anders-fic-recs

[anders-fic-recs]

Anders isn’t one to reminisce. Even if he had been, Kirkwall leaves little time for it – or indeed, for anything else. There are sores to cleanse and babies to deliver, apostates to run and funds to stretch, and somewhere around the twelfth stifled breath as he thinks he hears Templars shifting around outside, hunger becomes an afterthought.

But in those fleeting moments when the needs of his stomach cry louder than the masses of Darktown? When even he can’t deny that he needs something more substantial than a few mouthfuls of cold mash haphazardly swallowed before he sleeps?

Damned if he doesn’t miss the care packages Ain used to get from home.

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[anders-fic-recs]

Cadence Tabris x Anders (Post DA2), for @dadrunkwriting & @buttsonthebeach

They stop in Llomerryn. It’s well known throughout Thedas as neutral ground, a city full of pirates, criminals, and as good and large a black market as can be found anywhere, and -like most of the country- completely free of any Chantry influence, which makes it the perfect place to hide, to rest and recover themselves, if only for a moment, without challenge.

There’s only one foolish enough to try to pickpocket them. A young girl with the looks of one who’s grown up on the streets, with an even younger boy that watches fearfully from a side street when Cadence catches her by the wrist. She’s quite good. It’s only because they know and have honed the skill themselves that they even caught her. Anders looks on with concern, fishing for the purse at his belt before Cadence stops him with a shake of their head, pulling out their own instead and hiring the pair to guide them to the nearest bathhouse. Cadence buys the pair- siblings- their own small private bath and pay to have their clothes laundered and lunch brought to them in addition to leaving them with a small sum of gold. Cadence doesn’t know how much Anders is carrying with him, doesn’t fool himself in thinking they will be able to stop him from giving it away eventually, but they can offer this without feeling the slightest pinch, and that relieved, happy smile, tired as it is, more than makes it worthwhile as they take their leave of them retreating to their own bath.

Steam rises from the large tub set in the ground filling the room with warmth and a light floral scent from the various salts and oils that have been added. The tension in the mage’s shoulders slowly slips away with his feathered bolero, which he carefully sees set to the side away from the pile for collection. This he will clean with magic, lest the feathers prove too difficult for the staff to launder. Cadence makes a note to stock up on more Lyrium potions.

He looks older. Far older than the number of years they’ve been apart. No less handsome, but so much more tired. His smiles, once so easy, seem harder to reach now, and their heart aches for him, for everything he’s been through, for all the things they couldn’t help or protect him from. Anders was always lanky. They know from the many nights (and sometimes days) spent holding him while sailing here, if only to reassure themselves of each other’s presence, he’s too skinny. Seeing his ribs as he slowly helps them to pull off his tunic is almost too much. Cadence dispenses with their own clothes quickly, and without any ceremony- almost ashamed of how healthy their body looks by comparison- and Anders will remember it well enough, besides several new scars. Cadence guides him down into the tub with care, stepping in behind him and drawing him into their lap and arms.

Anders doesn’t flinch or cry at their touch anymore as he sometimes did at first, but the passivity with which he accepts it says he still isn’t sure he deserves it. Cadence doesn’t push, but they don’t stop either. The kisses they press into his warm pinkening skin after a pass or two with one of the cloths provided are featherlight, ever patient and tender, as eventually their lover relaxes, sliding deeper into the water and allows himself to tip back and rest against their chest.

“You don’t have to-” Anders mumbles, stiffening for a moment when Cadence begins to lather their hands with the nearby shampoo.

“But I’d like to,” Cadence insists softly, carefully sweeping the wet ends of his hair aside to kiss his shoulder. “May I?” Somewhere between disbelief and amusement, Anders laughs, still not quite the one Cadence remembers best, but closer than they’ve heard from him yet, gesturing for him to continue. So Cadence does, pouring their adoration into every touch.

It’s at least an hour later before they climb back out, pulling back on warm and freshly cleaned clothes. Anders doesn’t need the help getting dressed, boneless as the warm water and his ministrations have left him, but Cadence loathe to stop touching him can’t help himself carefully combing his hair through their fingers and tying it back out of his face with a small leather strap.

Cadence startles a little as arms wrap around their waist while they are lacing their boots back up again, and Anders makes to pull away before they catch his hands in theirs, encouraging him to envelop them as before. It’s a surprise, but not the least bit unwelcome. Anders sighs, draping his body over theirs for a moment as Cadence resumes their work on their boots.

“Thank you, Love.”

“You’re welcome,” Cadence smiles.

[anders-fic-recs]

Chapters: 7/7

Fandom: Dragon Age II (Video Games)

Rating: General

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Anders/Male Hawke Characters: Anders (Dragon Age II), Hawke (Dragon Age II), Aveline (Dragon Age II), Varric (Dragon Age II), Fenris (Dragon Age II), Merrill (Dragon Age II) Additional Tags: Purple Hawke, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders Being Anders, Justice Positive, Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, Developing Relationship, Male-Female Friendship, Dragon Age II Spoilers, Happy Anders (Dragon Age), Inner Dialogue, Self-Reflection, Custom Male Hawke (Dragon Age)

Summary: Three years - that’s how long these two idiots were pining for one another. Three words - are what they say when they both decide to stop fighting the inevitable and give in.

[anders-fic-recs]

We don’t get tired, we get even

Summary: Warden Commander Tabris has a chat with her flighty new recruit.

Characters: Warden Tabris, Anders

In the moonlight, Halsa spots him outside the barracks, the mage she recruited not a week ago. He’s crouched before a wagon with a hand extended, a pack slung over his back. Sleep abandoned, head full of chaos, she’d followed some suspicious noises, half hoping for a fight. There’s only him.

“Going somewhere?” she waits until she’s close enough to grab him if she needs to, and she’s satisfied to see him start and barely catch himself from dropping onto his arse.

“Commander,” Anders straightens, smiles his roguish smile, “would you believe I was gathering some late night firewood?” Upright, he towers over her, even slouching like he does.

Halsa grins back at him. “Nope.” She points to the wagon, “What’s happening down there?”

“There’s a cat-” he stoops to look again, “-or there was. He’s been wandering around the past few days.”

“So you were, what - on your way to take ship, and you stopped for a cat?”  

“Not my brightest move, now that I think of it.”

She sighs. Oghren said this would happen, and she knew he was right, but she couldn’t help herself. “You want something to eat?” she says.

“Actually,” Anders says, “I am starving.”

“I know.” She points him towards the mess hall.

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[anders-fic-recs]

Summer

Title: Summer Author: firstblush Pairing: Hints of Anders/Sebastian Vael Summary: Hot weather is a trial. A/N: Wrote this while waiting for the bus, during a really hot week.

Summer has arrived in Kirkwall, and it comes with a vengeance.  The proximity to the ocean fails to temper the heat on this occasion, rather it has succeeded only in thickening the air, weighting it down with a dampness that sticks to skin in an instant film of sweat.  Sebastian finds himself staring rather enviously in Isabela’s direction.  Bare armed and bare legged, Isabela appears undaunted by the challenges of a merciless sun, more preoccupied with flirting with Hawke than trying to stay cool. Merrill too looks better suited for the weather, donned in light weight cloth, though she has taken shelter under the shadow of a nearby building, quite content to stay there for however long it takes Hawke to sort out her business with a Lowtown vendor.  Even Anders has left behind his long coat, so that all that remains draped across bony shoulders is his too-worn, too-stained-to-still-be-considered-white shirt. Yet, its thin, flimsy material only betrays how fiercely Anders responds to the warmth, sweat-soaked in what most would surely call unflattering patches of darker fabric.  Nevertheless it is clear to Sebastian that he alone is suffering the burden of inexperience, or perhaps just impulsive foolishness, which has led him to not swerve from his typical routine in answering Hawke’s beck and call, dressing up in full armour, fur-lined coat included, and is now stuck stewing in a prison of metal and leather.

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[anders-fic-recs]

Unlonely, the Anders/Surana Soulmates-Who-Talk-Too-Much AU is now available in full on AO3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18012788

[anders-fic-recs]

Please, prompt “You haven’t laughed in a long time, and I guess I was staring ‘cause I forgot how that looked like.” for F!Hawke and Anders?

She sleeps with her hands curled by her head. A strand of hair tangles around her fingers, while the rest splays across the pillow. Elbows out, lips parted. Deep, long breaths. The subtle twitch of dreaming. The sheets are tangled in her legs, her tunic slipping upwards. Sunlight settles softly on her skin, that first reach of morning. It casts a shadow over her belly button, a highlight of the scar that slices through her middle. He reaches out, begins to trace it.

Lazy touch, gentle fingertips. Lightly, carefully. It’s far less jagged, now. Cleanly healed, from rib to hip. His hand slips underneath her tunic to find the tip of it, goes to the edge of her trousers to reach the end. Back and forth, gooseflesh following as he goes. Pinpricks of touch, her hair standing up, wavering in the sun. He remembers it fresh – the sword, Hawke in his arms, and his wellspring of magic running dry. He’d never put her in that sort of danger. He promises himself. He’ll do what he can to keep her from it.

He’s startled when a hand suddenly wraps around his wrist. “Are you trying to kill me? Do you have any idea how ticklish that is?” There’s a grin on her lips as she lets him go, props herself up on her elbows. His hand settles flatly on her belly, and Anders looks up at her. They look at each other for a few moments, and he thinks she might be starting to speak again, but his hand simply travels to her side, presses in softly, and begins to tickle in earnest.

It’s her laughter that does him in. Falling backwards as her legs kick upwards, struggling to be free of the bedcovers, her hands reaching from him. It doesn’t take much to straddle her, to keep her beneath him, to tickle her without mercy. She presses her hands against his chest, her head tilted back, gasping with breathless laughter. “Stop! I swear – Anders – I swear to – Anders!” It’s a wheeze, words that can be barely made out. She reaches upwards, a hand to the nape of his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair, and pulls him down to her.

She’s still laughing. On the edges of it, her breath coming quickly, her face  flushed pink. His face so very near to hers, and she looks up at him, licking her lips. Her gaze drops from his eyes, to his lips. There it stays, until it slowly tracks back upwards once again. He isn’t even aware of it until her other hand moves as well, tracing his grin, over his lips. It’s her laughter that does him in. Her cheer. It’s the way she is. How she’s always been. She pulls him free from the grave he’s buried himself in, allows him to stand in the sun with her. “Good morning love,” she says, in a whisper.

“Good morning,” he says, lets his forehead rest against hers.

[anders-fic-recs]

Free in the Sun

For @storybookhawke! Features Karl and Anders in a universe where Karl never became tranquil, and Anders managed to rescue him from the chantry during his first quest in DA2. takes place in his clinic directly after the quest. A touch of angst, mostly fluff. 

thank you for the support!

His hands shake. He can’t say why—his greatest fear, that of Karl wearing the tranquil brand, did not come to pass. What’s more is that Karl is back. He is alive. He is alright. It’s what Anders wanted, needed, though he doesn’t dare assume Karl’s home, though home ran through his mind in the chantry when they found him. He doesn’t assume anything yet, other than Karl knows what he did and likely disapproves. But there’s time to think of that later.

Now Anders offers a stifled “thank you,” to Hawke and Hawke’s collection of odd companions—a heavily armed ginger, a beefy looking boy with a giant sword that he assumes is the little brother, and a dwarf with a crossbow. There is the matter of the Grey Warden maps to attend to, but Hawke made it clear he’ll be back. Anders made a promise, he is going to attend to it. Hawke has nothing to worry about.

Hawke’s a good man underneath it all, Anders thinks. It also seemed to him that he could see something more in the way Anders rushed to Karl’s side, nearly cried when he saw he was alright. Then the burn of rage was too much. They used Karl to get to him, like they used all the mages. It could have happened. They could have branded Karl. And then—

The rage. The burn. The fire. It overflowed and spilled to his hands and through his being. He didn’t mean for Justice to spring forth. He couldn’t help it. He came out when it was too much, when he could not suppress it any longer. Karl knows, and he disapproves, Anders knows. He must. But he’s alive.

It’s been an hour and they’re back in his Darktown clinic. His hands still shake as he tries to peel away those contemptible and awful Circle robes. But they are awful in both basic fashion sense and with what they represent. Karl needs healing, needs everything, but as Anders tries to take it off to get a better look and heal him, Karl stops him.

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[anders-fic-recs]

Are you still taking prompts? Can I request f!handers, petrichor? Thanks for sharing your work!

Petrichor - the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of dry weather 

“What is this?”

Marian leans back with a finger under the alleged word and he leans over the table, cranes his neck and squints.

“Abscess.” 

His handwriting is atrocious. 

“Abscess? That’s meant to be an A?”

“That ink smudges.” 

He rights himself. He’s got a pen behind his ear and she smiles behind his back when he turns again because there’s a dribble of ink down the back of his shirt. 

She watches him crush up the ghoul’s beard he’s finally gotten hold of and scrape the bits into a bottle. He says he needs it to treat a rash, and she imagines she’ll eventually decipher and copy down the process and ingredients and application of that too.

She came here to do her own work, away from prying eyes, but his work overwhelmed her into offering a hand.

The bottle foams and fizzes when he drops some mushroom she’s not familiar with in. He smooths a label on the counter and writes, carefully dabs the back and sticks it, puts it on the shelf. 

He catches her looking, raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything.

“Does that make you nervous?”

“No, not at all. I’ve had worse people watch me work.”

A crack of thunder, a few scattered drops rattle the tin roof. Thank the Maker. It’s been intolerably hot.

Anders seems not to notice until it thunders again, this time accompanied by a flash of lightning that illuminates the pages in front of her. She hadn’t realized how dark it’s gotten.

He looks out the window. She shifts in her seat, damp legs restless against her chair, following his gaze.

It never occurred to her that window could or should be opened, but the wind that comes through it is warm and electric. He stands slouched at the shoulder holding the top of the frame.

He inhales, closes his eyes. “I once spent the night in an old barn during a storm like this, back in Ferelden.”

“Alone?”

He nods. “On the run.”

“That sounds unpleasant.”

He smiles. “It was awful. No matter where I sat there was something dripping on me. But in the morning, it was so… I don’t know. Peaceful. Felt like I was the only one there - like- It felt safe. Like no one could touch me.”

Another rattle, this one she feels in the space between her lungs.

“It’s always reminded me,” he says. His eyes are open now and he’s looking at her. “I always loved the smell of it.”

He shakes his head and shrugs.

“Plus, right after it rains is the only time Darktown doesn’t smell like shit.”

She laughs and they return to their work.

But she wants to say something more. Feels as if she should have.

When they decide to call it a night, she steps out and smells the night air, the rain water splashing against the street and washing away the filth that’s built up.

She can make lightning between her fingers if she finds enough friction to light a spark. She wonders if she can make a whole thunderstorm, the feeling of rain falling, the pressure and the scent of it.

If she can, she’ll make one for him. Something that reminds him of being free.

[anders-fic-recs]

Pairing: Anders/Nathaniel Rating: Explicit Length:  ~9 500 words

Summary:  Anders is a Warden now, and he has a thing for Nathaniel. All it takes for them to bond is a mild existential crisis.

[anders-fic-recs]

for @pegaeae​

He isn’t sure what wakes him, at first. Perhaps some dream he can’t quite remember, or it’s from the bundle of warmth squirming in his arms. The stray cats of Darktown have made their home with him, good indicators of danger, hungry mouths that devour every last scrap of food he has to give. Anders rubs at his eyes briefly, before he notices the shadows shifting. A figure moving at his workbench, taking potion and poultice from his cabinets. Anders sits up instantly, reaching for the staff beside his bed. A cat underfoot, making its way towards the intruder, and when he turns, Anders lets his hand fall back to his side.

“Is it time?” he asks. Zevran nods as he walks forward, presses the bag into his arms. Filled with all the things he might need, his robes already laid out neatly on the box beside his cot.

“My apologies for waking you, but she can be quite insistent, as you know,” he says. Anders waves away his concerns as he stands, shrugs the coat over his shoulders.

“Let me just leave a note for Hawke,” Anders says.

“Already done.” Zevran steps aside, presents the parchment that’s nailed to his desk. Written neatly, but there’s a shake around the edges, a hint of the anxiety he’s trying to hide. Anders takes up his staff, the bag slung over a shoulder, and locks the door behind him. Not that it matters. Together, they walk through the dim dark, past low burning fires and waning moonlight. Passing through the gates of Kirkwall, trekking up towards the mountains.

“How is she?” Anders asks. Zevran barks sudden laughter. He’s walking faster than Anders, his steps short and quick, betraying his urgency to be near her.

“Ah, you know the way she is,” he says, “the same as always. Beautiful. Very impatient.” Anders hurries his own pace, in an effort to catch up to him. There’s a nervousness to Zevran, yes, but of a specific sort. Biting back the smile that threatens his lips every few minutes, the almost skip of his step. Excited. Wanting.

The elves guarding Sundermount say nothing as they pass. A respectful nod as they step aside to allow them both to pass. The sun is beginning to stretch across the sky, banish the moon to its proper place. The camp is still sleeping, and those who are awake are barely so. All except for one.

Lyna has her hands on her hips, a scowl on her face, as she walks outside the aravel. She circles it, wears a beaten path into the grass, against the ground. Tilting her head back as she breathes, a grimace as she leans forward again. A hand against her swollen belly, she glares at the two of them. Zevran’s steps quicken as he goes to her side, extends his arm for her to take. Through a grimace, clenched teeth, she accepts his help, her hand bruising a grip into him. “It took you long enough,” she snaps at Anders. “Let’s get this over with.”

Zevran gives Anders a grin, and he receives a hopeless glance in return. Lyna reaches out, her other hand wrapping around Anders’s arm, dragging them both towards the aravel with her. “This could get messy,” Anders says to Zevran, “did you want to wait outside?”

“He’s staying.”

“I’m not leaving.” They both speak at exactly the same time, their words overlapping each other. Anders shrugs as he’s yanked up the steps, inside. True to his word, Zevran doesn’t once leave her side. Her hand tight around his, squeezing without mercy. The camp slowly begins to truly wake, going about their usual activity, casting the occasional glance towards their noisy aravel. They break their fast, devour their lunch. It’s almost time for dinner when a different cry arises from the aravel.

Squalling, a high pitched and wavering scream. The pains of newness, the unfamiliarity of all that surrounds her. Anders washes her off, brushing a wet towel against red cheeks. Ten fingers, ten toes. Everything where it should be. A soft wave of his magic, and her crying slowly begins to quiet. He wraps her in a blanket, a move practiced many times with the babies of Darktown. Lyna and Zevran watch him all the while.

Anders moves to pass the tiny bundle to Lyna, but she raises her hands, points to Zevran instead. Zevran reaches out instantly, gently taking the baby from Anders. Once the baby is settled with Zevran, Anders moves to attend to Lyna.

Zevran pulls her close, holding her carefully. A squirming thing, so soft and fragile. Eyes that don’t open, hands that wrap around the blanket. A head of thick dark hair, pointed ears that poke through. Zevran sits down with her in his lap, and he can only stare at her. It starts suddenly, unexpectedly, overwhelms him completely. The dam bursts, and the tears roll silently down his cheeks. The smile doesn’t once leave his lips. He leans forward, his forehead gentle against hers.

A tiny hand wraps around the braid loose at his temple. He lifts his head slightly, to see a gaze looking back at him. Bright and amber, a mirror of his own. The smile renews itself. His. Hers. “Mija,” he whispers to his baby, “mija.” Here, in his arms, in this place, all the things he thought he’d never live to see. All the things he thought were never meant for him. With delighted and watery laughter, he brushes his nose against hers.

[anders-fic-recs]

You can also read it on AO3.

Six

Title: Six Characters: Anders Rating: K+ Warnings: Suicide Ideation Summary: Anders was in solitary when Uldred took control of the Circle.

Originally posted on the kink meme, here - http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11571.html?thread=50386227#t50386227

Day 1 “Solitary again? Is that the best you can come up with? It didn’t break me the first time, it’s not going to break me now!” Anders screamed. No one replied. Anders climbed onto his stomach, peeking beneath the crack under the door. He could see the steel on the Templar’s boots glinting in the candlelight as he stood ever vigilant. Anders knew he heard every word. Bastard. It had only been one day and he was already restless. He started to pace, going round and round in the small, dark cell that he had been shut in. One, two, three, four, five, six. Turn. One, two, three, four, five, six. Hardly enough room to lie down. Who did they build this room for? Dwarf mages? Anders chuckled to himself at that. Anders reached into the bucket that sat beside his bed, filled his palms with cool water and splashed it across his forehead and neck. He sighed, took deep breaths, and willed the wild beating of his heart to still. He could do this. He survived a year in solitary, he can do it again. He wasn’t going to break. He needed to sleep. Sleep will help pass the time, take away the restlessness and his worried thoughts. Anders stretched out along the cot, closed his eyes, and forced himself to sleep.

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[anders-fic-recs]

Wonder [Dragon Age; Sebanders]

This turned out a lot longer than I meant it to be, and I hope it’s not tremendously ooc. In the hopes of cheering princetheirin up a bit though it wound up being way more ponderous than I’d intended. Set probably near the beginning of Act 2.

*

Sebastian wakes up blearily, groggily, which is unusual these days. He’s used to waking up quietly in the pre-dawn, breathing in the still silence of the Chantry. Until very recently, he had been fairly sure that his days of coming to in the blinding light and on the rocky ground were behind him.

Today, though, he doesn’t wake up to the barely-there swishing of heavy robes, but to the distant roll of the ocean’s waves. He sits up, blinking in the bright mid-morning light (he hopes it’s mid-morning; a half-hearted glance upwards suggests he hasn’t gotten up this late in a very long time), and begins to remember where he is.

It’s the Wounded Coast. They’ve camped out in what Hawke had declared one of the ‘safer places’, though Sebastian doesn’t know what she’s basing her faith upon and ultimately isn’t particularly sure he’d like to. They are searching for Harlot’s Blush, and Hawke insists it grows out here. “I saw some once,” she said stoutly when Anders had queried her certainty. “I did.”

He hasn’t been part of Hawke’s…group…for long, but he’s quickly learning that she is awfully sure about an awful lot of things and the best thing to do is go along with it all until she proves herself right or wrong.

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[anders-fic-recs]

Leaving the Wardens is the hardest thing Anders has ever done.

A study of what happens if Anders “dies” in Awakening.

SUP it’s angst time babey!!

[anders-fic-recs]

Striking a Bargain

A commission for @kittenmarsh ! Thank you for your order, it was so pleasant to work with you! :)

Anders is on the run and finds himself in trouble… and in Flemeth’s sights.

Characters: Anders, Flemeth, an unnamed daughter of Flemeth

Rating: T

Tags: past harm to Anders, but he gets better it’s okay, references to blood, post-DA2,

Words: 1,578

Read it on AO3!

==

He wakes up in bits and spurts, the Fade clinging desperately to his mind.

Sound, Anders registers first. Crackling leaves rattle the frayed edges of his consciousness like warning bells. Somewhere someone murmurs, the words garbled and indistinct. Soft footsteps draw near.

Touch, too, comes, in its own time. Fabric that chafes against raw skin. Gravity pressing him against the earth. The weight of his tongue in his mouth, how his hands curl at his side. Something burns along his abdomen when he shifts and he bites his lip; the barest touch of teeth on chapped, split skin is more violent than any Templar’s blade.

Blood trickles, and soon taste bludgeons its way to the forefront for recognition. Elemental iron, coppery and tangy and brackish on his tongue. The way the air has dried his mouth to rival the blight-born Anderfellan deserts.

“You’re awake. Good.” A voice. Someone is with him—Hawke? Not Hawke, no; Hawke stayed in Kirkwall, had armed him with the coat off their back and their own prized dagger and a threat-laced plea never to return.

He groans, throat hoarse from disuse, or perhaps overuse. He isn’t sure, it just aches in soul-deep agony.

“Wh—who…” He briefly tries to open his eyes, only to be met by a wave of nausea that crawls up his gullet like a demon. They close.

“Girl, the flask.”

“Yes, Flem—mother,” a second voice says.

Another sense kicks into gear: panic.

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[anders-fic-recs]

for @pegaeae

It’s as though he’s never been in the estate before. He lingers in each careful step, over steps he’s taken countless times before. There’s a change in this place, some careful shift, a sacred demand to wallow in it. Hawke follows just as slowly behind him, watching him experience all of it for the first time, again. Fingertips hesitate on the banister. Slowly lowering his hand, wrapping around it, looking up the stairs. Pausing, he looks back. Over his shoulder, at Hawke. Hawke smiles, he smiles in return, and begins to move forward.

The clock stands tall on the landing, ticks away the seconds. The window of the second floor, curtains open wide, moonlight streaming through. Molly looks up briefly, a single tail wag at the sight of them, and then puts her head back to rest on her paws. Their togetherness, their familiarity, their closeness, is no new thing to the mabari. His presence in the estate? Expected. Usual. It’s different now, although she doesn’t realize that.

Anders looks over his shoulder again, as his hand wraps around the doorknob. Hawke is still smiling, and it’s in this that gives him permission to open the door. Stepping inside, and all it takes is a subtle flick of his wrist to start the fire. It springs to life all at once, spreads across log after log, a cacophony of light that swells in every corner. It makes its home there, curling around wood, swallowing it with greed and spreading its warmth. A warmth that follows them as they walk through to the bathroom.

It was Hawke’s idea, this. He turns the taps on the tub, the rush of water beginning to fill it. Tracing the runes on the porcelain, bringing them to life once again, ensuring the water will stay warm. Anders leans against the counter, arms crossed as he watches Hawke. Reaching a hand upwards, rubbing against his jaw, fingers through his stubble. He barely hides the smile as Hawke walks towards him, closes the distance between it. “What is it?” Hawke asks, reaching upwards, a touch around his wrist, gently pulling his hand away from his mouth.

“Nothing,” Anders tells him, smiles wider at Hawke’s doubting glance, the rise of a suspicious eyebrow. He leans down, banishes all suspicion with a simple kiss. Hawke deftly undoes the belt of his robes, and helps him shrug the coat from his shoulders. Layer after layer, Hawke sees him through them all. Hawke’s warm hands move over his ribs, and there’s concern in the palms of him. Anders murmurs contentment of the touch. He lets his arms drape over his shoulders, and Hawke brushes lips against every cloud of freckles that dust his collarbone.

“The tub is going to overflow,” Anders tells him after a while, and Hawke frantically looks back at it, briefly leaves his arms to turn off the taps. His foot stepping on his heel, Anders kicks his boots to the side. Dropping his trousers quickly, slipping past Hawke to be the first into the tub. He sighs contently as he sinks into warm, clean water. Hawke hurriedly pulls off his tunic, his trousers.

“Move forward, love,” he says, and Anders obliges. Hawke climbs in behind him, and his sigh very much echoes the one that came just moments before. Bending his knees, one on either side of Anders. Sinking in even deeper, he lies back against Hawke, his head on his chest. Water laps over the edges, spills onto the floor. The length of him barely fits into the tub, his legs bent and feet propped up at the very end of it. Hawke lets his chin rest on his head, wraps arms around him.

“I told you this would be nice,” Hawke says. Anders has his eyes closed, and the smile refuses to leave. A hand lifting out of the water to rest on Hawke’s arm, his thumb drifting lazily against him. Hawke reaches for the soap, moving it over Anders’s chest and shoulders, whatever he can reach. Warmth like blankets, his touch even more so, and he finds himself more relaxed than he has in… well, for the first time in what seems like years.

He only sits up when Hawke tells him too. There’s a deeply intimate thing about washing someone else’s hair. Moving fingers against his scalp, a massaging touch, the soap occasionally bubbling off and falling. Slipping over shoulder and back, into the water. Hawke cups water, helps him rinse it all out. While Anders is bent over, dipping his hair into the water, Hawke counts every bump on his spine. Every rib and every bone, all the sharp edges that make up who he is. He traces the scars on his back, the rougher things that have made him who he is.

“I’m happy you’re here,” Hawke says when Anders is once again leaning against him, “I’m happy you said yes.” Anders turns his head, presses a kiss against Hawke’s arm.

“So am I,” he says. Hawke had extended his hand, and gave him the chance to stay. To stay in Kirkwall, in an estate, in a bath, with him. He loses track of the time they spend, like that. The occasional sound of water dripping from the tap, the ripples from the splash. The distant sound of the fireplace in the bedroom, and further than that, the clock on the landing. Closer still, the rise and fall of Hawke’s chest. The quiet beat of his heart. His breathing, the occasional murmur of soft names, gentle refrains.

“Let’s go to bed,” Hawke says, and it’s moments more still, before they finally get out of the tub. Skin curled and new, hair dripping. Laughter when Hawke attempts to dry his hair, finds he can’t quite reach his head properly without Anders almost bending in two. The towel over his head, Hawke’s hands rubbing against him, and when he looks up, Hawke carefully lifts the towel, sneaks a kiss against the tip of his nose.

The clothes he brings are soft, new. Some for each of them. He must have had them made, because they’re in his size. Anders dresses in warm trousers, a plain tunic. Comfortable, made to be slept in. He’s slept in the bed before, many times over, but this is different. It’s not simply Hawke’s bed anymore. It’s theirs. While Hawke lets Molly outside one last time, Anders wraps himself up in blankets. Head against the pillow, and he’s biting his bottom lip, trying to contain the grin. It escapes in small laughter, tears that roll down, until he brushes them away.

Molly follows behind him as Hawke climbs the stairs once again. She makes herself comfortable in the bedroom, curling up in front of the fireplace. Anders is laying on his side, his eyes closed. Hawke smiles when he sees him, rounds the bed. His hair is still damp from the bath. Hawke’s touch is gentle against the back of his head. Pulling up the blankets around his shoulders, tucking him in. He leans over, presses the kiss to Anders’s temple. Only then does he go to join him.

Laying on his side as well, looking at the way Anders sleeps. Mouth slightly parted, a wisp of hair crossing his face. Breathing calm, the slow rhythm of dreaming. Untouched by nightmares, undisturbed by the city. Just him. Just them.

[anders-fic-recs]

Pairing: Anders/Fenris Rating: Teen Length:  ~2 700 words

Summary: Post DA-2 Anders (and Fenris) from the point of view of the OC.

No one could say when exactly the healer had moved into town. He had kept to himself and on the rare occasions he had been spotted at all it was only from a distance. The man would be gone as soon as he had appeared, not leaving anyone a chance to approach him.