needed. He couldn’t bear to think of the chickens that had laid in the coop outside, or of the goats in their pen, only a few months old. Had the Templar killed them? Would they let the animals free to scavenge and hide in the brush of the dense woods around them, until they, too, succumbed to the dangers outside of his carefully cultivated property lines? 

“This is cruel, even for you,” Anders muttered. He tried turning his gaze away, fleeing inward, only to be caught by Justice again. 

Look, the spirit said again, this time an air of impatience coloring the word. What do you see?

At the tip of Justice’s sword, crumpled upon himself in a spreading pool of blood, lay a man, his groans barely audible beneath the pressure of their booted foot. Anders squinted through Justice’s gaze. He had... well, it was hard to tell between the flames and all the blood, but Anders spied dark, shaggy hair, eyes blown so wide they were almost black, a scar across his nose--

A scar across his nose--

Hawke.

With an anguished cry, Anders wrenched through Justice’s hold on their body and fell to his knees. He tossed the blade away to crawl to Hawke’s side. “No, no, no!” His hands shook as he wove the healing spell and shoved his hands against Hawke’s chest. It poured from his hands like--

Blood, so much blood, too much, he’d finally fulfilled all his fears--

Hawke’s hand batted weakly at Anders’ wrist. His eyes shuttered closed as the gashes across his chest slowly knit back together beneath Anders’ hands. “Hey, Anders,” he said. His voice was a graveled-out mess. When he smiled, blood stained his teeth. “Why don’t you worry about the house?” 

“Worry about the-- Hawke!” 

“Can’t live in a fire pit.” 

Anders gawped at him. “How can you possibly joke at a time like this? I could have-- we almost--” 

Hawke sat up with a groan and gently pushed Anders’ hands away. “If you don’t, we’ll both burn to death, and I’ll be really quite unhappy about that.” 

Not willing to take his eyes of Hawke, Anders formed a blizzard behind them, bursts of ice erupting from his fingertips to coat the interior of the cabin. In moments the flames died down, and nothing was left except the puffing of their breaths caught in the frigid air. 

“Thank you,” Hawke said primly. He dragged his fingers through his hair, getting the blood-soaked strands out of his eyes. “Now I don’t have to worry when I do this.” 

And that was all the warning Anders got before Hawke launched himself at him, knocking Anders into the leg of a chair and crawling into his lap to kiss him senseless. Hawke tunneled his fingers into Anders’ hair, wrapping the strands around his fist to pull gently, positioning Anders into just the right angle to all but pour himself into the kiss. 

“Gare--Haw--mmpf!” 

“Sorry about the blood,” Hawke murmured, breathless, against his lips. “Bit impatient.” He bent into the kiss again, plastering himself against Anders’ chest, and rocked meaningfully in his lap. Anders could only hold on, his hands running over any part of Hawke that he could reach. 

It was Hawke. It was Hawke, and Anders’ blood sang in his veins. They weren’t close enough, could never possibly be close enough. It was Hawke, he was back, he came back for Anders just like he said, five years ago, he was alive and in Anders’ arms and in his hands and the last five years wilted away like a bad dream. 

“Maker, Hawke, I--” 

Hawke bit sharply on Anders’ bottom lip and followed where Anders slid from against the chair to the floor. He hovered in Anders’ vision, blacking out anything and everything else. Anders panted as he stared up at the way Hawke’s smile stretched, lazy and languid, across his face, suddenly reminded at the slick grin of desire demons--

But Justice kept the demons away, ever vigilant even now, where he bled from Anders’ pores, the blue-white light gentle across his skin. That knowing smile was all Hawke. It made something hot and liquid shoot through Anders’ veins and Justice answered for them in a low growl. 

“Take me to bed,” Hawke purred. He leaned down to press their foreheads together, breathing in the shaking breaths Anders breathed out. “I’ve missed you two.” 

Maker, it was--it was so Hawke that Anders almost laughed. “I’m taking you to the fucking bath, Hawke,” he said, grinning wildly. He nudged up to lay a claiming kiss against Hawke’s mouth, pulling him against his chest. Anders burned everywhere they touched and, helpless, could only beg for more. “Then,” he murmured, pressing the words against Hawke’s lips dripping with Fadelight, “and then we’ll take you to bed.”