Archive of Our Own

Foul and corrupt are you
Who have taken My gift
And turned it against My children.

—Transfigurations 18:10

~*~*~

Red veil and scent of rust. 

Warm and pleasant like a nice bath after a long day. 

Sticky film clinging to the skin. 

Desire itching on the back of his throat. 

“You’re so beautiful,” a breath into his lips.

“You belong to us,” a stab between his shoulder blades. 

The fog is red and black and blue and it’s thick, it’s taking the oxygen from his lungs, 

and Anders is tangled in the web of fire. 

~*~*~

Hawke family estate is just as much of a prison as the Circle Tower. Just as much as Vigil’s Keep was; just as much as Darktown was. With the corridors all the same, with plush carpets paving the way to the rooms Anders doesn’t want to enter, with rogue light from a city guard’s torch painting shadow monsters on the walls. The silence is deafening thought the nights. 

Anders isn’t ungrateful. Maker knows, without Garret he’d be dead already. Or worse. So much worse that Anders chases the thought of Karl’s face away from his vision. Between the Gallows and Hightower, there isn’t even a choice. And there lies the problem. 

Freedom is the right to chose. The right to make his own mistakes and stick to his own paths. Anders haven’t been able to do it since he was twelve. Since the heavy doors closed behind his back, forever locking him in a cycle of being a prisoner or a runaway apostate. Ostentatious life does not stick with him; posh silk sheets itch just as much as the old wool throw he’s used in the clinic. He’s safe - but safety has long seized to be satisfying. 

It keeps him up at nights, keeps him turning around until the silk is all tangled between his limbs and his hair is soaking with sweat. Justice is nagging into his ear. The urgency, the constant vigilance, the itch under his skin that drives him into the library night after night after night. Justice doesn’t need to speak to him; Anders feels it too. Their time’s running out. 

It’s not the first night he stumbles down the dark corridors trying to find his way to the library. It’s not the first night he gets completely lost between the identical walls. Red carpet is a shitty guiding thread - Anders finds himself in dead ends and abandoned rooms more often than finding his actual goal. But part of him is alright with it. Maybe he’s just looking for an excuse all along— 

Silence is deafening at nights; but familiar. Comforting. Usual. Right. Silence is an ally, Anders had long learned how to not disturb it. Tonight it’s not Anders that breaks it. A low moan cuts through the halls, echoes from the walls, drowns into the heavy curtains. Corridors feel hotter somehow. Maker, it startles him. 

There’s a rational explanation for it, of course, Garret’s a fine man - is there a surprise that someone warms his bed at night? Not to Anders surely; he sees the glances this man collects every time he steps into the Rose. 

Another moan follows, a little stiff this time, as if whoever’s mouth produces them is now covered. Anders takes a few steps towards the source. Curiosity killed a cat.. but surely he’s still got a life or two to spare? Anders clings to this distraction, makes it a viable excuse to abandon the work for tonight; lets the siren’s call guide him down the corridor. 

It’s no wonder Garret’s voice carries so far - the door is not shut properly. There’s a gap; candle light dances in a thin line falling on the floor. Anders promises himself just one glance, one little peek - but the moment his eyes land on the couple he’s frozen. Magic or shock, it keeps his feet planted down, his face pressed to the small opening, his eyes wandering over the sight. It’s wrong, he must be wrong, he must be seeing things; but the vision doesn’t disappear; the demons don’t jump up at him to pull on his desires; this isn’t Fade, this isn’t a dream, this is real. 

Garret Hawke is the most beautiful sight in the entire universe. With his hair a tangled mess and his beautiful eyes half-lidded, fogged with the haze of last. With his knuckles white with tension, holding onto the poles of his bed. With his body tense, with his eyes watering, with his lips parted, with fingers pushing into his mouth, pressing onto his tongue, muffling whatever sounds are birthed deep in his throat. 

Malcolm’s fingers. 

Malcolm Hawke is the most terrifying sight in the entire universe. With his hair out of a usual ponytail and falling down in heavy locks, framing his tan face. With his eyes icy blue, holding the depth of winter inside them. With his body glistening with sweat in the dim lights. With his fingers inside Garret’s mouth, with his dick buried deep inside his son. 

Are they?.. How are they?.. Why are?.. 

Questions doesn’t have a chance to form fully, replaced by more and more questions, waves of confusion and fear and emotions Anders doesn’t even try to untangle flood his mind. It doesn’t help that Garret’s voice keeps pounding into his ears, it doesn’t help that his moans still carry through the impromptu gag. It doesn’t help that he can hear Malcom’s heavy breathing when he leans down to Garret’s ear, whispers “Doing good, you’re being good,” just loud enough for Anders to hear. 

He shouldn’t be here. 

He shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t be watching this; he shouldn’t be finding out about Hawke’s family fun times - not tonight, not at all. He should move, leave, run, faster, now! But his legs don’t obey. His eyes don’t turn away. He’s charmed, enchanted; he only leans closer. The forbidden sight right in front of him and Anders has always been weak for all things forbidden. 

He can stay here a little, he decides. He can take this sight with him, he can carry this depravity back to his room, to the safety of his own bed, to the warmth of his own hand - and nobody will ever know that Anders was unable to look away. 

He blinks - and when he opens his eyes, winter meets him. 

Ice kingdom behind Malcolm’s eyes - and it’s staring right into Anders’ soul. Their eyes meet, but Anders is too weak to look away. Step back into the darkness, run, his instincts scream at him, you can’t be caught here! With sharp inhale, Anders pushes himself from the door, one-two steps back into the darkness of the hallway, he’s almost away, almost safe, he just has to look away— 

Malcolm doesn’t look away. Logic says he shouldn’t be able to see Anders anymore, but his eyes still easily find Anders’, trap him in place. “Garret,” his voice is low and dark and Anders doesn’t expect anything good coming out of it. He can see from his spot how Malcom presses his fingertips into Garret’s teeth. “Bite,” he commands. 

Not even a second passes before Garret obeys. Not even a second passes before Anders understands. But it’s too late. Red beads on Malcolm’s thumb. He balls his hand into a fist and blood smears on his skin and there are words - words that Anders already doesn’t hear. 

~*~*~

Red veil and a scent of rust. The initial hit is more powerful than a smite. Anders still resists - there’s no way that much blood was enough. There’s no way Justice would let it happen. Malcolm’s strengths is like a weight of the entire universe crushing down onto Anders’ head, pushing him to the ground, crumbling his will. He claws on the red veil, tears holes into it, with his fingers glowing blue he burns the edges of it and carves the path out. But every hole he makes closes on itself, and the edges soon disappear, the veil envelops him fully. Anders screams. The veil sprouts thin strands, red strings slither around his body. The more he tears - the more of them appear, the tighter their hold is; the more he fights the harder Malcolm holds him. And when the last strand wraps around his eyes, fully catching him in the cocoon of strings, Anders’ body goes limb. 

He’s lost this fight. 

Acceptance feels like a warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Anders can’t remember the last time he’s felt so safe and comfortable. Through the fog a voice cuts; a voice of someone he adores, a voice of someone he’ll do everything for. “Come here, Anders, don’t be shy,” the voice orders and Anders obeys happily. 

Door creaks when he pushes it open. The sight in front of him is still the same, but there’s no wrongness to it now. It’s just beautiful. It’s lustful and delicious and Anders aches to be part of their masterpiece. 

“Anders? Where’d you come from?” Garret’s voice sounds surprised. Anders looks at him and smiles and the fog parts slightly at the corners of his vision to frame Garret’s beautiful face. There’s surprise and confusion and in a moment it morphs into understanding when Garret catches the sight of Anders’ empty eyes. “Shit— yeah, okay, fuck—” 

His voice melts into a protesting moan when Malcolm pulls back. Anders’s body moves on it’s own, step, another, and he’s within Hawkes’ reach. 

“You’re gonna be good, right?” Malcolm’s fingers thread through Anders’ hair. There’s still blood on the skin, thin layer smeared over the knuckles and Anders leans into the touch like a cat, starving for attention. “You’re not gonna talk,” Malcolm doesn’t ask - he states. 

Fear clings to Anders’ spine.  Daggers prick at his skin when he looks into Malcolm’s eyes, when he reads into the words unsaid. There will be no fair duel; no mages, templars or gray wardens will save him if he goes against Malcolm Hawke. There will be no salvation. Anders nods. 

“I’m not gonna talk,” he repeats, his breath hits against the inside of Malcolm’s palm. It smells of iron and ink when Anders nuzzles between his fingers, it brings warmth and comfort when his lips brush against the pulse point on Malcolm’s wrist. “Now, go ba—” 

The new order is interrupted before Malcolm can fully formulate it. Garret’s hand presses to the other side of Anders’ face, turns his head, makes Ander meet his eyes. “He stays,” Garret says, his face lights up with a gentle smile. “I want him to stay.” 

Anders has never seen Malcolm say no to his kids. For all that he’s a terrifying force and wicked fighter - he melts when things start concerning his family. This is not an exception. His expression softens; the dark intimidating shadow sheds away. “As you wish,” Malcolm presses a kiss to Garret’s forehead. “You wanted it for a while, haven’t you?” 

Somehow Anders finds himself being pulled on the bed, being pressed into Garret’s broad chest, being rid of clothes and old string holding his hair together. Garret’s fingers tangle between the loose blonde locks. “Wanted it since the day I met you,” a hot breath into Anders’ lips is the only warning he gets before the kiss crushes him to the ground. Garret kisses with the neediness of a man who always gets things his way. His lips set the rhythm, his tongue parts Anders’ lips without any chance of him protesting. Maybe he would’ve - on the back of his head there’s still a nagging feeling of wrongness, of filth, of dirt. This isn’t right and he wants to fight - but his body melts under Garret’s unrestrained demands and his mind can’t keep up with protesting. 

His body obeys. Maker forgive him, he cannot fight the shackles of blood magic. Malcolm’s control is all encompassing, Malcolm doesn’t have to voice his commands. Anders’ hands raise on their own, wrap around Garret’s neck, pull him closer. His lips part, his tongue seeks the traces of Malcolm’s blood on his teeth. His body burns. 

He’s grateful for the hands pulling on the straps of his robe, tearing apart the restraints of fabric and shedding his layers. Garret’s hands or Malcolm’s hands - at that time Anders doesn’t care to guess. He wants it all, every last drop of them, he wants. 

Garret breaks them apart first. His breath is still on Anders’ lips. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers and Anders is lost in his eyes. You’re not the one to talk, he wants to argue. None of the Hawkes has any say - in their sinful depravity they’re the sight to outshine even Andraste. If Anders were a religious person, he’d worship them till the end of time. 

There’s barely enough clothes left on him as is, but Garret pulls back and yanks the robe over Anders’ head. His smirk grows when he finds nothing underneath. “It’s like you knew,” his voice is so self assured, Anders can almost bet Garret believes it himself. 

There’s so much hunger in Garret’s gaze that Anders feels himself like a candy being unwrapped. It’s too easy to lose himself in his playfulness, lean into the kisses and fleeting touches and cling to the normality of it all. But Malcolm doesn’t let him relish in it forever. Doesn’t let him forget exactly how fucked up of a situation he’s in right now. He slides behind Anders’ back, a winter chill against his spine. His lips are nothing like Garret’s. His kiss is not needy - it’s crushing with power. When he turns Anders’ head and steals his breath, Anders falls into the darkest pits of hell. 

His stomach coils in the rising heat. Malcolm’s kiss is slow. Teasing, self-assured, he drags Anders deeper into his web, he makes Anders chase his lips even when Anders wants to stop, even when his mind screams at him that it’s wrong. 

That it’s wrong to be trapped between a father and a son.

That it’s wrong to not care whose hands slide down his chest. 

That it’s wrong to moan into Malcolm’s lips when Garret’s mouth wraps around his shaft and he choke on his dick and his tongue raises fire. 

Malcolm’s kiss is another web. Anders’ body had long betrayed him, without even realizing he tangles his hands in Garret’s hair, he needily jerks deeper into the heat of his mouth, he chases Malcolm’s lips and yields to the pleasure prickling all over his skin. But his mind starts betraying him too. His thoughts fade behind the arousal, his fears melt under the ice-blue gaze. 

“You want us,” Malcolm states into his lips. 

“I want you,” Anders echoes. His voice does not belong to him at all. It’s breathy and weak, it’s full of unsaid need. It’s been so long since he’s lost control like this. If not for the shackles of magic he would have never remembered he’s capable of being like this. 

“How do you want us?” Malcolm’s voice in Anders’ ears is filthier than anything he’s every heard. It’s thick and dark and deceptively sweet, like melted dark chocolate and Anders loses himself into it for a moment. “Anders! Tell me.” The order doesn’t leave a chance to argue, Anders’ lips part on their own. “Both,” he breathes out the plea. “I want you both. I want you both to take me” 

It makes Malcolm’s face bloom in self assured smirk, as if he didn’t know Anders was gonna say it, as if he didn’t make him say that. Garret perks up, drawing a disappointed protest from Anders’ lips. “That’ll take a while,” he cups Anders’ cheek gently. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes. Yes, I’m sure,” Anders whispers. His world may collapse - but he’s got no chance to fight it. 

~*~*~

Hawkes are the death of him. 

Anders knows it when his throat is sore from screaming their names; he knows it when his skin prickles with kisses and heat. He knows when Malcolm’s fingers leave round bruises around his shoulders. 

They share him with experienced confidence. When Malcolm holds him, Garret takes the charge. His tongue, Maker, his tongue. If Anders didn’t know better, he’d think that Garret inherited Malcolm’s magic. If Anders had any ability to think at that moment, maybe he would have ran from them long ago. But Garret’s tongue takes control of his body faster than any blood magic would. Traitorous bag of flesh, Anders melts into the hands that hold him still, keep him from thrusting back. 

“If only you could see yourself,” Malcolm’s voice floods his mind, dark silk around Anders’ thoughts. “Sinful and dirty. And so damn easy.” Because of your magic, Anders wants to protest. But the only thing that comes out of his throat is another moan, unrestrained and loud. It’s pathetic to keep denying it at this point - he wants it. Just as much as they do, just as much as he wills his mind to not succumb - he knows deep down he’s already given up. 

Through the way his hips stutter when Garret leaves a long lick across his hole; through the way his eyes search for Malcolm's - and through the way the world collapses into the icy void that he finds. Through the way his parted lips search for the contact, for anything to stop the sinful sounds from coming out. Malcolm steals the kiss from him with a groan - the hunger in Anders is matched in them both. 

Garret’s finger is a surprise that draws a long dragged whine through the kiss. His fingers are rough; toughened from years of holding the hilt of his daggers. And Anders is sensitive, so sensitive - he can feel the slightest bumps of knuckles and callouses when Garret spreads him open. 

“I wanna break you,” he whispers into the small of Anders’ back. Malcolm pulls back just enough to leave Anders with no chance of stopping his sounds. “We’re *gonna* break you,” Malcolm adds, his eyes piercing shards of ice at Anders’ skin. 

“You’ve— already— “ 

Garret chuckles into his skin. “We haven’t even started, handsome.” And it’s a promise Anders wants to hold onto. 

They take it agonizingly slow. Until Anders is a mess, until all he can do is scream for more and rush his hips to meet Garret’s fingers - Garret teases him mercilessly. It’s been minutes, hours, days; it’s been an eternity and a half; it’s been just a single heartbeat. Anders is stuck in the limbo of sparkling pleasure, chasing every moment of it. Thrusting back on Garret’s fingers - he doesn’t know how many anymore, he only knows it’s not enough - and grinding against Malcolm’s thigh and his body is traitorous, his body is evil because they know when he’s close and they stop. 

And Malcolm pushes his hips down and holds him still. And Garret’s fingers stop. And someone says “Not yet, Anders, you wanna be good for us, don’t you,” and he whimpers a weak “yes”. 

“Louder.” 

That’s Malcolm’s voice. The command. And Anders can’t disobey a command from a blood mage. 

“Yes!” he screams. “I will be good, I will, just please— please-please-more— move, please, Maker, I need you—” 

He’s lifted up before he can finish the sentence. His Hawkes exchange some words and Anders finds himself pushed against Garret’s chest, straddling his laps. 

“You’re good, handsome, you’re so good,” Garret whispers against his lips. Anders feels so open, so empty without him and he whispers it back. Through closed eyes he can only trust his feelings. His feeling of Garret’s hands spreading him open, his feeling of Malcolm guiding him down. His feeling of the world concentrating in one bundle of nerves on his body when Malcolm lowers him on Garret’s dick. 

“More—” he moans, pushing his hips down, sinking deeper, needing - demanding - more-more-MORE from them. 

It almost doesn’t hurt when Malcolm’s fingers slide inside along with Garret’s dick. Healing magic? Anders is in no mind to feel it even if that’s the case. He takes it, takes it all. The control is long lost; Garret holds his hips still and rocks so slowly, matching to the rhythm his father sets. 

It’s heaven and hell and it’s the way Anders will die, he’s sure of it. 

“So good for us, Anders, so handsome,” Garret’s lips find his in a messy wet kiss, interrupted by moans and heavy breaths. 

“The filthiest whore in town and all for us,” Malcolm’s voice is solid, barely a shake to it, barely any heaviness. He’s a force pressing into Anders’ back, trapping him solid between the heat and flame. 

“More,” Anders sinks his nails into Garret’s shoulders, seeking any solid ground to hold onto. “More. Both— both of you, now” 

“Demanding little whore.” Anders doesn’t get a warning when Malcolm presses his dick inside. The pain burns from his core to his fingertips, the fire shoots through his spine. “If you still can talk, you can take it” 

He can take it. He can take it all, he can take them both. In any way they want him, in any way he wants them. Lines blur, where’s magic and where is Anders’ own desire, he doesn’t know. But he takes it, he wants it, he’s their’s. 

They move, they move, Maker, they move. They split him apart, spread him open; they move in a practiced rhythm to shatter him in pieces. They’re fast and so strong and so much; he’s filled with them, every last inch of him is theirs. And more, he needs more, he moves his hips too, to meet them, to steal them, to claim everything they are for himself too. 

Electricity shoots through his spine, sparks drop from Malcolm’s fingertips. He runs them down, counts every bump under Anders’ skin, shoots a jolt through them all. “You belong to us,” Malcolm groans into his ear. “Only us.” 

And Anders screams. 

He cums between their bodies, but the shaking of his body isn’t enough for the Hawkes to stop. His hoarse screams aren’t enough for them to slow down. He’s theirs, all theirs - and they take what belongs to them. A lifeless doll, a lump body, a wet and sticky mess of a healer - they take him all; to the last drop, to the last heartbeat; they milk the life out of him. Red strings set aflame and fog covers the entire world except for Garret’s face, except for Malcolm’s voice, except for their bodies joined together. Anders’ voice shakes the walls around them and the world crumbles. Into the darkness, into the fire, into the icy blue eyes where Anders drowns drowns drowns 

~*~*~

Morning comes with ache through every cell of his body. With soreness in his throat the worst he’s ever had; with limbs tangled; with sheets too cold and Malcolm’s body too hot and Garret’s snores too loud. Anders seeks the warmth on instinct. Even when every move echoes with pain, he shifts a little to press against Malcolm’s chest. Someone’s cleaned him the night before. He can’t remember who - but he’s grateful. Dry cum is a bitch to scrub off. 

“Early bird? Good morning.” 

Malcolm’s sleepy voice is filth in flesh. It shouldn’t be allowed, Anders thinks, to sound this hot first thing in the morning. And how did he never noticed? How did he never realized how good Malcolm smells and how comfortable his chest is and how nice it is to just cuddle up and not rush anywhere… And then it hits him. 

“Release me,” he whispers. His voice is husky and broken but he tries to sound firm.

“What?” Malcom sounds confused. Anders forces himself to raise on his elbows and look into Malcolm’s eyes. He doesn’t get to play dumb, not after what he did. 

“Release me,” Anders repeats. “From your control. The blood magic.” 

There are many reactions Anders could have anticipated. But a moment of confusion turning into a choked laughter is not one of them. He frowns as Malcolm laughs at him, solid in his demand. He’s done letting his body be under someone’s spell. 

“Anders, Blood Control lasts for a couple minutes at most. If I could keep control for that long, templars would have never been a problem,” Malcolm chuckles. His hand reaches to Anders and it’s now Anders’ time to be confused when his fingers tangle in Anders’ hair. “With that drop of blood I drew it couldn’t have lasted more than a minute. I didn’t force you into anything yesterday. You chose to stay.” 

You chose to stay 

Anders lets the words swirl in his mind, lets them settle into place, lets the realization sink in. He chose. For once, when he thought he’s lost all the control he’s had, he chose something for himself. 

“I was serious when I told you not to speak a word of it. Hawkes don’t need any more rumors that we already have, but— You’re free to go. Or stay. I’d rather you stayed, but the choice is yours. Always been yours.” 

Malcolm’s fingers thread slowly through Anders’ hair. Malcolm’s eyes locked onto Anders’. This morning they don’t feel icy cold anymore. This morning nothing about him feels cold. 

“It’s too early. And you’re warm,” Anders mutters when he finds his place on Malcolm’s chest again. When he nuzzles into his neck and closes his eyes and lets the warmth take him - Anders makes his choice. 

He belongs to them, after all. He belongs somewhere. 

~*~*~

For You are the fire at the heart of the world,
And comfort is only Yours to give.

—Transfigurations 12:6