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He had tried to heed Anders’s warning. Hawke had fought furiously to keep the apostate out of his head. He was an abomination, hellbent on unleashing the swirling chaos inside him on the rest of the world. But every time he thought he had purged himself from the mage’s corruption, he somehow found himself back in the filthy clinic kissing Anders like the sheer force of his mouth could stop him from dragging them all into the Void. His need for Anders was becoming an all consuming storm, roaring and violent, raging through him like the fury of battle. His hunger to claim, to take, to own the mage burned in his bones, demanding to be sated. He lived for the moments he had Anders vulnerable before him, unshielded and exposed. Hawke delighted in destroying every last wall Anders’ hid behind and watching him fall apart. Only when the apostate was under him, writhing and keening like a man possessed, was Hawke free. He was not the Champion. He no longer carried a cursed city upon his shoulders. He was only a man, liberated at last from the chains that bound him to fight for a city that was not his home. And when he had finished, when he stripped the mage of everything he had, only then did he feel strong enough wield them once more.
Anders had never been in love until Hawke. It wasn’t the love that he had been told of in tales. It was not gentle or nurturing or romantic. It was vicious and raw. It was falling on his knees in defeat, bloodied and broken and crawling back for more. Of course he fought at first- fought the arrogant brute that had come crashing down on him, dragging him back into a life he had tried so desperately to escape. But the ache he felt when Hawke’s harsh words echoed in his head at night was more than fury. That raging tempest of a man, a man who ripped apart everything he touched, had claimed Anders's soul as surely as Justice. Every time Hawke stormed his clinic, Anders meant to end it for good, to extricate himself from the tangled mess that was Garrett Hawke. And every time he found himself caged by his massive form, back against the wall and hands above his head. Dominated and owned in a way he swore he would never be again. Every kiss was a punch to the gut, leaving him stunned and breathless. And always craving more. Fighting Hawke was swimming against a riptide, and Anders found he could only let go and allow himself to drown. And yet, when Hawke rolled off him, panting and sweaty and temporarily replete, Anders was electric. It was if he had been Tranquil his whole life and only when he was with Hawke was he again able to dream. The fire that fueled the devotion to his cause was stoked and rekindled. Hawke may hate him, may kill him, for what he had to do, but only Hawke could give him the strength to do it.