Chapter Text
“He'll wrap you in his arms, tell you that you've been a good boy.
He'll rekindle all the dreams it took you a lifetime to destroy.
He'll reach deep into the hole, heal your shrinking soul,
But there won’t be a single thing that you can do.
He's a god, he's a man,
he's a ghost, he's a guru.
They're whispering his name through this disappearing land,
But hidden in his coat is a red right hand.”
—Red Right Hand, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
**
“Just,” Anders gasped, palms gliding slickly over tense shoulders. “Just, just a minute more. I just—”
He was drenched in sweat. A bead of it rolled down his brow and across the bridge of his nose. His muscles ached, and the hot thrum of arousal was almost loud enough to drown out the roar of protest knocking about his skull.
He just. Needed. A little. More. And then he’d be able to push past the flare of blue-white noise in his head and, Maker take him, come. All he wanted was to come.
“I, fuck, I just.” He felt the high whine in the back of his throat, trapped there as clever fingers wrapped around his cock and squeezed. The touch made him buck forward with a shout. His legs shook, dangerously close to giving out as Anders thrust into the tight grip. His fingers snarled in silky hair. A scalding hot breath gusting over his hipbone made him keen.
“That’s it,” the elf murmured, tongue darting out to slick up the underside of Anders’ cock, pausing to swirl elaborate patterns against the head. He teased the tip of his tongue into the slit, grip shifting to expertly change the rhythm of his strokes. It was, bar none, the best, most perfect blowjob of Anders’ life. And it was a fight to the death just to enjoy it. “Let go, honey. I’ve got you.”
Anders closed his eyes, biting down on his lower lip as he bucked toward that incredible mouth, straining for the edge. “Now, please, I need— Hurry,” he gasped, strung so impossibly tight he thought he may snap in two. He needed this so badly it was a physical ache. His hand wasn’t enough to send him over the falls. An indiscreet hookup in a tavern wasn’t enough. This, this very skilled, very expensive mouth was his last chance.
And he could already tell it wasn’t going to be enough.
“Maker take you,” Anders moaned, rocking forward. The elf hummed in approval, throat going liquid-smooth around him as Anders thrust deeper. He was surrounded base to tip in slick heat, graceful fingers sliding around to cup his ass, and all he could see behind his lids was incandescent light and the tangible sense of affronted dignity as Justice trembled in annoyance—then pushed.
It wasn’t like being possessed—Anders was still aware of himself, from his sweat-slicked brow to his rapidly softening cock—but it was close. It was too Maker-damned close, and there was no way he’d be able to fight past the sensation of the spirit washing through his limbs to find his desperately needed orgasm.
Justice, it turned out, was a void-taken prude.
“I’m never going to come again,” Anders said with a weak gasp as Jethann pulled back. He blinked open his eyes, half afraid to find cracks along his skin—but no, it was still wholly his body. He just wasn’t allowed to be in full control of it.
The expensive prostitute just smiled softly as he let Anders’ cock slip from his mouth. He gave the base a friendly squeeze, then stood, palms sliding over tight muscles as he pressed close. “It’s nothing, sweet thing,” he murmured, kissing Anders’ chin. “It happens to a great number of—”
Anders made a strangled noise that was half laugh, half moan, and gently pulled away. “I, yes, well. Thank you for that,” he said. He dragged his fingers through his messy blond hair. He was trembling all over, Justice hovering heavy in the front of his mind like a disapproving chaperone. He was waiting, Anders thought grimly, to make sure his host didn’t start up any of that rutting nonsense again.
A man can die of blue balls, you know, he thought, tying back his hair with shaking hands. I’m sure I read that somewhere.
The spirit did not deign to answer.
“We’ll try again,” the elf offered, moving to sprawl across the bed in a blatantly welcoming manner. He was hard—at least Anders had been able to do that for him—and lean and hairless and beautiful. If anything was going to be able to push through Justice’s resistance and let him dear Maker finally orgasm, it would have been him. “Once you’ve had a chance to rest and regroup. It isn’t the end of the world, you know.”
Anders grabbed his shabby robes and shook them out. A few stray feathers drifted dejectedly to the floor. “It may not be the end of the world,” he said, beginning to dress. “But I’m pretty sure it’s the end of Anders the playboy. I’m sorry this was so, ah. Well, you understand. I could take care of you, if you wanted?”
He glanced up, trying not to wince against the sudden warning flare of pain at his temples. Anders set his teeth and sent a healing thread toward the sharp throb, soothing the headache.
Jethann lounged amongst the pillows and studied his nails. “That isn’t necessary.”
Of course, Anders thought. Because why in the void would he want your hands on him? You haven’t exactly shown yourself in a very good light. Maker, what he must think of me. “No, of course,” he said. He fumbled for the coinpurse at his waist, fighting a mortified blush.
“Oh, you don’t need to do that.”
This, he was fairly sure, was what it felt like to die from shame. He couldn’t bring himself to look up to see the pity in the whore’s eyes. “No. That is, I should pay for your, ah, services.”
“Mm, but there wasn’t much servicing done. It was only the work of a moment.” Anders manfully hid a wince. “Besides, you look like you could use the coin more than me.”
“Just— Just take it, all right?” He set the coins on the bedside table, not letting himself glance over at the pale, naked limbs spread invitingly over the bedsheets. He still wanted Jethann. His body was stirring again, blood thrumming through him, cock beginning to twitch and harden and— And this was just a useless tease. Justice wasn’t going to let him do anything about his excitement. Even when he dragged himself back to his little cot in the clinic and tried very hard not to think of what a crushingly mortifying day this had been, tried very hard to not think about the elf kneeling in front of him all eager moans and talented mouth and no discernible gag reflex, Justice wouldn’t let him do anything.
If he’d known taking his friend into his mind would mean never finding any sort of release ever again, he would probably have run screaming into the night.
“Right,” Anders said, rubbing his palms against his thighs, trying to turn his mind away from the prickle of desire and despair coiling about the base of his spine. “I’ll, ah, probably not be seeing you around.”
“Take care of yourself, sweet thing,” the elf purred.
Anders practically fled from the room, purse a good deal lighter and heart as heavy as he could remember it ever being. He kept his head ducked as he rushed down the steps and crossed the main floor. The Blooming Rose was beginning to pick up as the evening wore on, prostitutes moving amongst tables or sitting on potential clients’ laps. Someone was playing the lute, her sultry voice winding through the air. A soft, breathy laugh echoed from somewhere toward his left.
It seemed surreal that this was exactly the sort of place he used to flee to, back when he was young and stupid and alone inside his head. Now he felt old and haunted as he hurried his pace, wanting to put as much distance between him and the hollow mockery of things that really aren’t ever going to happen, sod it all, as quickly as possible.
I’m not dead, he thought, clenching his fists. The heavy weight of Justice entangled in his thoughts never felt like so much of an imposition as it did now. I’m not a shell. You can’t treat me as if I shouldn’t have a say in my own life.
On his way out the main door, Anders knocked shoulders with someone just slipping inside. “Watch yourself,” he snarled, in no mood to be friendly. He took one step…then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry,” he added in a gentler voice, turning to look at the young woman he’d nearly bowled over. She was pretty—very pretty—with soft round cheeks and warm eyes and dark hair that fell in waves about her face. She had a full mouth that was just now curving out of its frown, and a gorgeous pair of—
Anders pulled his gaze up.
“I beg your pardon, Serah,” he said formally, aware of the thrum of lust that hadn’t gotten a chance to be slackened. She’d caught him looking, of course, but luckily for him, the girl didn’t seem angry about it. That was one blessing for this sorry mess of a day. “I was not looking where I was going. Though how anyone could miss you, I couldn’t say,” Anders added with the ghost of his old flirtatious smile. It never hurt to be chivalrous.
When she smiled, she was even prettier than before. Beautiful, he’d venture, when she’d had time to grow into it. “Oh, that’s all right,” the girl said, and her accent made him think sharply, longingly of Ferelden. “Going into the Rose on a daring adventure, you rather expect being knocked about a bit. It’ll add something to the telling, at least.”
Anders knew he should have murmured some polite response and kept going—headed back to the clinic and gotten a few hours of work in—but something about the girl had caught his interest. Maybe it was the Ferelden accent. Maybe it was the cheerful, almost coy curve of her mouth. Maybe, he thought darkly, I’m just getting that void-taken lonely and pathetic.
Whatever it was, he turned toward her, inching subtly into the orbit of her obvious charm. “You’re on an…adventure?” he wondered. “Here?”
The girl’s lips twitched. “As close as I’m likely to get with Big Brother calling all the shots. He’s off somewhere looting corpses or fighting to the death or exploring cursed caves on the coast. I,” she pressed a delicate hand over her impressive cleavage, “have been given the grand and dangerous task of tracking down my useless uncle.”
“Difficult work, tracking useless uncles,” Anders offered. “One never knows what dangers one may face or what villains one may bump into on the way through the door.”
“Oh, I like you.” She put her hands on her hips and looked him up and down. “Hm. I think I’d like you more if you joined me on my quest, Serah—and perhaps helped me charm drinks from the Madame? I’ve never actually been inside a real whorehouse. Not on my own. I plan on enjoying it!”
Well. This strange girl was a kindred spirit if Anders had ever met one. He slowly began to smile, mood lifting. “I shouldn’t,” he said.
She cocked her head. “Usually I let that stop me too. But not today. Today I’ve decided I’m going to do everything I shouldn’t. Enjoy a brothel, meet a dashing stranger, actually live a little without having to watch everything I say or do.”
Maker, that sounded familiar. “Is your brother truly that strict?” Anders wondered.
“You have no idea.”
He considered her for a minute longer, hesitating between her and the still-open doorway. Out there, he knew exactly what was waiting for him. Darktown. The clinic. A cramped hand from hours spent writing about the mage freedom he still didn’t know how to bring about. A lonely cot.
Here, there was…the promise of something else. The promise of a brighter time, if only for a little while.
And well, why not? Jethann was unlikely to come downstairs, and spending time with a charming stranger was better than going back to brood in his clinic. He ignored Justice’s grumble that they were wasting time and offered her his arm, letting the door swing shut. “It would be an honor to accompany you on so grand and dangerous a voyage, Mistress…?”
He let the word hang there.
“Oh,” the girl said, waving a hand airily even as she took his elbow…and pressed closer than expected, the tempting swell of her breast against his arm. “I don’t think names are strictly necessary, do you?”
Forget kindred spirits. If Anders had met this girl years ago, he would have sworn they were soul twins. “You know, I like how you think,” he said.
Somehow, with the Ferelden on his arm, Anders wasn’t embarrassed to go back into the Rose. They moved into the main room side-by-side, and he couldn’t help but find himself charmed by the way her eyes darted about eagerly. He remembered what it was like to be sheltered and unfamiliar with the larger world—though of course, in his case, it had been entirely against his will. And Maker, but it felt good to be close to such a pretty girl, to have her smiles and attention as if he were an ordinary man. Justice rumbled warningly, but Anders shoved the dull prickling in his mind aside.
Hush, he thought, I’m adventuring.
As it turned out, the girl’s uncle wasn’t at the Rose. Even more surprising, it didn’t take much wheedling to get two glasses and a free bottle of good wine. “Here you go, little Hawke,” the serving girl said, flashing both of them a generous swell of bared breast as she set the tray between them. “On the house. Say hello to your brother now, won’t you?” She flashed a quick grin, twining a long strand of fire-red hair between her fingers. “And tell him— Bother, I can never think of anything good. Come up with something you think he’d like and tell him that for me, would you?”
“Little Hawke?” Anders mused when the girl sashayed away.
The girl—Little Hawke—blushed and reached out to snag the wine, pouring them each a generous glassful. “So much for anonymity,” she said dryly. “But I won’t tell you my first name, so don’t bother asking.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” Anders promised. He reached for his glass and took a sip, hiding his wince at the sudden flare of pressure in his skull. It really was his luck to have fallen in with a teetotalling, anti-sex, completely straight-laced spirit. “So. Your brother?”
She reached out and put a hand over his. “I’m about to make a move on a complete stranger in a brothel,” Little Hawke said. “Believe me when I tell you that I really don’t want to talk about Garrett right now.”
“Well,” he said. Anders blinked at her owlishly, feeling himself pink around the edges. “That is unexpectedly blunt.”
The girl shrugged a shoulder and took a deep swallow of her wine. He could see the way color crept up her cheeks. Her dark eyes dipped, lashes flickering. Anders could almost swear he heard her pulse hammering in her throat, delicate and rapid as a bird’s wing. She was young, he mused, forcing past Justice’s objections to take another swallow of wine. Too young for him (and Maker take it, he hated feeling old, but there it was). Too…soft. Sweet. He could tell she was sweet just from fifteen minutes of conversation.
And as headstrong in her desire to soak in life as he had ever been.
“You’re a lot like I used to be,” Anders said impulsively, feeling that strange connection again. That weird mirror distortion of the boy he’d used to be looking back at him in her pretty, flushed, earnest face. She was gentler than he had ever been, but the wild headlong rush into the void was there. The devil may care straining toward excitement and life and color. He would have propositioned a complete stranger too. He had, actually, many a time. Back before. “When I was, ah.”
Her lips quirked as she set her (mostly empty) glass aside. The flush was still there, but she could meet his eyes again. “Thank you, grandfather,” Little Hawke said, pushing back her chair. She skirted the table to slide into his lap, all rounded limbs and sweet weight and soft skin. She smelled like Lowtown, and dog, and leather, and the wine. But there was something more there, too. Something almost like violets and cream. “Now, if you’re done reminiscing about your wild youth, there’s another quest I’ve decided to accept.”
“Well,” Anders said, one hand carefully bracing her waist. He shoved Justice away as hard as he could, determined to embrace the moment for as long as he could manage. To live in the memory of the person he used to be, if only for a little while. “I do so love quests.”
When he’d started his day, aching from an erotic dream and unable to take himself in hand all the way to completion, he hadn’t expected any of this. A morning spent fuming helplessly against the mess he’d made of his life, an afternoon spent healing and making other lives better, an evening spent desperately rutting with Jethann…and then later, arms full of a sweet, young, urgently headstrong girl, making out in a corner of a brothel. She’d moved to straddle his lap somewhere along the way, thighs gripping his hips. His hands slid up and down the generous curves of her, pulling her against the too-eager strain of his cock as he sucked at her tongue.
She was all awkward desperation and defiance, clearly unskilled. Anders caught her hair in one hand when their teeth clicked together and tilted his head, showing her how to kiss. Showing her how to make it good. Still, despite her lack of finesse, Little Hawke was clearly very eager, and Anders was consumed trying to keep her from wriggling right off his lap and keeping Justice from exploding in a fit of rage…which is why he didn’t notice the shadow being cast over them until it was far, far too late.
“Hawke!” one of the girls cried.
“Maker’s balls, Hawke, not inside!”
Anders lifted his head with a breathless gasp, confused when Little Hawke suddenly jerked back. He reached out to grab for her, but his hands caught empty air. The eager young woman had been bodily lifted off him by a…
Holy fuck that was a monster of a man.
Anders looked up and up and up, eyes going wide. The man—this must be Big Brother, an unhelpful part of him whispered—had Little Hawke by the waist and was carefully setting her aside, out of harm’s way. Which meant Anders was directly in harm’s way, was probably the eye of that whole fucking storm, and he really should be making a break for it immediately.
He scrambled up, both hands lifted in a placating gesture, heart beating a mad staccato in his chest. Big Hawke was massive in a way he’d thought only Qunari could manage—tall and broad in dark armor that had seen better days. There was caked blood on his gauntlets. Longish black hair had been tied back from what looked, in profile, to be a remarkably handsome, if completely terrifying, face.
And then Hawke looked at him with eerily blue eyes and Anders felt all at once like a caged bird frantically beating its wings as it fought to avoid the sweeping claw of a very angry cat.
The huge warrior took a step forward, menacing. “You,” he began in a deep, rich baritone.
Little Hawke threw herself forward, wrapping delicate hands around her brother’s armored arm. “Wait,” she said, “Big Brother, no. You’ll make a scene.”
Hawke swatted her hands away as he grabbed for Anders. Anders ducked back, fumbling out of range and desperately wishing he’d brought his staff along. He was fairly sure he’d be quicker than Big Hawke—that much armor couldn’t have been easy to run in—but a fireball or two would have helped.
Or three. Or twelve dozen. Maker take me. I should never have left the clinic.
And he hated how smugly Justice agreed to that.
“Wait,” Anders tried to say, edging around so he had a clearer shot at the door. “Wait, you don’t understand.”
“I understand enough.”
The hairs on his arms stood up at the growl in the warrior’s voice. There was electricity in it as strong as if the man had been a mage himself. Big Hawke moved forward again, drifts of old blood flaking away to the floor as he flexed his gauntlets, and Anders felt a strange thrill of terror that was almost…erotic in its intensity.
Then Little Hawke was tumbling between them, pressed against the massive warrior’s chest as if she could bodily hold him back. “Wait,” she hissed desperately. “You can’t make a scene here, Garrett—there are Templars here.”
Anders fought the instinct to swing around to look. The girl had twisted up her face to peer up into her brother’s, expression beseeching. She looked so small and delicate in his shadow, like a fledgling pressed against the strong side of a, well…a hawk. Anders watched, heart pounding, as the warrior’s expression slowly began to soften. He dropped his hands to her shoulders and squeezed with an affection that was almost endearing to see, his strong slash of a mouth gentling into a quirking smile.
“Liar,” he said, giving her a small shake. “But I’ll cede your point.”
Then he looked up and Anders felt the full force of those lyrium-bright eyes pinning him in place. “As for you,” Hawke said, voice a low, rumbling growl. “Run.”
Anders turned without question and did as he was told.