#ocean writes

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

DATE NIGHT

Pairing: Garrett Hawke/Anders

Franchise: DA2

Tags: Light angst, requited unrequited love, love confessions, idiots in love, Anders' thing about love and relationships

Rating: G

Words: 8.6k

Summary:

Garrett and Anders have developed a situationship over the last year, but recently, Garrett's finding he wants more from him. Getting the words out proves hard, though, as Anders seems to have an uncanny knack for avoiding the conversation. Garrett ultimately gives himself a deadline to tell Anders he loves him, and resolves to tell him over dinner. Only, Anders doesn't show.

This beautiful art was done by @un-shit-yourself as a collab for the Secret Sanders Summerbang 2023! USY, I love your art, and really valued and appreciated working with you on this!

See the SSSB collection here!

Garrett scrapes a chair from the table and drops into it with a huff. “He doesn’t actually like me, I’m sure of it.”

Isabela rolls her eyes and takes a swig from her tankard before motioning to the server for another round. “I take it things are going well with our resident cat lover?”

He pillows his head on his arms atop the table. “No,” he says, muffled. “I don’t think they are.”

“Have you told him you—ugh, don’t make me say it.”

“That I love him?”

“Yeah, that. The mushy stuff.”

“I’ve tried. Things always happen, or he gets called away, and then the moment is gone.”

Two tankards soon thunk down on the table. Morosely, he sits up to fish a silver from his purse and slides it across the wood before taking a drink and grimacing at the taste. It’s awful but it’s alcoholic, so he’ll take what he can get. “At this point, I’m tempted to give up and just chalk this up to being convenient sex.”

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[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

He's underestimated her before.

Before, when he took her softness for weakness, her kindness for naivety, her passion for the hot-headedness of youth. Before, when she insisted on trying to force-feed him tea to "broaden his mind." Before, when she called him "hahren" with a teasing note of respect in her voice. When she came to him for counsel, asking his opinions on the options given to her by her trusted advisors.

He wrote it all off as a folly of an attempt of connection.

He'd underestimated her before, and he won't do it again. She is owed that much, at least.

Solas groans softly and leans on his elbows over his table, the large map littered with markers not unlike the Skyhold War Table. He's been thinking of her more and more as of late. Reasonably so, he allows; Varric and Scout Harding are on his proverbial tail, and no doubt they are in some semblance of communication with the former Inquisitor. How else could they afford to track him down across Thedas, if not with the funds of the defunct Inquisition?

(He refuses to believe that Varric Tethras is as good of a writer as he claims and has earned all that coin. Solas has tried to read "The Tale of the Champion" thrice now and has not ever made it past Hawke's settling down in Kirkwall with his family. Surely, with a figure as dynamic as Hawke, Varric could have written a scintillating story, but alas, it never was enough to keep his interest. He just could not see what the rest of the world found so enthralling about that book.)

He thinks of her often and attempts not to dwell. Solas may not possess the gift of perfect recall, but he knows that every memory of every moment spent at her side is crystal clear, immutable, a pure fact of his life, down to the scent of her fresh, clean skin after a bath. On occasion, very rarely, he deliberately allows himself to picture her beside him for roughly three minutes.

He does so now, letting out a shaking breath. The phantom touch of her hand on his sends goosebumps up his arms and sets his heart to race, even now, so many years later. He imagines her eyes, looking at him knowingly, as if she knows his entire heart, his entire mind.

(Solas loathed having hid so much of himself from her. He had contemplated telling her everything, or at least more about it, at Crestwood, but the earnestness of her gaze, the warmth in her eyes... he could too easily see all that they built crumble between them if she wouldn't accept him, so he broke it all down on his own terms instead of taking that risk. He regretted it then and ever since, but still, he believes it to have been the right thing to do.)

"What now, ma vhenan?" she asks softly, gesturing to his map. Her perfume - if it could be called such a thing - clings to even this phantom of her, bringing with it memories of lazy mornings in bed at her side. "You are so weary."

"I am," he sighs. Solas can't bring himself to look directly at this mental image of her, which somehow feels so real next to him. Her hand comes back to him, and she begins to rub his nape. It almost works to relax him; even the memory of this long-familiar touch is comforting, like the real thing, in some respects.

"You need to rest, Solas. Your eyes are dark and heavy; it's not like you. Lay down your burdens. Stop all of this."

How could they not be? All of his plans, every action, thrown into chaos by Varric's new friend Rook. He has fights and concerns on so many fronts, and now he can hardly count them.

But wouldn't it be so easy, some traitorous part of him whimpers, to reach back to her and let it all go?

She vowed to come after him, he'd been told, heartbroken but sure in her declaration. To hear it from his spies, she had cried for days after recovering from his taking the anchor from her, nearly howling in her grief in the dead of night. Eventually, she regained her composure, but he knew it was a promise she intended to keep, and he still doesn't know whether she intends to try to stop him or save him.

"I know." He looks up at her fully now, knowing that his self-defined time with her is running out. A few more moments with her left, now, and then she'll be gone, her memory carefully, protectively packed away under the mantle of the Dread Wolf. Her hand stills on his nape, and he takes it in his own. Raising it to his lips, Solas brushes a kiss over her scarred knuckles.

"I'll be with you soon, emma lath," she whispers, as if she knows her time is up. "I don't know what that will mean."

Solas closes his eyes. "I don't doubt it, vhenan," he replies tiredly.

Three minutes, come and gone. This world has become so fleeting since he woke.

When he opens his eyes again, she is gone. There is nothing that suggests she was ever here, save for the heavy, silverite weight of her in his heart.

Squaring his shoulders, he turns back to his work. There is much still to be done, as ever.

The Dread Wolf’s Heart is Changed Already

Give me a Solas who’s primary goal when you’d just stumbled out of the Fade wasn’t to save your life, but to ascertain the status of the Anchor.

Give me a Solas who objectively decides that you’re more useful to him alive than dead, so he saves your life.  A Solas who decides that you deserve to live for that bit longer so that you can close the Breach.  The world’s only hope.

Give me a Solas that realizes quite early on that it’s a shame you weren’t born in his time, he would have probably liked you.

Give me a Solas that slowly comes to the realisation that he respects you, is beginning to trust you to make the choices that most benefit the oppressed, the weak, those who can’t get what they need for themselves.  

(Give me a Solas that doesn’t realise how much trouble he’s in until he tells himself that this, no this is the time that he’ll stop encouraging whatever is going on between you.

Give me a Solas that is so focussed on denying his growing feelings that you manage to catch him off guard.  A Solas who is far worse at dealing with his feelings than you are because he’s still trying to pretend he’s not having them.

Give me a Solas that looks back on those few days where he was coldly contemplating killing you and his gut clenches at how easy it could have been.  A Solas that sometimes, out of the blue, just takes your hand and squeezes, brings you into the circle of his arms just to remind himself of what he would have lost had he made a different choice.)

Give me a Solas who realizes he’s learning for the first time in Ages.  Who is seeking you out to sate his own curiosity as much as you are seeking him.  A Solas that truly regrets having to leave, knowing that this is the last time you will be allies.

Give me a Solas that has to prepare for you now, is not going to make the mistake of underestimating you.  A Solas that still questions himself, still interrogates his own actions, who can’t quite stop asking himself if he’s doing the right thing.  Only now, that voice sounds like you.  And it’s stronger than it’s ever been.

“I would not have you see what I become.”

No, because only he knows just how close you’ve been to that side of him already.  Because your brush with the Dread Wolf happened whilst you were sleeping, before you ever knew he existed.  By the time he’s introducing himself on that mountain, you’ve been closer to the man he’s trying to protect you from in Trespasser than you ever are again.

Basically.  Give me an arc to this potential character growth, Bioware.  Do NOT let it fizzle out into Generic Bad Guy.  You brought the Dread Wolf to us just after he’d coldly murdered a close friend without even looking them in the eye just because they’d failed him.  And then you let him CARE.  Don’t make that for nothing.

[usefulquotes7]

I crave a love so deep, the ocean would be jealous. - Pablo Neruda

[feral-ballad]

Zehra Naqvi, from The Knot of My Tongue: Poems and Prose; “Dear Baba”

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

And this here is what we in the writing industry call "a display of hubris that may or may not have karmic consequences but is very, very fun".

[ID: a screenshot of white text on a black background reading "All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The sole exception for the ocean, the ocean is The Pacific Ocean from real life. If it is unhappy with its portrayal it can settle the matter personally." /end ID]

[lucidloving]

Caitlin Siehl, "Cut" // i.g.p, "Mama Bore a Girl" // Natalie Wee, Letters from Persephone // Sarah J. Maas, Heir of Fire // @klyukvav // @heavensghost // Carol Ann Duffy, "Medusa" // Aria Aber, "Ideology" // Clementine von Radics, "Vigil" // Ocean Vuong, "Prayer for the Newly Damned"

[asoftepiloguemylove]

LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME / BECAUSE I EXIST, I EXIST, I EXIST

Franz Kafka Letters to Felice // リリイ・シュシュのすべて All About Lily Chou-Chou (2001) dir. 岩井 俊二 Shunji Iwai / Phoebe Bridgers Funeral // Emily Palermo // Ocean Vuong Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong // 堕落天使 Fallen Angels (1995) dir. Wong Kar-wai // Margaret Atwood // Bell Hooks All About Love // @mango-season // Mitski Nobody

[peachesofteal]

Deckhand Simon Riley / female reader 18+ mdni, dubcon. Simon is very no good terrible and kind of mean. Predator/prey. Excessive alcohol consumption, manipulation. Spitting, size, praise, a little bit of breeding/daddy - kink.

Simon arrives to town on the last summer wind. 

It’s cold for the shoulder of the season. Not the coldest he’s ever felt, but cold enough his scars become rigid, inflexible swaths of skin littered across his body pinching at every hinge. 

He can already feel the burn. The stretch and strain of his upper back, his arms, his legs. Can already feel the weight of the pots, sharp metal slamming and crashing, teeming with things that look more like creatures than they do delicacies.

Hook. String. Pull. Block.

The people stare at him, wide, wind whipped eyes peeking out underneath knit wool hems, gagged and confused, whispers passed back and forth like children with a lolly. 

Did you see him? 

Look at the size of ‘im- 

Is that Ernest’s new deckhand? 

Fucking monster of a man, I tell you. 

He keeps his head down. Eyes fixed to the floor, old instinct still churning in his blood, shoulders stiff and squared. Captains are all the same, whether on land or at sea. Says “yes sir” as Ernest sizes him up, asks about his previous two seasons, and then sends him away with a perfunctory nod and a departure date. 

The Old Man leaves in two weeks. See you then.

King crab fishing is the closest he’s felt to having a foot in the grave since he was actually in one. Opponents in a firefight are known, predictable. Monsters of their own kind, but ones he knows intimately. Minds of a killer, the lot of them, a certain subset of consciousness nearly shared. 

The ocean shares its mind with no one. Its secrets are its own, buried in the briny deep, never to be revealed. 

And the Bering-  

The Bering is its own horror. Savage and cruel to those who would tempt it, willing to swallow anything offered and pull it down into fathomless black water. Cold enough to kill a man in seconds. Violent enough to toss them all to sea. 

He’s seen it happen. More than once. The environment is uncontrollable, unpredictable, lethal, and the work is arduous. 

The company is tolerable at best. The season is short, yet taxing. Deckhands live dozens of years, in a few short months. They stare off into nothing, watching the horizon, long gone look in their eye. 

Still, he sees familiar flickers in them, same firelight he’s seen in the many men he’s killed, or worked alongside of. 

At the base of it, these types of men, his kind, are all the same. 

Rabid and dangerous in packs. 

The cove is nearly derelict. The town spills up into white and black spruce, houses nestled in the grove of tree trunks twice Simon’s size, all doors facing the warped and tilted wooden slats of a long-loved dock. 

There isn’t much here, a small grocery, a liquor store, a petrol station and of course- 

A pub. 

Aptly named The Wharf, the bar is as old hat as they come, seedy and sticky, sunken into the soft earth. It’s everything he’s come to expect in a fishing town this far up north, where the season is variable, and the money is too. Dark wood from floor to ceiling, over polished oak horseshoe, neglected stools and booths. Everything creaks, and The Wharf is no exception. The pub, the dock, the trees. Wind whistles and bark groans, a rasp you can only find here, in these places where time is too slow, and the world forgets. 

There are rooms above the bar, usually rented to his ilk, deckhands biding their time, greenhorns rattling with excitement. They all filter in weeks before the season opens, and when he checks into his, he’s not surprised when the woman at the desk tells him he’s got the last one. 

There are only ten, after all.

The Wharf’s side door swings open in a gust of blistering wind, yet not a single person turns their head. 

None except him, though he doesn’t need to look to know it’s you. 

He can smell you. Can feel you, clear across the floor. Sea salt and lavender, it whirls in your wake wherever you go, and when he lingers on the sidewalk outside of your little workshop, he swears he’s standing in a cloud of it. 

“If y’need jackets, bibs mended from last season, there’s a place on the corner, next to The Wharf. She’ll get ‘em done before season.” 

You’re the bloody seamstress. The tailor. Nimble fingers twisting and tying, threading and looping inside a faded light blue storefront, working into the small hours of the night. Your workspace is small, and overflowing with bright orange polyurethane covered clothes, long lengths of neoprene, socks, shirts, wristers. A mass of work, it seems, one that keeps your light on after all others have gone dark. 

Except The Wharf’s. 

It’s the second time he’s seen you here. 

He doesn’t count the times he’s seen you without you realizing it. Doesn’t count the times he’s finished a cigarette on the street at the perfect angle, a solid perch to peer right in through your window. He doesn’t count the times he’s watched you from The Wharf’s one dark window, when you step outside to take a long breath of air, stretching your back and shaking your arms out, rolling your head in a circle- 

and baring your throat for the slaughter.

The first was days ago, close to zero hundred, when you swung in to settle on a barstool with your back to the door. You look like you’re made from spools of silk, even underneath all of your winter layers, big coat, knit wool hat. There’s a coruscated dapple in your eye, one that manages to shimmer even in the darkest shadows of the bar, voice saccharine as he’s ever heard, dipping into a melody as you go back and forth with the bartender. 

He hears it now when he closes his eyes at night, awash in a sea of bourbon, cigarette stench sunken into his skin. A gentle rhythm, a syrupy voice, saying his name. 

Screaming it. 

You catch his gaze across the bar. Catch him watching you, peeling you, picking you apart, but you say nothing. Blink a few times, glance down at your beer, pretend to busy yourself with something else. It’s not a flinch, but close enough to it. 

He knows what you see. What you should see. 

A monster. Licking his lips at a girl. A fire breather bearing down on top of a princess. 

If he crossed this room right now and yanked you off that barstool, who would interrupt? Intervene? They’re all men of the same vein, born from different battlefields. The rules of engagement become status quo, regardless of whether you’re baptized by the Bering, or by fire.

Rabid, dangerous in packs.  

Eleven days left, and he’s finally found something worthwhile to occupy his time, besides lurking in the dingy corners of The Wharf like an old, decrepit sailor. 

You. 

You live above the shop, an old fire escape leads to a wooden door with a big window, one covered by a curtain hung from the inside. 

The Wharf’s rooms have a fire escape too. A metal catwalk. 

Metal. Who’s the idiot who decided metal anything would be good in a place like this? Iron nearly turned red, rusted to all hell. One shift, and it all falls down. 

He takes his watch there, at night. A gargoyle at his post, waiting for the flicker of your kitchen and bedroom lights, shapes and shadows dancing behind the thin drapes, a ballerina on stage for the masses. 

For him. 

He brings you his gear. Looms over you at the desk where your sewing machine is grinding out an industrial stitch thicker than what he’s seen on parachutes. 

“H-hi.” Hi. Aren’t you cute? A little lamb, alone in the woods.

He nods. Stays silent. Enjoys watching his catch twist herself up on his hook. 

You glance at the noxious orange pieces draped over his arm, and half timidly reach.

“Need those patched? Er, like… have any tears or rips?” Not really. He keeps his gear in good condition. Throws out his underclothes after every season- can never get the stench of fish out of em, but his outer gear is well cared for. 

It almost pained him to rip them apart last night. 

“Simon.” He gives it expectantly, jogging your manners to the forefront. You have the good grace to look embarrassed with how fast you spit out your own name.

“Bibs have a few holes. Big ones. Jacket’s got a rip under the armpit.” You reach, tiny little fingers stretching across the barren space between him and you, and he lashes down the urge to snatch your wrist out of midair and bring it to his teeth. 

Do you taste like lavender? Sea salt? Is your cunt briny like the Bering, slicked sweet and brackish? 

“Okay, well, I should have them done before-“ 

“You better.” You startle, eyes wide and confused, before they find your feet, cowed little girl before an awful man. “Jus’ need em, is all.” He softens the approach, not willing to cut you down just yet (that comes later), and you respond well, perfectly, pushing your glasses up onto the bridge of your nose with a genuine smile. 

Live bait on the line. Set, cast, hook.

“Got it.” 

His control is becoming a house of cards. 

You’re in The Wharf earlier tonight, asking Jimmy for a double, whiskey over ice and nearly to the brim of a rocks glass. Just one, you say. Neck is sore as hell.

He maintains a distance. More inclined to watch you devolve, fascinated by the way you unravel with each sip. Lightweight. Figures.

You pull your glasses off and rub your temples, hopping off the bar stool with a quick word over your shoulder, a request for another drink. “Just goin’ to the bathroom.” You explain, walking away with a hardly detectable sway in your step- 

directly into the side of the wall the bar juts out from. 

Someone, a woman who never so much as looks up the entire time she’s here, furrows her brow at where you’re rubbing your forehead and tsks. 

“Your glasses!” You turn, embarrassed, downright mortified, and sheepishly slide your fingers across the bar until you find them. 

“Oh, right. Thanks Laurie.” Laurie, says nothing. Not until you’ve turned away and almost disappeared into the bathroom. Then, she mutters to herself, into her fresh pint. 

“Damn girl is blind as bat without those things.” 

He buys Laurie another round before he leaves for the night. An eventual thanks. 

"Can I bum one?"

His neck nearly snaps. Where did you come from? You're timid in the mouth of the alley, lichen washed red brick flanking you on either side, your hands folded together at your navel.

"Little girls allowed to smoke 'round here?" Now your neck snaps.

"I- I'm not a little girl, thank you." It's like you're trying to turn your nose up at him, but he's a giant above, and it's hopeless.

"Sure you're not." He plucks the cigarette from his lips, and then holds it out to you. Your breath hitches, top teeth digging deep, an instigation, invitation. His hand whips forward, too fast for you to realize, gripping your chin, pressing his thumb into the flesh of your bottom lip. "Want a drag or not?"

"S-sure." He's got your cheeks squeezed together, just so, enough that the fat of them crowds your mouth and makes the s sound more like a whistle.

He doesn't let go as he feeds it to you, stopping just before the filter touches your teeth. "Go ‘head then." You draw, deep, eyes closing as that first hit of nicotine rushes your blood, undoubtedly making you light headed, and his cock thickens with dreams of his fat head pushing between your lips instead of this cigarette, dreams of you split open on him with a soaked pussy, neck bared for his teeth.

Hook. String. Pull.

He squeezes himself overtop his jeans, heavy weight pulsing between his legs, a dangerous affliction growing larger and larger with each second. He could rock against his palm, right here in front of you, and it would feel worlds better than the last measly meal he had, months and months ago. Nothing will compare to you, he already knows.

You see it all. Frozen like a deer in headlights, your lips part, transfixed, confused. Will you run? Will you shout? Will you tell?

"I uh, I better... get going. Have a lot of work t-to finish." Good girl. He nods, letting go of his aching cock, slipping the cigarette back in his mouth, searching for even a hint of lavender and sea salt lingering in the filter.

"Goodnight."

Four days left, and his gear is finished.

You leave a message for him, letting him know he can pick up whenever is convenient. During shop hours. Cash or card accepted. What a dutiful business owner.

You’re in the back when he arrives. It’s long past close, but no one locks their doors here. Anyone could walk right in.

“Be right out!” You yell, slightly muffled. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t opt to give himself away, just waits at the front desk, where a mug of fresh coffee sits, still hot, still steaming.

Desperation for claim, for possession, claws up his throat to his tongue, thrashing in a fit until saliva pools in his cheeks. He sucks through his teeth, rolling the pockets behind his molars forward, pulling as much as he can, his soul even, up and out, landing it in a glob on the surface of your evening caffeine fix.

It sits there, tiny bubbles and all, an island in endless ocean, unable to break apart or disappear. Blatant. Obvious.

So, he sticks his finger in it and gives a quick swirl. For good measure.

There’s rustling in the back, and then you pop through the doors, glasses sliding to your nose. “Hi! So sor-“

You grind to a halt, spine curling forward, as if you’re trying to protect your precious organs from his fingers, avoiding his grip around your ribs, his urge to rip you open and devour you whole.

He smirks. “Got a message my gear is done? Nick o’ time.”

“Yeah, it’s… it’s done. I’ve got it, one sec.” You fidget, gun shy and shuddering, flitting away on the turn of a heel, eager to escape where he hulks in front of your desk, no doubt.

When you come back, you’re a bit more put together. Polished. Glasses in their rightful place, you place his bib and jacket on the counter unceremoniously, lips pressed together. He hands you a wad of cash, and you count it carefully, keeping your eyes pinned on the bills as he inspects the stitching, taking stock in your sharp attention to detail. “Like new, great work. Thank you.”

You go doe eyed, demure, flattered, and then confused, trying to reconcile this man, this version with the one from last night. “T-thank you.”

It all comes to a head, two days out.

There’s a party of sorts, a gathering. Entire boat of deckhands crammed into The Wharf, plus others, town residents and even some from the next over.

Too many, for Simon’s tastes.

Too many, except for one.

You’re crammed between the wall and someone’s shoulder, occasionally saying hello, accepting thanks for work well done. You keep your idle hands busy, accepting drink after drink, a shot of tequila, another of rum.

You’re even dressed up, cute as a button. Sweet as cream, honey on the hive.

Your hiccups ring out from across the room directly to his ears, chest shaking with each one. The bar is at max volume, shouting, cheering, chattering, but he can hear you crystal clear. Can hear the high pitch echo of each one, can hear your throat bobbing, the long exhale singing from your nose after trying to hold your breath. “I need some air,” you say to your neighbor, “be right back.”

He downs the last of his bourbon, subtle fire in his throat, and then makes for the back door.

Your arms are crossed, leaning against the brick with your head tipped back, eyes closed. Wearing a knit sweater, a skirt, and wool leggings, for fucks sake. “Dangerous place to be, a little girl all alone.” Your eyes snap wide, startled.

“Simon,” you don’t stutter his name, liquor easing your nerves, sweetening you up to a slaughter like the little lamb you are. Your ability to assess risk is long gone, and when you peek over at him, head rolling, the usual skittish haunt of your gaze is nowhere to be found.

“Out for a smoke?”

“No, just some fresh air.”

“Poor lamb. Drink too much?” You shrug, steadying your balance against the wall. Trying to appear more with it than he knows you are.

He stalks closer, closer than you should be comfortable with, but you only sigh, wilted as the grass withered by the impending winter.

He tests. Probes. Brushes a hand against yours, watches how you tip a little to the side, his side, eyes glassy between hard blinks. “You’re so sweet, little lamb.”

“Oh,” you make an o with your lips when you say it, like you’re suprised. “T-thank you.”

“Do you taste sweet, you think?” You jolt, but he handles your hip like he’s afraid you’ll fall, though you have a better grasp on your balance than you think you do. “Hmm?”

“I’m… I’m not sure.” It’s a race now, one you’re desperate to catch up in, but falling behind faster and faster.

Hook. String. Pull.

“Open your mouth.” You do, on instinct, and he hums with approval. “Good girl.” He sticks his thumb inside, depressing your tongue, shoving back and to the side, hard enough he stretches the corner of your lip, and then tugs.

Hooked.

You’re too drunk to process it, not really. Enflamed with a rollercoaster of shock, shame and disgust. But beneath it all, something else rises, breaks at the surface for air. Desire.

He doesn’t waste the moment, hands splayed at your ribcage, shoving you back against the wall, your shoulders slamming into it. He’s on you, rabid, wolf at the throat of a lamb, tongue forcing its way between your teeth without permission. You jerk, tense, muscles shifting like you might put your arms up, but instead they fall limply to your sides, and you moan.

String.

The length of his torso, chest and stomach press against you, hold you in place, allowing him free rein to wrap his fingers into the fine fabric of your wool stockings and rip. The shocked little gasp falls from you as expected, but you’re too far gone to fight. Prize on the line, he tugs them aside and strokes over your folds, already wet for him, dipping into your cunt, tight and fluttering around his invasion.

“Si- Simon- stop.” You push at him shoulders, trying and failing, squirming and whining. He shoves deeper, one nearly too much, two an impossible fit.

“Why would I stop when you’re so wet f’me little girl?” He presses the swell of his cock against you, your walls clenching at the contact, and he chuckles darkly. “Gonna say you don’t want this, sweet lamb? Gonna lie when this little pussy is dripping all over my hand?” You’re scandalized. Ripped from your comfort and thrown ashore, a fish out of water, gasping on land. He breathes into your neck, biting and sucking his way back up to your mouth where he distracts you for a brief moment, long enough to tip your balance to the side, a stutter step disrupting your focus, and delivers an opportune strike to snatch your glasses off your face so fast you flinch backwards in the confusion. He manages to cup your head just in time and cushion its bounce against the brick.

Pull.

“My glasses.” Your voice trembles, and he’s surprised to feel a twinge of guilt. Don’t worry little one. He’ll pull you apart, but he’ll put you back together. Eventually. “Simon… my- my glasses, do you see my glasses?”

“No, sorry. It’s too dark, sweet thing.” You tear up, horrified, and they spill down your cheeks, fat and wet, leaving tracks all the way to your neck.

He licks them with glee.

“I need to-“ he pays you no mind, returning to his work, his meal, shoving your knee to the side and lifting you up the wall, until the smear of you cunt weeps all over his jeans. “I need-“

“Know what you need, little girl.” He shreds your leggings wider, tearing a hole big enough to expose your thighs, your lower belly. Later, when he has you pinned to his bed, he’ll eat you until you can’t speak or see, but for now, bludgeoning the entirety of his cock into this too tight space will have to do.

You hiccup again. It’s too sweet, rots his soul. He wonders if you’ll be here, when he gets back. If you’ll run, or if you’ll wait. Maybe he’ll give you something to remember him by, knock you up, nice and fat by summer, heavy with a piece of him. Maybe.

He slides his zipper now, pulling the weight of his cock free, sliding the head through your slit as you look down. You can’t see, how big, how thick, how impossible it looks, head trying to push into you, your body unyielding, spasming as he batters his way inside. You claw at his shoulders, spitting out a half moan, a half sob, and he taps his forehead to yours. “It’s too m-much, too- hurts-“

“Don’t fight it. You’ve got plenty of room, be good.” He soothes with a lie, probably. You’re so tight he can feel you in his bones, restricting, bearing down. He pushes, heat and slick closing in around him, making him dizzy, his pulse pounding in his ears. “Fuck- that’s it. Feel that?” He drags your hand to the root of his cock, splaying your fingers around the base. “Feel yourself splittin’ open on me?” You moan some nonsense, some sort of garbage mixed with a yes, and a no. “Perfect little pussy, stretchin’ for me, yeah?” Only for me.

He fucks you so hard you’re shoving higher and higher up the wall, cunt choking him with each thrust, your fingers twisted in his sweatshirt, clinging on for dear life, a sailor in a storm. Lost in the fuzzy, blurry world without your glasses, he gives you a port in the dark, a lighthouse calling you home. He spreads you wide, rolling over your clit, pinching, thumbing, finding the rhythm that makes your buzz, hips starting to jerk, swallow him up.

Unbelievably, you tighten up even more, eyes slamming shut, and he holds you steady at your hips, driving deep, mouth on your ear. “Gonna be good and cum? Gonna show daddy how good you can be and cum all over his cock?” You gasp, and he drags you to it, pushes you over, rolls your shoulders back against the brick when you curl forward, pussy so tight it tries to force him out. You scream with it, but he covers your mouth, palm to your tongue, elbow at your collarbone. He’s relentless now, shoving himself until there isn’t a space inside you not filled with him, as fast as possible, body like a ragdoll. When he’s on the edge, teetering so close, he pinches your cheeks. “Open up, little lamb.” Your brow furrows, but partially blind, you’re more trusting, and you do as you’re asked. His hips piston, a rough saw, chasing, sprinting towards the end, heat climbing down his spine and across every muscle until he’s shoved so deep inside you he thinks he’s in your belly, and rears back, sucking a glob of spit to his lips and launching it into your mouth, just as he floods your pussy with cum. He jerks inside you, slow strokes, and you hang limply against him, fucked out, still drunk, docile as a lamb.

You hiss when he pulls free and lurch forward against his chest, not able to stand on your own. “C’mon, let’s get you a bath.” He murmurs into your hair, and you protest weakly.

“My glasses.”

“I’ll find ‘em.” He vows, patting their safe spot in his front pocket. “Don’t worry.”

[joneevarts]

My interpretation of Poseidon from Epic: the musical :D

This took me 3 whole weeks help

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

Something self-indulgent and fun for @heart809!

Pre-Handers

Tags: trans Hawke, pro-trans Anders, drug use

==

Hawke exhales a long plume of smoke, the elfroot perfuming the air.

"How familiar are you with transgender people, Anders?" he asks.

It's cool. He's cool. He's not anxious about his potential response, oh no.

They're smoking on the big second-floor balcony of the Amell estate. It's a beautiful spot overlooking the vast garden his mother takes pride in, from where they're able to see the far-off sea. They lounge on chaises pulled from inside the sunroom behind them and take in the brilliant sun above, dressed down to base undershirts.

Anders hums thoughtfully and takes the pipe from Hawke, lighting it with a little ball of flame off his finger. "There were some at the Circle who would come to the clinic when I was working. I knew a couple as a Warden. Amell is a trans man, after all."

Hawke knows this, one of the few things he knows about his Warden cousin. His life had become subject to scrutiny the minute he killed the Archdemon, after all; his gender was just another fact hotly discussed in the Fereldan media once he took up the title of Warden Commander and unofficial male-mistress (is there a word for that? Hawke wonders) to the King. Man, he needs to actually get in touch with him, get to know him. Hawke puts that on his mental to-do list.

"How, uh. How familiar?"

"Hm? Hawke, I'm not--I'm not giving you details about his life, that'd be rude."

"I'm not asking for details, you git." Hawke takes the pipe back and puffs heavily. He's not sure how to ask him what he wants. The elfroot is making it easier, though, making him a little more brave, a little less self-conscious. "How...how would you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Surgery. Or something."

"Hawke." He gets into their field of vision. He's beautiful, a fact of life. Hawke wants to shrink away from those inquisitive eyes, but he holds his ground. "What are you telling me?"

When he doesn't answer, Anders reaches for his hand and gently pulls the pipe away. "You can tell me," he says. "I won't judge."

"I..." In for a copper, in for a sovereign. Hawke points to himself, waving his hand down his body. "I'm, well, trans," he says, voice a little wobbly with the admission. "Surprise."

Anders just looks at him. "Oh. Okay," he says simply. "So you weren't talking about an eating disorder or something when you said you hated your body the other day?"

"An--really, that's what you got from that?" Hawke frowns, then shakes his head. Don't get distracted. "No. But..."

When he doesn't go on, Anders shifts to get into his line of sight. "But what? Thankfully, I'm just grateful it's not something worse you were about to tell me. Those fuckers are hard to treat, believe me. I'd been up all night about it, worried."

Hawke grunts. It's both too easy and too hard to talk to Anders on occasion. Something about their fledgling....something they've got developing gets in the way, sometimes. Sometimes the words just don't want to come out right. Like now, for instance.

"It doesn't bother you?" he asks instead, trying to get his thoughts in order.

Anders sits back and takes a drag off the pipe, blowing a lopsided smoke ring that drifts weightlessly into the clouds above them. "Of course not. Now I just feel like an ass for misgendering you for so long."

"Eh, don't worry about it. Not everyone knows."

"That's a shame. Thank you for telling me." He hands the pipe back to Hawke. "Can I ask how many of us do know?"

Hawke smiles. "Carver, of course. He was the first person I told. Took it really well, actually. Mom. Merrill. You."

"It's an honor."

"Don't go getting weird about it," Hawke says with a laugh. Maker, he doesn't know why he was so nervous. Now that Anders knows, it's like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Of course Anders would take it well.

"I'm just saying! It's important to me that you feel comfortable enough with me to share that. I just appreciate it, that's all." He pauses. "I just want to be a part of your life, and this--this feels like I am. So thank you for telling me."

"Yeah, well," Hawke says, getting a little wibbly. "Yeah. So...there's that." He takes another puff.

The elfroot has him delightfully high, blurry around the edges. When he passes the pipe back their hands brush, and he gets a little giddy at the touch. It's a gradual warmth that's grown in his chest, and by Andraste's shroud it's been too long since they've been able to do this, to have down-time enough to chill and relax and smoke the day away. Justice must let Anders enjoy it, because when Hawke looks Anders is leaning back against his chaise, eyes closed and face to the sky, catching the afternoon sun.

Anders always looks good in the sun.

But he digresses.

"Have you ever, uh..."

"...Worked with trans people?" Anders asks when he trails off, cracking open whisky-warm eyes and peeking at him sidelong.

"Yeah."

Anders hums. "Some," he says. "There were a handful of mages who came to the Circle clinic over the years I worked there. Some like you and Amell, some trans women. It was hard, getting them affirming care." He snorts and shakes his head. "Irving was able to convince Greagoir to let us help them, but it took some doing, apparently."

"This Greagoir fellow sounds like a right dick."

"Oh, he was," Anders agrees immediately. His eyes close again for a moment, and he sighs. "A huge prick. The worst. Except Meredith, of course. I can't imagine anyone worse than her."

Hawke tentatively reaches over for his hand. Anders is warm beneath his fingers. It's wonderful. "I'm glad you got out," he says seriously.

"Mm. Only took me seven tries."

"Well, I'm glad it stuck eventually."

Anders smiles. "Me too. But enough about me. You're trans, and you're asking about my experience." He considers the conversation; Hawke can see the dots connecting in his mind. "And I'm a surgeon."

"You're a surgeon. Have you ever...?"

"A couple times. Mostly watching on some others. I'll admit--" He pauses. "Yes, thank you, Justice." To Hawke, he says, "He wants you to know he has faith in my abilities. Apparently I'm 'great at what I do.'"

Hawke has to laugh. "So modest, too. Hi, Justice."

A flash of blue lights Anders' eyes. "Hello, Hawke," the spirit says. Anders shakes their head. "Anyway," he says pointedly, rolling his eyes before looking at Hawke again, "I'll admit, I'm not the most well-versed in that kind of care, but I'm sure I can research."

"Maybe you and Merrill could confer...?"

Anders grimaces minutely at the implication. "Well. Maybe she has a...unique perspective on the subject. At any rate, perhaps she and her clan have experience in this kind of healing. Surely she would know, being First and all."

Hawke nods. "Thank you, Anders," he murmurs.

"It's literally the least I can do, Hawke." Anders takes a puff and coughs it out, face mottling red. "Maker, that was harsh. I think we need to reload."

Hawke grins as Anders reaches for the leather pouch between them. He doesn't know why he was so nervous. If anyone would understand, it would surely be Anders. He watches as Anders tips the ash out of the pipe before packing it anew with dried herbs. Anders passes it back to him, and he takes it gladly, their fingers brushing again. This time, Hawke looks up to find Anders looking back, blushing.

Anders clears his throat. "This, ah. This should be good now."

Hawke takes the pipe and grabs for Anders' hand once more, braver now. He squeezes. "Thanks, Anders," he says again.

Anders blushes harder, if it's possible, and looks down to their hands. He flips his over so they can interlace their fingers. They fit together so easily it makes Hawke's heart race. "Can I ask you a personal question?" he asks softly.

"Anything. You now know one of the most intimate parts of me, so..."

He opens his mouth, pauses, closes it, opens it again, before finally asking, "Do you have a new name picked out yet?"

Hawke gulps down the sudden lump in his throat. "It's... It's Garrett."

"Then, you're welcome, Garrett," Anders says, and it's the most beautiful thing to come out of Anders' mouth.

[sensitiveheartless]

Day 2: Chef Dazai from my Little Mermaid AU!

[chipsy]

I crave a love that drowns oceans.

[misledmiseries]

me: I'm a homebody i like to stay at home!

the home: 

muddles my perception of time

Changes in both size and distance

lulls me into sense of safety and twist it into an oppressive paranoia inducing hellouse-scape

compels me to forget my own autonomous existence 

waters down the outside and/ or exaggerate it to mythical extent 

shrinks front door perron when i ascend, jarringly draws it out when i descend.

all its windows views are other walls of itself

the backyard fence looms in every horizon

bitter to abandonment of what belongs under its roof, including me when i go out to buy some good ol orange fanta

 doesn’t look for me under its roof, it always knows where I'm.

when it sleeps doors never open, i don’t know it’s sleeping schedule

whatever happens silently around the corners is real, my apprehension is valid and understandable, and indeed i should panic. 

[seraphinesaintclair]

“I Ask the Sea” by Seraphine Saintclair

[thoughtkick]

My personality is who I am. My attitude depends on who you are.

Frank Ocean