I want you right here. Until the day we die. - Hawke

Staring into the vanity mirror, Jessalyn's fingers delicately tended to the bruises on her throat. The dark purple contrasted harshly with her pale skin, and she berated herself for cutting her hair as short as she had. Nothing could hide the glaring reminder of the consequences of her blood magic. Her head swam as images of Anders—eyes glowing and skin splitting with lyrium as he attempted to squeeze the life from her—rushed back to her.

She knew avoiding him would only intensify the volatility of their relationship. She held nothing against him, beyond her irritation towards his obsession with mages and Templars, and his intense hatred of blood magic. If he would only let her explain, he would know that she didn't use it because she liked it: it was her way of proving to herself that she had control over at least one thing since Bethany had died and Carver had joined the Wardens. Since…

Letting out a throaty snarl, she stood from the vanity and shed her robes, tossing them to the side of the crackling fire as she reached for the armored set she had purchased with the spoils from the Deep Roads. Venturing to Darktown at this hour was suicide if one didn't go prepared. Her staff—cold to the touch—sent an invigorating jolt through her as she took hold of it, and she jumped, still unused to the sensation. She was in the middle of strapping the weapon to her back when a knock sounded from the large oak door.

Her staff went clattering to the ground as a voice called out, "Master Anders is here for you, messere. He seems rather upset."

"Send him up, Bodahn," she replied, hastily stripping out of her battle clothes and into her finery, sans boots. The last thing she needed was to have Anders know she was about to come to him. At least she could have the advantage in this case.

"Hawke?" Anders called, the door clicking shut behind him.

"I think it's about time you started calling me Jessalyn. Considering what happened earlier, it only makes sense that we drop the formalities." She straightened out her finery as she turned around, looking at him with an arched brow when his eyes widened. "What?" He simply touched his throat, indicating where her bruises were. "Wait, you're surprised? Justice did that to me, Anders."

He flinched. "I know, and I apologize." He paused, his eyes filling with accusation as he met her gaze. "Jessalyn, how could you resort to blood magic? I understand that you're not as involved as I am with aiding the mages in Kirkwall, and I can respect that, whether or not I agree. But to become the very thing that is our undoing in the Templar's eyes? You can't honestly expect to go unnoticed as a blood mage with the Knight-Captain and Knight-Commander sniffing around your estate like rabid dogs, can you? They won't even consider bringing you to the Gallows. They'll kill you on the spot."

"They would do the same to you if they learned you were an abomination," she shot back, her eyes narrowed. "The Templars only tolerate your clinic in Darktown because they think you're simply a Grey Warden apostate from Ferelden who wants to help the less fortunate in Kirkwall. If they learned you were possessed by a spirit do you think they would hesitate to come after you? The fact that Justice was a benevolent spirit when he possessed you would mean nothing to them—an abomination is an abomination, no exceptions."

His cheeks flushed in anger, the glow of lyrium in his skin sending her back a few paces. She inwardly scolded herself for showing fear of any kind, but he didn't seem to notice as his hands clutched at his temples. The black smoke drifted from his skin as Anders fought to retain his mind. Her back met the wall beside her bed, and she could feel the color drain from her face as she realized she had been backed into a corner, with no chance at escape. Her Mabari, Gideon, was at the barracks with Aveline. She was utterly defenseless: she refused to use her magic against someone she cared about.

"Anders," she pleaded, trying to reach the man who was struggling with his self-control. Jessalyn knew he had the ability to overpower the spirit as easily as the spirit seemed to do it to him. With a deep breath, she pushed herself away from the wall and approached him, placing a hand on his forearm. She shrieked when his hand shot out and pushed her away, hard enough to send her stumbling backward against the wall again.

The lyrium began to fade, and his muscles relaxed, his hands moving to cup his face. The room was silent, save for Anders' heavy, ragged breathing. Jessalyn remained still, afraid to so much as speak without him making the first move. Her heart was hammering against her chest at an erratic pace.

Anders looked up at her, his apology written plainly in the worried eyes and creased brow. His frown deepened as his eyes lingered momentarily on her bruises once more. The genuine regret he seemed to feel for losing control of himself was so evident, she couldn't help but feel the aching sympathy she had felt years ago, when they had first met. Her shoulder began to throb dully—an ache that hardly registered—though she still found herself reaching for it instinctively.

His gaze shifted to where her hand laid before wandering back to her eyes tentatively—his face had fallen even further. "I just… couldn't stand the thought of hurting you again because I couldn't control Justice." He turned and headed for the door. "I shouldn't have come. I apologize for intruding."

"Anders, wait," she called softly. He stopped but didn't turn around. She walked up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and coaxing him to face her. "Don't go."

Her hand slid down to his chest, her gaze following its movement when she found herself unable to meet his eyes. Everything in her screamed that this man hated who she was and the decisions that made her that way. He didn't understand, but a tiny part of her cried out that he wouldn't have come here if he didn't want to.

She reached up her other hand and pulled back the sleeve of her finery, revealing jagged scars that ran the length of her forearm. They had faded over the years, but they still remained as a constant reminder. She was seventeen when her father had found her, emotionally shattered, a dagger still clutched tightly in one hand as the blood flowed freely from her arm. He had healed them enough to stop the bleeding, but let them scar—he would not allow one of his children to forget their foolish decisions if he could help it.

The one who had broken her and made her feel like nothing had been hardly older than herself, and she had thought she loved him. Months of willingly giving herself to him didn't stop Jakob from taking her body when she finally decided to say no. She had wanted to scream, to lash out and set the bastard on fire as he forced himself upon her, but for Bethany's sake—for her father's sake—she had laid there and taken it. When Malcolm found her trying to kill herself, he had demanded to know why: soon after, Jakob had disappeared.

"Jessalyn, why are you crying?" Anders asked, gently lifting her chin with on finger so she was looking in his eyes. She hadn't even felt the tears begin to fall, and she wiped at them furiously, slapping his hand away in the process. It was irrational to be this angry at herself for weeping, but she couldn't help it—she was hurting.

"Do you want to know why I turned to blood magic? Why I bleed myself for power?" She didn't wait for a response as she gestured to her bared forearm. "These scars are what started it. My father left them there as a reminder that killing myself wasn't a way to escape the pain of being raped by someone I loved. What he didn't understand was that it wasn't me trying to escape—I was trying to regain control." She bit back the sobs threatening to break free, refusing to allow herself that weakness. She held onto the anger she felt at being reminded of what had happened with all the stubbornness only a Hawke could possess, reining it in and focusing it on the man who stirred the memories. "When Carver was forced to join the Wardens, I couldn't take it anymore. I only use blood magic as an excuse to cut myself, to control something for once in my damned life."

Her words lingered in the silence as they stood glaring at each other. Apparently what she had said struck a nerve with Anders—not Justice, Anders—because his face had gone crimson in his anger. "In case you hadn't noticed, Hawke, I happen to know a thing or two about not having control."

"You chose your fate, Anders," Jessalyn cried, irked by the way he said her surname. "I didn't. I had to look out for my sister and my father, and in doing so was forced into a corner by someone I was supposed to be able to trust. The son of a bitch used my status as an apostate against me in the worst possible way. So excuse me if I don't see the parallels in our situations."

Anders crossed his arms over his chest, and she could swear he rolled his eyes. "Do you always have to be so bloody tragic?"

Shocked, Jessalyn drew back a hand, whipping it forward with unleashed force. Anders just barely caught her wrist before she made contact with his face. In her frustration at being denied the satisfaction of hurting him, she repeated the motion with her other hand, only to have it grabbed mid swing. She stood there, wrists held firmly within Anders' hands. Struggling against the vice-like grips in vain, she narrowed her eyes at him, a matched expression of explosive anger twisting his features.

Her heart fluttered wildly, and her stomach did nauseating flips. With a throaty growl, she used the leverage from his hold on her to pull herself forward, lips connecting with his violently. Her shoulders strained painfully from the angle they bent at, and she tugged her arms downward until he released his grip. With a newly freed hand, she reached around and fisted her hand in his hair, the tied holding it back coming undone.

Pushing him backward as her tongue traced his bottom lip, she slid her hands to his chest and shoved him roughly until he fell back on the bed. She crawled over him, bending down to kiss him harder, more urgently. He grasped her waist as he slid further back on the bed, holding her against him firmly. His fingers worked quickly at the belt that held her finery tight about her waist.

She shivered as he squeezed her breast firmly through the flimsy fabric that covered them as her tunic was thrown haphazardly to the side. She began fumbling with the clasps that held his robes together at the front, digging her hands into the fabric and pulling him up as she straddled him. He flipped her onto her back, shrugging out of his robes and kneeling between her thighs to better lean over to kiss her.

Her muscles tensed at the changeup, the nerves of this being her first time since Jakob creeping up on her. She was ready to begin fighting Anders off when his lips pressed gently against her ear. "We stop if you say so, no matter what."

Her heart rate remained quick and sporadic—if a bit more so at his words—as he nipped at her jawline, a hand sliding beneath her to undo the clasp of her bra and pull it off. She moaned softly as his mouth closed around one hardened peak, biting down gently as his hand came back to tend to her other breast. His free hand gripped the waistline of her remaining finery, pulling down roughly until they were discarded along with the rest of her clothing.

Lying naked beneath him, with anger and resentment cast aside by the lust that consumed them, she felt oddly at peace. It was an odd complement to the animalistic instincts she was acting upon, but as she reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head, it just seemed… right.

He moved his attention back to her mouth, kissing her firmly as he reached a hand between them. She arched upward as one finger probed gently, finding her more ready than she was even aware herself. Another finger joined the first, moving against her teasingly. He moved to kiss her jawline, burning a trail down her throat and between her breasts. As his lips joined his fingers at the apex of her thighs, she shuddered involuntarily. He sucked gently, and she could feel herself growing more impatient, a tension she'd never experienced driving her to the brink of madness

"Anders," she pleaded, the high pitch of her voice foreign to her own ears. She squirmed as his fingers left her, feeling the loss with an unexpected intensity. She fought back the blush as he stripped off his breeches, reprimanding herself for being as bashful as an inexperienced teenager. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen a man naked before, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Not if she could help it, anyway.

Propping himself up by placing an elbow on either side of her, Anders lowered himself over her. His hair fell in a curtain that framed their faces, swallowing the gasp as he entered her with a kiss. He moved at a practiced pace that emphasized just how much more experienced he was.

Jessalyn desperately wished she could relax and lose herself in the feel of him, but the anxiety of the memories stirred interjected every time she started to enjoy it. Her muscles tightened and her hands balled into fists as her heart began to race with panic. She felt it was too late to back out, but as Anders pulled his lips from hers, the look he gave her portrayed every ounce of understanding she never expected from any man, let alone one she agreed with on so little.

In a blur of movement that left her reeling, he had rolled onto his back with her atop him. She could feel him deeper within her, but it wasn't as poignant as what the change in position gave her: control. As her chest nearly burst from her heart's insistent thrumming, she slithered her hand behind his neck to pull him up, this kiss as fervent as their first, but for an entirely different reason.

His hands guided her hips slowly, sliding to her back when she began to move on her own. The sensations that tingled within were frustratingly fleeting, and the tension that had so recently eased was now building exponentially. She bit down on his lower lip, and she swore she tasted blood as his arms tightened around her, their movements becoming more wild and uncontrolled. A whispered groan escaped her, muffled by their kiss that was now bruising in its force.

The muscles of her lower stomach clenched and unclenched, an inexplicably pleasant feeling despite every instinct telling her it should be uncomfortable. Anders reached a hand between them, stroking delicately at the sensitive nub. She tossed her head back with a cry, the strain on her muscles finally reaching a breaking point. The spasms that wracked her body were near painful, and she found herself burying her face in Anders shoulder as she let out whimpers as her body went weak with her climax, her hands burying themselves in his hair. A hoarse moan next to her ear signaled his release, and he clutched her to him as he fell backward. She rolled off of him, curling up to his side and draping a leg across his.

"I love you," he said just above a whisper, still breathless. She stiffened imperceptibly, not having heard those words from someone who clearly meant it. "I apologize for acting as if I felt otherwise. You deserve a normal life—not this battle with personal demons that could get you killed."

"I can take care of myself, Anders," she said sharply, flinching at how cross she sounded. "But I appreciate that you're looking out for me, nonetheless." The breath she took in was ragged as she fought the fear of the words she hadn't spoken in so long—the emotion she thought herself incapable of feeling again. "I-I love you, too."

He lifted himself on an elbow, his other hand reaching out to stroke her cheek. "I can't promise you a normal life, Jessalyn. As long as I live, Justice will be a part of me." His fingers trailed down to the bruises on her throat, gingerly tracing the evidence of his other half. "But I vow to never harm you again: it would kill me to lose you."

She touched the tips of her fingers to his as he pulled his hand back, tears forming even as she fought them. "I… believe you."

Phew! That took so much longer than I intended! I'm definitely happy with the result, though, so it's all good!