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lesetoilesfous · 2 years ago

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Hey! I’m surprised this is your take on it as a fellow queer person. Here’s a couple details you might have missed:

- The Chantry was closed when Anders blew it up. There were no civilians inside.

- The Chantry in the game, and churches at this point in history, are not exclusively apolitical buildings. At this point, because Elthina has refused to ask Meredith to appoint a new viscount, the Chantry is the seat of power: think Houses of Parliament.

- Meredith has by this point (note, illegally) received permission for the Rite of Annulment, which Anders knows. So the mages are going to die either way: it’s just going to be a quiet, legal slaughter of 800 6-80yr olds, the same as has happened every generation for 700 yrs, or Anders can draw attention to it: force Kirkwall to take notice and give the mages a chance in the chaos.

- Terrorism is a very modern term, that refers to a very specific kind of violence. It’s not what’s being done here. Anders, as part of a group about to suffer a genocide, is acting in self defence. He is not trying to instil fear in a peaceful civilian population. He is trying to prevent the genocidal slaughter of nearly 1000 people in a city that has been under a religious, military dictatorship for over 2yrs.

- What do you think gives Hawke the ‘right’? They’re neither a legally appointed figure of the city justice system (Aveline) or, if you’re comfortable with the religious military dictatorship, the church (Cullen.) They also are not themself innocent of massive bloodshed: by the end of the game you’ve killed 500-800 citizens, primarily poor people and refugees. This is much more than Anders�� c.200 in the Chantry boom (which is the canon figure, it was an extremely localised blast designed for minimal collateral damage, despite BioWare’s attempts to retcon.)

There is an enormous flaw in the ‘peaceful protest’ logic, which becomes especially acute in a context of state violence and genocide. You cannot ‘peacefully protest’ a state which is in the act of committing genocide against your community, because the state has made it clear that by its own laws and fabricated ‘moral’ structure, your existence is less important to it than its right to violence against you. This is something, tragically, that thousands of communities - including ours, the queer community - have suffered for hundreds of years.

Perhaps if the Chantry simply preached doctrine that deliberately encouraged mages to s*icide, but didn’t actively draw swords on children themselves. Perhaps if there was a check or balance to prevent things like Meredith so easily receiving the Rite of Annulment. Perhaps if Elthina hadn’t, prior to DA2, made Kirkwall a theocracy by imprisoning and executing Perrin Threnhold before declaring the Chantry and Knight Commander would appoint future viscounts - effectively making the Chantry the head of the state of Kirkwall in order to give tax discounts to Orlais.

Perhaps if there was an authority Anders could have gone to - and remember, he does try. For 10 years he tries to debate, to persuade, to use political channels. He speaks to Elthina herself. He doesn’t wage wars on the Templars. He provides free health care to Kirkwall’s poorest citizens which the church refuses to provide.

But that’s not the situation we’re presented with in game.

I get it: the doctrine of empire and Christian hegemony is intoxicating. I don’t know your context, but I do know these things are pervasive in English language media and that you’ve played at least one game made in the US.

I used to think this way about peaceful protest! I was raised in a very white Catholic school. I used to say the ‘turn the other cheek’ stuff and genuinely believe it. Then I learned the actual history of Malcolm X. I learned queer history. I saw Colin Kaepernick take a knee and watched the US police keep murdering people.

This isn’t on you, and at the end of the day, it’s a video game.

But one of the things that troubles me about this, and these discussions in fandom generally, is some of the underlying logic. For example, here, the statement: “if a man tried to prevent the police from committing genocide against over 800 of his people, including children and the elderly, I think it should be my right as a civilian to summarily execute him without trial.”

That’s not entirely fair on you - it’s video game logic, and as a video game protagonist, Hawke exists in a weird position of authority against other civilians.

But I, personally, certainly wouldn’t respect a leader who did this. I’m more interested in the prevention of genocide than acting as another arm of a corrupt, violent, bigoted state.

It’s a video game. But peaceful protest is not always the answer. Not in the face of genocide, or war. And the state propaganda that says individual citizens are never entitled to violence, not even in self defence, not even when they’re going to be murdered, is just one tool used to facilitate the slaughter of marginalised communities.

As a queer person, personally, I feel like it’s my responsibility to disagree with that.

I regret to inform you that a Hawke who executes Anders is Literally the Villain

oh but he killed people - you killed over 400 people as the player character, and when you did it you weren't saving anyone's lives but your own

oh but violence is never the answer - truly hilarious coming from Hawke but also it was Literally to prevent a genocide and 10 years of peaceful protest didn't even convince you to do something

oh but he lied to me - I like that we've now decided execution is an appropriate response to lying. Fun fact: that literally wasn't even the case in medieval law

oh but it was for his own good - very fun that you picked the ableist eugenics argument there

oh but he was a demon - historically we haven't seen demons sit down and wait for death very often. Disregarding the lack of consistent visual design with any demons, the fact Justice in the Fade self-identifies as Justice, and the fact that even the Chantry boom was Just violence, don't you think an out of control and dangerous demon would have uhhhhh put up a fight?

oh but - No. I don't want to hear it. You looked at a man violently oppressed by a theocratic dictatorship, attempting to save a marginalised community from genocide by the state, and made yourself judge, jury and executioner on the side of the religious dictators. You voted yes to police brutality, up to and including ad hoc execution.

I want you to take a long, hard look at yourself and ask yourself why that felt morally good. It wasn't.

#dragon age meta #Anders da2 #genocide #suicide #police brutality

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nightowlwriting · 22 days ago

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summary: “Alright,” Anders says. There’s noise like he’s adjusting the way he’s standing, or maybe pushing himself up to sit on Perrin’s desk, and then a few heartbeats of silence. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that I want you to hurt me?”

word count: 4.2k

warnings: ss&c, implied/referenced drug addiction, grief, unhealthy coping mechanisms, sex as a coping mechanism, knife mentioned, dom/sub undertones, manhandling

note: perrin is a morally grey character!! he also doesn't know carver is still alive so the loss of his mother (paired with bethany being a grey warden) left him angrier and more prone to acts of violence. he and anders also have a barely healthy relationship with all of the shit between the both of them, but everything that happens in this fic (and future installments) is 100% consensual.

title credit: saintseneca

kinktober masterlist: here

perrin hawke: here

mobile masterlist - request - ao3

Perrin Hawke is alone in his sitting room when the knock on his door comes. It’s late, and he’s already dismissed Sandal and Bodahn to their quarters for rest. Even Lothering doesn’t raise his head, instead huffing and rolling to bask his other side in front of the fire.

“Sure,” Perrin says sarcastically to the hound, “I’ll get the door.” He’s just on the right side of drunk - the room isn’t spinning, nor is his stomach, but that’s not going to be the truth for long. The door is just a temporary distraction from the shit-show that his life has been since the Blight forced his family from their home. It doesn’t matter that Amell House is the family seat he rightfully owns, it’s not home. So he stumbles to the door, footsteps echoing in his silent and empty front room, and tries to right his finery before he opens the door.

Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford is standing on the other side and for a brief moment Perrin is disappointed. He thought it would have been… Well, the news had to have spread through Hightown to Darktown, and he thought… Actually, Perrin isn’t too sure he wants to see any of his normal companions at the door, especially not any of his mage companions. Regardless, the Knight-Captain isn’t wearing his usual armor and has a bottle of brandy in one hand, looking contrite (for something that he did not do, Perrin notices), and then shrugs. “I heard the news. Figured that you would empty out the wine cellar before you’d be caught in the Hanged Man tonight.”

Perrin doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t really have to. He just looks down on the Knight-Captain and then runs a hand down his face. “Thanks, Cullen,” He eventually says, instead of all the things he wants to say, “But I’m not very good company right now.” And he punctuates the silent and I don’t want anyone to accompany me with a wry smile.

Cullen stutters - because that’s what Cullen does when he’s nervous and Perrin makes him nervous. Everyone knows that his father was an apostate and that his parents sired two mighty warriors who fought at Ostagar and one apostate mage that, until three or so years prior, roamed Kirkwall freely because of the threat that Perrin is. He’s six and a half feet tall and as broad as a barn, which had come in handy doing small labor jobs and mercenary work in Lothering. Saved his life, and Carver’s, at Ostagar. “No, yes,” Cullen says, “I - I understand. I only meant to, well, I only meant to drop this off and leave.” He passes the brandy over and it’s a good brand. He’s almost surprised, but then in a second he takes in Cullen’s appearance: thinner than the week prior (but that might just be that he’s without armor), deep bags underneath his tired eyes, and a light haze over his eyes. Perrin is smart enough to know when a man’s lyrium dose has been upped, again, and knows that Knight-Commander Meredith also pairs that with a pay increase to keep the Templars from straying too far from her orders.

He takes the brandy from Cullen, but it feels wrong. Everything feels wrong, really, so that isn’t a surprise. “Thanks, Cullen,” Perrin finally says, trying for a smile. “You’re right, this might be better than wasting all the fancy wine that’s been aging for years. And I won’t be caught at the Hanged Man. Surely you’d see me on the stocks in the morning if I went.” He laughs to tell Cullen that it’s a joke and Cullen chuckles too, rubbing the back of his neck. There are a few moments of awkward silence, with Cullen shuffling and unable to be still and Perrin standing at his door like a statue.

Once upon a time, he’d thought about pursuing Cullen. The man is handsome, wise beyond his years, and honorable. Perrin hadn’t pursued him because of those last two facts - he couldn’t stand the thought of sullying someone like Cullen Rutherford. Still, they’ve formed a strong friendship just by being two Ferelden men in another country, chased from their homes because of the Blight.

“Well, I should be returning to my chambers,” Cullen nods decisively. He shakes Perrin’s hand and smiles when Perrin claps him on the back.

“Don’t let Meredith take too much from you,” Perrin warns just before Cullen leaves, “She’ll steal your life with that leash if you’re not careful.” He doesn’t stay at the door to see Cullen’s face, instead pressing the heavy wood closed and setting the brandy on one of his console tables as he passes. He’s very careful to act normally as he passes the hearth where a fire had been minutes before and doesn’t look for where Lothering is as he climbs the stairs to his room. The windows leading to his room have all had their curtains drawn and now his bedroom door is slightly open.

Perrin slips an ornate dagger out of a sheath that’s strapped to his thigh. He’s never unarmed, and neither are the other highborns or those who ascended to Hightown. Most Kirkwallers take a note from the Orlesian playbook and never leave themselves truly vulnerable. It’s more for status and image than anything practical, but Perrin isn’t like most people who live in Hightown. He’s more equipped to exist in Darktown, where brawn and brains get you further than money. That’s why when the person hiding behind his bedroom door lunges for him, it’s only a few seconds before he’s wrestled them against the wall, dagger tip pressed dangerously between their ribs, not breaking fabric or skin.

Yet.

Perrin’s chest is bellowing, his teeth bared like a rabid animal’s. He’s almost growling, looking for a fight just to get some of the errant emotions swirling in his chest. It almost doesn’t register that he’s pinning Anders - nearly half a foot shorter than him and much thinner, too - to the wall. The mage doesn’t even flinch but yields to Perrin’s tight hold and the press of the larger man’s body. He smiles softly and says, “Sorry, love, I just wanted to surprise you.” Perrin jerks away, dropping the knife and separating himself.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here,” He finally says, bristling when he turns his back on Anders. It’s not Anders that he has a problem with right now, but magic in general. The wound in his chest, however metaphorical, is still raw and aching. He can taste the magic in the air between them, just like he’d been able to hear the humming of lyrium when Cullen was at his door. Perrin chalks it up to being mage-blooded, especially with how powerful of a mage his father was. Still, the air ripples as Anders walks closer, and Perrin bodily flinches away.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Anders says, still, knowing that maybe touching Perrin isn’t the best idea right now.

“I shouldn’t be near mages right now,” Perrin bites, striding to his desk if only to put some distance between the cloying taste of magic against his soft palate. He would say more but he risks ruining the burgeoning relationship that they have. He’s already going to have to apologize to Merrill for how he’d turned on her when she’d tried to offer him comfort.

Is it worth it now? Is your precious blood magic worth it? This is what you are. This is who you are. You’re just like him.

It’s unfair, but Merrill knows and has known how Perrin feels about blood magic. He doesn’t mind magic, or mages in general, but blood magic is an entirely different animal. He can’t stand the way it tastes in the air, or how it’s never enough. When he sees the scars on Merrill’s palms or arms, he flinches visibly. After the first time, before the Deep Roads, he’d cried to Bethany and begged her to promise him that she’d never turn to blood magic. She’d sworn on Carver’s grave that she’d never resort to that.

Anders doesn’t say anything because he knows that Perrin is right, but the mage has also never been good at following orders or listening to reason. He’d escaped Kinlock Hold time and time again because of that. He’d been so desperate to get to Kirkwall to find Karl, and instead found Perrin. The hand on his lower back almost physically hurts just as much as the loss of his mother. “I won’t use magic,” Anders says, voice low as he moves around to be in front of Perrin, “I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

And suddenly, Perrin is blindingly angry. Just like the day prior, when he’d lit his mother’s pyre, he can feel the anger burning past white-hot into something more dangerous. His lips curl in a snarl and he shoves Anders back, the blond man catching himself on the ornate desk. He looks shocked, Perrin thinks, and I like it. “And what about what I do want?” He presses close to Anders, jerking him lightly by the front of his robes, “What will you do, then, Anders?” He snarls his lover’s name to make it hurt, but there’s no reaction besides a small smile. Perrin shakes him again just to do something.

“Anything you do want,” Anders supplies, “I trust that if I use the watch-word you’ll stop.” Perrin pushes away, turning his back again, and moves to stand in front of the fireplace.

“And you think that will fix me?” He scoffs, “You think that if I fuck you that I won’t be like this anymore?”

“No,” Anders says without moving from the desk, “I think if you fuck me the way you want to - the way you’re afraid to - that it will give you something to take your frustration out on.” His voice is soft, like Perrin will break with any more force behind the words.

Perrin’s not sure he wouldn’t break, honestly. The anger inside of him darkens and turns into something else - lust that swirls like smoke in his ribcage and leaves him grinding his teeth. “No,” He finally says, “You may trust me, but I shouldn’t be doing anything like that right now.”

“Alright,” Anders says. There’s noise like he’s adjusting the way he’s standing, or maybe pushing himself up to sit on Perrin’s desk, and then a few heartbeats of silence. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that I want you to hurt me?”

Perrin turns around, slowly. His heart is thundering and the fire in his veins is starting to feel good instead of world-ending. His lover is sitting on his desk, all sharp angles and loose hair. It hands around his face and shoulders like a perverted halo as he smiles at Perrin, leaning back on his hands like an invitation. “Why would you want to be hurt?” Perrin asks, unable to help the way his voice drops or his trousers tighten. Anders has always been so good at reading him - he’d be afraid the man was reading his mind if he didn’t know any better. “Who wants that?”

“I do,” Anders answers, instead of rising to the obvious bait, “And I think you want to hurt me.” He adjusts again and begins to peel himself out of the linen shirt he’d worn to Perrin’s home. He doesn’t pressure Perrin to answer or to do anything, simply slowly strips down as he sits on the other’s desk. Perrin stands back to the fire watching as each inch of skin is revealed: scars, freckles, tan lines. He can practically taste his lover’s skin underneath his tongue, feel the resistance of it underneath his teeth.

He’s always hungered for dark things. Not in the way of forcing his partner to do things that they don’t want, but forcing them to do the things they do want. Perrin wants his partner to push back, to be a brat, to force him to use his strength on them. He wants to mark them as his, fuck them so thoroughly that anyone with half a brain will be able to see them and know that they belong to Perrin Hawke.

He wants to own them: body, mind, soul - if only for the hours that they’re in his bed. But how can he say that? How can he tell Anders these things when he’d spent every year of his life past twelve years old subjugated, owned, trapped? How can Perrin admit that he wants to fuck him until he’s crying, until he can’t speak, until he only begs?

And yet: here is Anders completely naked on his desk, cock hard, asking Perrin to do those things to him. To hurt him.

Perrin licks his teeth and drops one hand to his own cock, holding pressure there so that he can try and think. He screws his eyes shut and ignores the part of him that wants to do nothing but take and destroy and struggles to find the part of him that had stepped up and taken on the role of man of the house when his father died. “I shouldn’t.”

“Says who?” Anders snaps, “The Chantry? Fuck the Chantry. I want you to hurt me, Perrin, I want to ache.” He groans and Perrin’s eyes fly open to find him stroking his cock, sat there on Perrin’s desk like he owns it. “I want to feel you burn,” He gasps, pressing on his frenulum and then stroking again, and shudders, “I want be a mess, to be so fucked-out I can’t think about anything. I want you to use me.”

Perrin can feel himself just standing about, mouth open and hand pressed flat on his cock. He knows he should do something - say no, say yes, leap across the room and take Anders every way that he knows how to and some that he doesn’t yet know how to. Instead, he just shudders, squeezing his groin, and groans. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“We already have-” Anders takes a second to writhe, circling his thumb and pointer-finger around the base of his dick to squeeze, “-We already have a watch-word. We’re already two men. How much worse can we get?” He grins, hand not otherwise occupied flexing on his thigh before pressing flat against his abdomen. Perrin watches it move up, up, up until Anders is pinching his nipple so hard it looks painful.

“I won’t be nice,” Perrin finally says, nearly choking on his lust. Anders grins, knowing he’s made his case as he watches Perrin frantically remove his shirt and shoes. He divests himself of his trousers as he crosses the room and doesn’t even go for his dick, despite the fire-warmed air making it twitch. He stops himself just short of Anders, chest heaving and feeling like he’s lost his mind, “I won’t ask for what I want,” He explains, voice rough as he tries to reel himself in. It makes Anders shiver, “I won’t stop if you say no, I won’t stop if you beg, I won’t stop if you fight. I will only stop if you say the watch-word.”

“Yes,” Anders moans, abandoning his futile attempt to not tug himself off before Perrin got his hands on him, “All of that.”

“I will be mean,” Perrin grits his teeth, watching the mesmerizing way Anders’ hand moves on his cock, the way that the head of his dick begins to redden and his thighs begin to shake. “I will do what I want when I want it. I don’t care if you don’t come or if you come too much.” His lover just nods, mouth falling open as he huffs out breaths of pleasure. Perrin watches for a few moments more before he can’t take it anymore. That dark, smoke-like lust in his chest overtakes him and he gives in to it. Anders doesn’t flinch when Perrin lunges at him, only shouts another yes! as he’s manhandled.

Perrin grabs him by the shoulders and twists, tossing Anders off of the desk. He doesn’t care if Anders lands on his feet or arse, just that Perrin towers over him when he’s not sitting on the desk. He grabs Anders by the hair and forces him toward the fire - not a mindless monster by any standards, but he holds the hair in a tight fist. Enough to hurt, but not to harm. When they get close enough and Anders realizes that Perrin isn’t going to stop before his face hits the brick, he catches himself on his hands. It brings a predatory grin to Perrin’s face, who leans in close to his ear. “Good boy,” He growls, “You learn quick.”

“I-I,” Anders manages, gasping when Perrin kicks his feet apart. Perrin mocks his stuttering gasp and grips Anders’s hip. He can’t resist the siren call of the broad expanse of naked skin holding the man by the head and hip affords him, so he leans down and sinks teeth in, drawing a howl from the trapped man. “Yes!”

Perrin jerks him back by the hair and then spins him around. Anders has tears in his eyes and a flush running from the bridge of his nose to the hardness of his cock. He grips at Perrin’s arm to hold himself up and look pathetic. It makes Perrin moan. “Look at you,” He rumbles, leaning down to press their noses together, “Look at how much I’ve already ruined you. I’ve barely touched you.”

“Please,” Anders gasps, trying to lean up to kiss Perrin. He can’t move past the hand holding him still. “Please!”

“Kneel.” Perrin says instead, dropping Anders’ hair and taking a step back. Anders barely catches himself, legs wobbly, and Perrin grins something sharp and feral again. He reaches down to stroke himself slowly, feeling pent up. Anders just stares and watches as Perrin preens and allows it for a moment. And then he snaps his fingers, “I said kneel.” He snarls, baring his teeth as anger chases lust through his veins. It feels good, feels better when Anders tilts his chin up and sneers.

“Make me.” His eyes flash for just a moment and Perrin isn’t sure who’s talking: Anders, Justice, or the fucked-up amalgam of them both that he’s taken to calling Vengeance. He cocks his head, waiting for the light to die down, and then Anders speaks again. “I said: make me.” It’s only then, in that moment where Perrin is sure it’s his lover speaking and not the spirit inside of his lover, that he moves.

“Incorrigible bastard,” Perrin gripes, manhandling Anders back several steps only to throw him off balance. He sweeps a leg behind the other man’s and presses against the back of his knees, all the while pressing down on his shoulders. Anders falls to his knees with a shout and a loud impact, but Perrin doesn’t stop moving. He can’t think past the throbbing of his cock, the memory of muscle and skin beneath his teeth. The sight of Anders on his knees, bite mark bruising on his shoulder, and an agog look on his face nearly makes Perrin spill right then. Instead, he almost gently rubs his thumb over Anders’ bottom lip before his face twists in a grin. Perrin shifts his hand so that his first two fingers are lying where his thumb just was and then he presses.

Perrin laughs almost antagonistically when Anders gags against fingers that are so much longer than his own, tears welling in his amber eyes almost immediately. He doesn’t pull away, or vomit, but closes his lips around Perrin’s fingers and sucks.

It becomes clear to both of them very quickly what move Perrin will make next. He almost doesn’t know he’s moving until his fingers are free from Anders’ mouth and his spit-soaked hand is in the mage’s hair again. “Open your fucking mouth,” He snaps, almost too impatient to do any of the things he wants to do. “I’m going to come down your throat, and you’re going to thank me, and then I’m going to fuck you until you beg me to stop.”

The only thing Anders says, just before his mouth is full of cock, is: “Please, yes, please!”

He’s not a monster, so the first push of Perrin’s dick is slow and steady. He holds Anders by the hair, the other hand steadying his length as he gasps - gasps and watches. It’s almost like a miracle the way that Anders looks on his knees, the way that he squirms and his eyes roll back in his head like he’s feeling the white-hot knife of pleasure that curls around Perrin’s spine. The first few push-pulls are just like that: slow, elaborate, all-consuming. “Maker guide me,” He groans, trying not to fist too hard in the mage’s hair and failing, “Andraste’s Sword of Mercy strike me.”

Perrin loses himself after that. Both hands grip the sides of his lover’s head as he moves faster and harder; he hisses when Anders grips at his thighs, nails leaving crescent marks and red lines. The pleasure burns, chasing away all of the dark thoughts and bad feelings, if only temporarily. He’s gasping for air, unable to decide if he wants to tip his head back and keep his eyes closed as he chases his end or watch as Anders chokes on his cock.

Anders groans, and gags, but doesn’t complain. He doesn’t pull away or pinch Perrin’s thigh - their watch-word for when they have their mouths full. Instead, when Perrin goes back to watching with his mouth open, chin against his chest and ragged groans filling the room, Anders relaxes his throat even more. He catches Perrin’s eyes and - oh, the bastard - he hums.

“Mine,” It slips out unbidden, chased by the roiling pleasure and power that he feels with Anders on his knees, “You’re mine, I don’t care who’s in your head,” He bares his teeth when, for just a moment, Anders holds himself all of the way down, gagging on Perrin’s cock. “Fuck, yes, just like that baby.” Perrin jerks Anders back by the hair, ignoring the way that the mage groans when his mouth loses contact. He holds, for just a moment, and then brings one hand up like he’s going to strike Anders.

“Say the word now,” Perrin warns, “If you don’t want me to slap you.”

“Maker,” Anders gasps, voice ragged through his gasping. He’s still gripping Perrin’s thighs, his own splayed wide as he thrusts at nothing but searches for everything, “Yes, I want it. Hit me, Perrin, please.”

He rears back even more and slaps Anders. The crack of his hand is almost deafening and he sees, for a brief moment, Justice flash to the surface. Anders either wrestles him down or he realizes what’s happening when he sees Perrin standing above him completely naked. Anders gasps when he comes back to himself and his body shudders. Instead of putting his cock back into his lover’s mouth, Perrin takes himself in hand. “No,” Anders whines, “I want - please, I want to swallow you.”

Perrin’s teeth flash in the light when he forces Anders to swallow him down again, focusing less on hurting like Anders had wanted and more on coming like he needs to. It doesn't take long with his cock in the tight, wet, heat of the other man's mouth. Typically Anders has control, chooses the pace, brings Perrin to peak in the way the he wants. Tonight he just lets Perrin chase that high, choking on the dick in his throat.

Only a few moments after the slap - that has left the man's face reddening - Perrin’s hips begin to stutter. He knows he's saying filthy things (I own you, I want you to taste me for weeks, I want to live inside of your body) but he doesn't care. He only cares about the fire in his veins, the way his body is tensing, the right feeling deep in his stomach. He only cares that Anders isn't even reaching for his ass, or his sac, or any of the places that he usually grabs and kneads to help Perrin along. The most Anders can do is keep his grip where it's at and take it.

It's that thought that finally makes Perrin come. Anders is taking it, every dark part of his desires, because he wants to. Perrin isn't forcing him, isn't making him, isn't hurting him in a way that he doesn't like. Anders is willingly taking the rough edges of Perrin, the way that the larger man can use his strength and size to be indomitable - in the bedroom or otherwise. The heat races through his body and he feels himself still with Anders’ nose pressed against him, groaning and writhing as he comes. He feels like he's been struck in the gut, knees weak when he pulls away but then Anders is swallowing - swallowing and smiling up at Perrin like he's gotten exactly what he wanted in the first place. He leans forward and bites Perrin in the thigh, hissing when he gets tugged back by his hair.

“I believe,” Anders says, voice hoarse, “That you promise me more.”

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