someone needs to sexualize homeless amputee concept art Anders and it’s going to be me, I know it, get him bathed and dressed cute and open his pussy up and see him break down from being touched nicely OR make him dissociate as he tries to make himself presentable enough to sell himself for room, board, and transportation away

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Anders/Sebastian Vael
Characters: Anders (Dragon Age), Sebastian Vael
Additional Tags: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Possessive Behavior, Some violent imagery, its in a romantic way tho, Anders is soooo normal actually, These are normal behaviors

Summary: Laying in bed with Sebastian, their bodies pressed together to fit on the small cot in the back of the clinic, Anders was close enough to hear Sebastian breath. Close enough to feel Sebastian’s pulse. Close enough to dig his claws into Sebastian’s skin like anchors. Close enough to devour him… 

These quiet moments of intimacy were what Anders loved most.

A new Sebanders fic has dropped! I really have no idea how to tag this fic, but it’s not quite fluff, not quite angst, but it’s toxically codependent Sebanders with some romantically violent undertones - exactly how Sebanders should be! 

(It’s also the first solo Sebanders fic on my AO3 which is kinda crazy. The Sebris streak is over)

They Can’t Have Both

While Merrill and Anders are picking herbs by the Wounded Coast, they are found by a group of young Templars, who can’t seem to find the right path to Kirkwall. Anders may not have shown much care for Merrill before, but he knows how these Templars work and he’ll never allow them to hurt her like they do him.

“Get to the point, Apostate,” Pretty Boy pressed. His hand was on Merrill’s thigh and she was crying, gently, too quietly. If she was supposed to show them how pathetic and weak she was, she was going to have to be louder about it.
“Spirit Healer,” Anders reminded, “You get these cuffs off of me and I just might put you back together.”
“And you might just run off,” Deis noted, making eye contact with him.
Anders shrugged. “I might just. But Pretty Boy over there got stabbed in the side and could be going septic. Keller might not ever lift a sword again. Hassan is bleeding internally, I’m guessing a broken rib, not to mention what’s wrong with his leg. I know you’re all excited to get to Kirkwall but as it is, I’m only counting Paeris, Aleucis, and Deis making it, unless they’re as good at hiding their wounds as they are their brain cells.”

these were planned for Anders’ Week 2025 but as in the end I wasn’t able to post them then - I will share now.

The Eye of the Beholder bt muirgen_lys

Anders played dangerous games in the circle tower, flirting with templars and mages alike, trading favours for whatever leniency or kindness he could get. Running into someone he remembers less than fondly from those days brings some complicated feelings to the surface. Fenris intervenes, and uncovers some complicated feelings of his own. [PG13, Anders/Fenris, words: 6.5k]

Paper and Cotton by calligraphypenn

In which Fenris is a practical elf, and accidentally tells Anders through tokens that he likes him VERY MUCH. But (at first) Fenris has no idea, and Anders is daily more baffled and suspicious. [PG13, Anders/Fenris, words: 14.8k]

Temporary Reassignment by Lesetoilesfous

A hapless farmer outside Kirkwall has triggered a five hundred year old enchantment and cursed his town into an unnatural slumber. Hawke’s best lead to break the curse is one Ser Robert d'Estienne. When Ser Robert requests the use of a mage to help him break the curse’s series of magical defences, Marian loans him Anders. Not that Anders gets a say in the matter. [Mature, Fenris/Anders, words: 14.4k]

A Day in the Life by Lesetoilesfous

When an artefact at the Black Emporium hurls Fenris back into Anders’ memories, he finds himself shadowing the mage during a day at Kinloch Hold. The experience helps to explain a few things, though it leaves Fenris with more questions than answers. [Mature, Anders/Fenris, Anders/Karl Thekla, words: 12.7k]

circle, ring, death is finished!!!! you can read it here <3

stupid little wip from a stupid little scene from my stupid little crossover fic of stupid little gays

had to completely delete everything having to do with bg3 on my computer (it’s on an SD card) so that I could upgrade to patch 8 so I may never actually finish Asboleth’s playthrough! Awesome! (I hate this game so much, why can’t it just be stable?). Did this so my friend, who’s never made it to Moonrise, and I can play together. Took lots of pics of my new storm sorcerer Tav (fully vanilla) when trying to catch up to where she is in game, though I may have to restart AGAIN for multiplayer, in which case I’m going to scream.

Bitter Grounds

The restaurant hums with quiet chatter and clinking silverware, but to Anders, the noise feels like a tide pressing in from every side. He keeps his hands wrapped around the mug, knuckles white, focusing on the heat seeping into his palms. The smell of roasted beans should be comforting, but it only tightens something in his chest.

A drop of sweat slides down his temple, and he blinks too quickly, vision swimming. The chair beneath him feels too soft, too heavy, as if it’s trying to swallow him whole. He forces himself to breathe, counting in Sami like his mother taught him years ago. Okta, guokte, golbma…

“You okay?” Ryker’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and careful. Anders wants to tell him it’s fine, wants to smile, but the words stick in his throat. He’s hyperaware of every shadow, every flicker of light across the polished wood floor, every scent of citrus from the cleaning spray.

Ryker slides into the seat across from him, hands folded around a steaming mug of his own. “You’ve gone quiet,” he says, eyes warm but steady. “Talk to me.”

Anders wants to shake his head. Wants to tell Ryker he’s fine. Wants to pretend the tightness in his chest isn’t pounding down his ribcage, his stomach twisting like it wants to escape. But the words slip out before he can stop them. “I… sometimes it hits me,” he admits, voice trembling. “Crowds, smells, pressure… I don’t… I don’t always know what’s coming.”

Ryker nods slowly, and Anders watches the way he leans in just slightly, not too much, just enough to let Anders feel the space between them shrink without being swallowed. “Then we take it slow,” Ryker says. “One step at a time. You’re not alone in this, Anders.”

A tremor runs through Anders’ fingers, and he wraps both hands tighter around the mug. He notices the subtle scent of Ryker’s soap, the way it clings to the sleeves of his sweater. And for a moment, the panic eases. Just a little. He can breathe.

“Thanks,” Anders whispers. It’s not a full smile, but it’s something. A foothold.

Ryker reaches out, brushing a hand lightly over Anders’ knuckles. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Together.”

Anders lets himself believe it. For now, the restaurant doesn’t feel quite so loud, the walls a little less like they’re closing in. And somewhere, beneath the fear and the tightness, there’s a flicker of trust. A hope that maybe he can survive this, one slow breath at a time.

last call

The bar opens at four.

Anders gets there at two.

The place is quiet then—chairs still upside down on the tables, the smell of bleach and citrus cleaner lingering in the air. The neon beer signs are off, the windows pale with afternoon light.

He likes it like this.

Predictable.

Ordered.

He unties the rag from the sink and wipes down the bar, starting at the far left and working his way right. Every surface gets two passes. Sometimes three. The wood gleams dark and smooth under the dim lights.

A tic jerks his shoulder.

He mutters under his breath and starts polishing the glasses.

Behind the bar, tucked beneath the counter, there’s a small wooden box. Inside it are things Anders finds during closing shifts.

Bottle caps.

A guitar pick.

A cheap silver ring someone forgot.

He doesn’t know why he keeps them.

He just does.

The back door creaks open.

Anders freezes mid-polish.

“You’re here early again.”

Ryker’s voice is warm and rough with sleep.

Anders sets the glass down a little too quickly.

“You’re late,” he says.

Ryker glances at the clock.

“It’s two-thirty.”

“You were supposed to help unload the kegs.”

Ryker grins like that’s funny.

His hair is still messy, hoodie hanging loose over his shoulders. He looks like he just rolled out of bed and accidentally wandered into a bar.

Which, knowing Ryker, might actually be what happened.

“You did it already, didn’t you?” Ryker asks.

Anders doesn’t answer.

Ryker laughs.

“God, you’re intense.”

Anders turns back to the glasses, scrubbing harder than necessary.

“Someone has to do the work.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Ryker hops over the counter instead of walking around it.

Anders hates when he does that.

Not because it’s annoying.

Because Ryker lands too close.

Their shoulders brush.

Anders’s brain short-circuits.

Ryker doesn’t notice.

He never notices.

“Hey,” Ryker says suddenly, leaning his elbows on the counter. “Tierney’s coming in tonight.”

Anders’s stomach drops.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. She said she might bring some friends too.”

“Great.”

Ryker tilts his head.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be.”

“You look like someone just kicked your dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

Ryker snorts.

“Fair.”

The bar opens an hour later.

By six, it’s loud.

Music thumps from the speakers. Glasses clink. Someone laughs too loudly near the dartboard.

Anders moves through it all like a machine.

Pour. Slide. Pour. Wipe. Pour again.

His hands are steady even when his mind isn’t.

Tierney shows up around seven.

Ryker lights up immediately when he sees her.

Anders pretends he doesn’t notice.

But he does.

He notices everything.

The way Ryker leans closer when she talks.

The way she laughs at things that aren’t that funny.

The way Ryker keeps glancing over his shoulder toward the bar like he wants Anders to see something.

Anders focuses on the drinks.

Someone orders a whiskey sour.

Then three beers.

Then another round of shots.

The noise blurs together.

His chest feels tight.

Not panic.

Just the familiar ache he’s learned to ignore.

Near midnight, the crowd finally starts thinning out.

Tierney leaves with a wave.

Ryker watches her go.

Anders wipes the same spot on the counter for the fourth time.

“You’re going to sand a hole through the bar,” Ryker says.

Anders shrugs.

“You could help.”

Ryker grabs a rag and starts wiping the opposite end.

They work in silence for a while.

The neon lights hum softly overhead.

Then Ryker slides a glass toward him.

Anders frowns.

“What’s this.”

“Drink it.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re off in ten minutes.”

Anders eyes the glass suspiciously.

It’s amber colored, with a twist of orange peel floating at the top.

“What is it.”

“Something I made up.”

Ryker looks almost nervous.

Which is strange.

Ryker is never nervous.

Anders takes a cautious sip.

It’s smoky and sweet and warm all at once.

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“…it’s good.”

Ryker grins like he just won something.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t get used to compliments.”

“Too late.”

Ryker bumps his shoulder lightly.

The contact is brief.

But Anders still feels it minutes later.

When they finally lock up for the night, Ryker flicks off the neon signs one by one.

The bar falls quiet again.

Just the two of them.

“Hey,” Ryker says.

“What.”

“You don’t have to come in two hours early tomorrow.”

Anders shrugs.

“I like the quiet.”

Ryker studies him for a second.

Then he nods.

“Alright.”

But the next afternoon when Anders unlocks the bar door—

Ryker is already inside.

Two glasses on the counter.

And a new drink was waiting for him to try.

The mages I use in the party is entirely dependent on my personal relationship.

If you know, you know 😉

Hearing Justice and Anders talk about demons and spirits just hurts.

It hurts.

burnt sugar

The coffee shop opens at six.

Anders opens it at five-thirty.

No one asked him to. No one even knows he does it. But he likes the quiet before the world starts existing.

The espresso machine hums as it warms up. The grinder rattles softly. Outside, the sky is still dark, the windows fogged from the cold.

Anders ties his apron strings twice.

Then a third time.

Then once more, because the knot didn’t feel right.

His fingers twitch slightly after. A tic he tries to ignore.

The bell over the door hasn’t rung yet. It won’t for a while.

Good.

He wipes down the counter again even though he already did it ten minutes ago.

Behind the register there’s a small jar where he keeps things he finds.

A button.

A paperclip shaped like a star.

A coin someone dropped and never came back for.

He rolls the coin between his fingers now, studying the tiny scratches on the metal.

“Morning, Anders.”

He startles so hard the coin slips from his hand.

Ryker stands in the doorway of the employee room, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows.

He always looks like that.

Like he woke up and accidentally became attractive.

Anders looks away immediately.

“Morning,” he mutters.

Ryker stretches, yawning. “You’ve been here since five again, haven’t you?”

“No.”

Ryker stares at him.

Anders sighs. “…maybe.”

“You’re insane.”

“Someone has to make sure the place doesn’t burn down.”

Ryker laughs.

The sound is warm. Easy. It spreads through Anders’s chest in a way he hates.

Because Ryker laughs like that with everyone.

Customers start trickling in around six-thirty.

Anders works the espresso machine while Ryker takes orders. It’s easier that way. Less talking.

“Two caramel lattes,” Ryker says, sliding the ticket across.

Anders makes them automatically.

Steam. Milk. Espresso.

His movements are precise, practiced.

Ryker leans on the counter while he works.

“You know,” he says, “you don’t have to glare at every customer like they personally offended you.”

“I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

Anders flicks the milk pitcher under the steam wand harder than necessary.

“Maybe they deserve it.”

Ryker grins.

“Yeah? What did the woman ordering a muffin do?”

“She said ‘expresso.’”

Ryker bursts out laughing.

Anders pretends not to smile.

The morning rush comes and goes like a storm.

By nine, the shop quiets again.

Tierney sits in the corner booth with her usual tea, reading something on her phone. She waves when Ryker brings her a refill.

They talk for a while.

Anders tells himself he isn’t watching.

He’s wiping the counter.

Then organizing the sugar packets.

Then wiping the counter again.

His chest feels tight.

Stupid.

He knows Ryker isn’t his.

Ryker isn’t anyone’s.

Still.

When Ryker comes back behind the counter, Anders pushes a mug toward him.

“Here.”

Ryker blinks.

“What’s this?”

“Just drink it.”

Ryker takes a sip.

His eyebrows lift.

“…is this the burnt sugar one?”

Anders shrugs.

“I was experimenting.”

It took three tries.

And forty minutes.

Anders watched Ryker drink it the whole time.

Ryker leans against the counter, smiling slightly.

“It’s good.”

Something warm spreads through Anders’s chest.

Dangerous.

Soft.

He looks down at the counter so Ryker doesn’t see it.

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a pause.

Then Ryker bumps his shoulder lightly against Anders’s.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“You don’t have to get here at five-thirty tomorrow.”

Anders shrugs.

“I like the quiet.”

Ryker studies him for a second.

Then he nods.

“Alright.”

But the next morning when Anders unlocks the shop door at five-thirty—

Ryker is already sitting inside with two cups of coffee.

BEST DA ANTAGONIST TOURNAMENT LOSER ROUND 1 BATTLE 8

Lord Pyral Harrowmont is the High-General of Orzammar, the leader of noble House Harrowmont which he represents as a deshyr in the Assembly, and King Endrin Aeducan’s second. A traditionalist, he is well known for being an able administrator and has authored many compromises in the ever-warring Assembly.

vs

Anders is a human mage determined to escape the Circle of Magi and the Templar Order. Nothing they have done to him has dampened his desire for personal freedom. Although initially only concerned with his own freedom, he develops a passion for helping the downtrodden and underprivileged. He also has an affinity for cats.

He is a potential companion in Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening and a companion in Dragon Age II. In the latter, he is also a romance option for either male or female Hawke.

Hawke spends that whole game fighting for the social and economic security of their family and friends and attempting to stop problems in Kirkwall from boiling over and blowing up. And then Anders, who very well might be their friend or lover, decides to go behind their back to blow things up on purpose. Truly a huge middle finger thrown at all that protagonist-y stuff Hawke did that ultimately didn’t matter for shit because, move over, someone’s got a mage rebellion to kickstart. And it’s absolutely iconic.

Again more option for funsies.

Fenris hunting Anders like a bloodhound when Anders is on his period, only to pin him down and force his legs open to see where the blood is coming from. Anders demanding her stop, that he’s not a blood mage, but Fenris needs to make sure Anders isn’t hurting himself again, in a place that Fenris wouldn’t usually check. But it’s Anders’ cunt that’s a bloody mess and he whimpers and whines when Fenris shoves down on his aching stomach, growls, and tells him he’ll do away with the mess, using his tongue to make Anders cum until he know longer reeks of blood.

my friend wants me to play bg3 with her and I’m going to play as Answers but I think it would be so so funny if I played him as a half elf

Link to the fic!

Fenris bouncing on Anders’ cock and calling her a good girl. Ugh. Uuuuuufggghhhhghh she’s such a good girl!!!!!

They Can’t Have Both

While Merrill and Anders are picking herbs by the Wounded Coast, they are found by a group of young Templars, who can’t seem to find the right path to Kirkwall. Anders may not have shown much care for Merrill before, but he knows how these Templars work and he’ll never allow them to hurt her like they do him.

“She’s just a kid!” The eldest said. He was sporting a nasty scar over his face. Anders didn’t know his name either but the others tended to refer to him as Pretty Boy exclusively. Anders didn’t know if that was an insult or not. “Probably scared shitless. What’s your name, kid?”

“M-Merrill,” Merrill told them between sobs.

Pretty Boy squatted down next to her, tilting his head at her. “Okay, okay, Merrill, we’re not going to hurt you, not unless you make us, alright? You want to help us get to Kirkwall, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “Said they’ll hang me when we get there.”

Pretty Boy glared at the others. Maybe they shouldn’t have said that so loudly. He turned back to her. “Listen, if you’re a very good girl and you lead us true, I promise we’ll leave you at the gate. You can go back to your clan. Are they nearby?”

modern AU fic where Anders owns this mug