Anders_icon.gif Fenris_icon.gif

Scene Title Little Victories
Synopsis In the wake of the Qunari skirmish, Fenris brings Anders home. Things… get away from them a little.
Location Lowtown Inn
Date Bloomingtide 30, 9:31 Dragon
Watch For Scenes of a Sexual Nature
Logger Anders

Anders finds that he quite likes being able to wrest that laugh from Fenris, enjoying the reaction even before the rejoinder inspires laughter from him as well. The two of them, standing on the site of the most bizarre battle in the history of conflicts with the Qunari, giggling over quilts like they're children. It's ridiculous, is what it is, and Anders finds himself happy in this moment, without even realizing it. It's happiness that melts into surprise and even more quiet laughter when he is physically picked up without even so much as a 'by your leave'. Without coats, robes or a weapon… or, really, armor of any kind, no; Anders weighs about as much as a healthy swimmer's build human ought to… if he's had a bad case of the stomach flu recently. Anders isn't complaining, but he can't help feeling just slightly ridiculous. Weirdly pleased - and he adamantly refuses to examine that in any detail - but ridiculous. "You know I'm not actually a delicate flower," he ventures, something of a smile in his voice. Of course, he settles a fair bit more once his bare hand settles on the back of Fenris' neck. For balance in this carrying lark and not at all because the contact is comforting. Not at all.

"No, but you are struggling to stay on your feet." Fenris says, and he's brooking no argument about it. "Besides, that bird is terrifying, and I'd rather not give any reason to be on the receiving end of that fury." Home in one piece, that was the goal. Whether the threat of multiple pieces came from Qunari warriors or Anders' own exhaustion, it didn't matter. Fenris has to focus to keep his steps sure as Anders' hand comes to the back of his neck, but he manages it. Also manages to open to the door to the inn, open the door to his room, and eventually, set the mage down gently, though one hand stays rested upon Anders' side. To stabilize him if the standing doesn't want to cooperate. Definitely not because he doesn't want to let go. Not at all.

"Sterling? He's a darling." Knowing Anders, he probably sneaks the blighted bird treats and smooths pretty plumage at every opportunity. Anders doesn't feel any less ridiculous as they travel, but he recognizes the care inherent in the gesture - kind of hard to miss after seeing him go almost feral in defense of the mage - and doesn't protest further. It's probably the most compliant he's ever seen Anders, but said mage isn't really drawing attention to that fact, instead rubbing absent circles against warm skin with his thumb. The circles stop as he's settled on his own two feet, but Anders' hand doesn't leave the back of his neck any more than Fenris' hand is leaving his side. "I feel like I could sleep for a week." And judging by the level of surprise in that statement, it's not a sensation with which he is overly familiar.

"I'm sure he is, when his mistress hasn't decided she's going to allow him to peck your eyes out." Fenris says of the bird. Beast masters were terrifying things, and there were just some things in this world you had to respect. Fenris could concede that was one of them. Looking Anders in the eye, there's a moment where his look grows… Well, heated. It settles quickly, however, as Anders speaks, and the elf clears his throat. "Yes, of course…" He says, "That… Is perfectly reasonable. Bed's all yours." It seems Fenris has every intention of sleeping on the floor. Though, he doesn't manage to pull his hand away yet, though he doesn't seem to have noticed.

Anders has to concede that point. Having never been on that end of Adeline's ire, it's not the experience that springs first to mind, but still; a valid point all the same. The heat in pretty green eyes startles him, sending a shiver down his spine in a way that is not at all unpleasant. His own eyes darken, pupils widening in a response to the spike in pulse and blood pressure - his lower lip is caught and worried between his teeth. Anders has a weakness for those eyes… it is impossible to look away once caught. Even when Fenris shakes it off and clears his throat, Anders finds that it takes him a moment to find his footing again. "Don't be ridiculous, there's plenty of room." And just in case there's any argument, his Healer Voice comes out. "We both got roughed up pretty good, today. I won't take up even a third of the space, I promise." And if sleep haunted him even through the exhaustion, well… "I don't move when it catches me, just it's noise sometimes and the floor won't save you from that." His hand stays right where it is, though at least he is beginning to realize his own reluctance to pull away.

Ah, Healer Voice, it had this way about it. Even Fenris, grumpy grumpy Fenris with his willful nature and his stubbornness could only deny it so often. Wise people pick their battles, and this one… Well, this one, he didn't want to fight. Maybe it's the hand on his neck, or his hand on the mage's side, or the darkening of Anders' eyes… Maybe it's the weariness, the fading blood lust from the fight, or… There are a lot of reasons why Fenris does what he does next, or at least a lot of potential ones. Which is true, that's up for debate. But the kiss comes quickly, and fiercely, catching Anders' lips with his, pushing him backward toward the bed with sure steps.

Anders has no time to be prepared for the sudden way the entire world tilts on its axis. The kiss rocks him back, saved from falling on his ass only by the strength of Fenris' arm at his waist. His breath is stolen and there's this unsettling moment where he can't breathe and everything wobbles back and forth on the tip of a knife. But with the first breath in, Anders falls forward, surging into that kiss and bringing his other hand up to card through soft white hair, a counterpoint to the way the fingers on the first splay out against bare skin. He knows in a vague way that he is being walked backwards toward something, but that's Fenris' affair; Anders trusts him to get them both where they're going without interference from him. It means he can pour all his focus into tasting the wicked mouth pressed so perfectly against his own.

Yes, he knows precisely where they are going. It's not that he's been staying in this room terribly long, really, but Fenris had this habit of getting to know his surroundings swiftly. Even with the delicious hum of their contact, with the taste of the mage's mouth, with the sweet satisfaction of stealing Anders' breath away. This want has been here since that first night, it had not stopped, only being pushed aside at each turn. And now, today, he just wants to forget. He just wants to get lost in something that is overwhelming and bright and so, so sweet and sharp and impossible to resist. He presses Anders back to the bed, the mattress coming up to near the mage's knees, and Fenris leans, easing him back and down and crawling on top of him with a low growl that rumbles his chest.

Had he been asked five minutes ago, Anders would have freely admitted that he is not at all convinced that this is the smart thing to do. Now, however, the heady rush of uninhibited contact - of not repressing the desire to catch Fenris' lower lip between his teeth - combines easily with the resonant hum arcing back and forth between them every place their skin touches and the creeping understanding that he doesn't just want Fenris, he actually enjoys his company; all of it together until Anders feels so good he could almost cry. It drowns out the fear until he lets Fenris control his descent backward onto the bed without even a moment's hesitation. That growl brings a flush to Anders' face and neck, the sound going straight to the pit of his stomach so that the broken moan escapes his lips before he can clamp down on the sound. His eyes are almost entirely dark now, only rings of gold hinting at their usual color - his tongue darts out to wet dry lips in a subconscious motion that is both hungry and slightly in awe. He doesn't grab, he doesn't push - he's frankly a little bit nervous about certain spiky bits of armor - but when he does lift his hand, it's to brush gentle fingertips across cheek and jaw and throat.

Smart? No, this wasn't that. Not by a long shot. This was a decidedly stupid decision. Yet, here Fenris was, holding himself above the mage and purring. Yes, that's distinctly purring now, as Anders reaches for his jaw and throat. Fenris turns his head, catching the mage's wrist lightly with his teeth. It's more teasing than anything, no real pain, and it's followed by a kiss to soothe, right at the pulse point. And the more they fall into this, the more that Fenris can feel that pulse, and hear his own, and this brightness, this warm hum, it's as intoxicating as it has ever been. Later, likely, he might come to regret these choices, but…

Damnit, right now, he just wanted to feel alive.

Fenris turns his attention then to the armor he's still wearing. It would hardly do. Pulling away with sound somewhere between a huff and a snarl, aggravation at his own armor and nothing else, he sits back, mostly holding his own weight, though some is placed upon Anders' thigh. With swift pulls, Fenris opens the closures of his armor. He's been wearing the set for years, he could toss it off in half a minute, and he does. The gauntlets follow, clattering to the floor unceremoniously.

That purring is a sound Anders decides in quick succession that he likes rather a bit more than he should and that he very much wants to hear more of it. His breath catches again when teeth close playfully around his wrist, that soothing kiss bringing out a sweetly lopsided little grin. When Fenris pulls back, it gives Anders a very nice vantage point and he watches the armor being shed without bothering to hide his enjoyment. And once that skin is free… oh once that skin is free, Anders surges up, stomach muscles clenching and shifting to bring him mostly upright with Fenris straddling his lap. Both hands go to his waist, the backs of knuckles trailing over hipbones and ribs while he dips his head to taste the soft skin on the side of Fenris' neck. He laps at it, trailing little lightly-sucking kisses and nuzzling the bridge of his nose along the underside of the closest ear, all the while wanting more until it's the flats of palms skimming up his sides and down his back - stroking, caressing, touching wherever he possibly can.

It was not often, if he was honest, that Fenris had bothered to push past the pain of being touched to do anything like this. And when he did, it was generally a quick thing, rough and without the sort of kindled wanting that leads to someone wanting to just touch. He gasps, just slightly, not expecting Anders to rise and meet him like this. He'd wanted the armor off, but he… The elf shivers, and then purrs again. For a moment, he loses himself entirely in that touch, sylvan green green eyes closing as he leans forward, bearing some of his weight onto Anders, losing the ability to support himself. The lyrium lights under Anders' hands, but it does not burn, just sings. He tilts his head slightly, instinctively, giving Anders a slightly harder time at his neck, but more access to his ear, the touch to which makes Fenris grip suddenly onto Anders' shoulders.

The lyrium singing beneath his hands is a new sensation for Anders. It's the warmth and the texture of all that skin he'd been after, but the way the markings light up with his touch is heady. Feeling Fenris all but collapse against him is perfect. This is pleasure - of several different kinds - and giving it like this sates something deep and raw in Anders. The sudden grip to his shoulders is momentarily worrisome, but when there is no effort made to stop him, to push him back or clamber away, it dawns on him. A slow, wicked smile spreads across his mouth where it is pressed to Fenris' throat, for a moment simply still and breathing in the scent of his skin. Gently - carefully - he laps at the shell of Fenris' ear, little kitten licks that tease until he finds the lobe and sucks on it lightly, worrying it ever so slightly between his teeth. It's an experiment conducted with tender touches and all done while his hands rub soothing circles over hips and back; for Anders, there is so much joy simply in the act of giving pleasure. He is eager to learn how to do that for Fen.

Silly human.

It makes Fenris smirk a little, even, the slow dawning of Anders' understanding. His smugness doesn't last through the pleasure, though, and he is soon buckling again. Anders is slowly gaining more of his weight in slow percentages, like taking ground. The purring returns, low and rumbling, as Anders makes his gentle experiment of his ear. But Fenris has managed to regain some composure, even as a small, moan, muffled for him biting his lip, is brought forth by Anders' teeth upon his earlobe. All of this sensation, it was dizzying, so much more intense than anything he'd been allowed before. None the less, his hands move to the hem of Anders' shirt, fingers slipping under the fabric and pulling it up as his fingers trail over Anders' skin.

Anders is perfectly content to continue his exploration, especially when the purring begins again, humming his own pleasure against the skin at his lips. That little moan makes his chest constrict and his breath stutter, but he goes strangely still when Fenris' fingers curl around the hem of his shirt. It's not that he balks, exactly - and in any rational sense of course it would make no sense to continue with his shirt on - but there is still the same trepidation that was there the morning he was convinced to sleep and forwent his usual sleep habit for the sake of the room's other occupant; the same faltering insecurity that meant only a small section of his shirt was lifted and held up on the beach while he did surgery on his own hip, rather than getting the garment entirely out of the way. He'd seen Fenris' bare torso several times, but has always been careful to conceal his own. The fingertips over his skin elicit a delicious shiver, but even as he submits (with only slight tremors) to the disrobing, he feels compelled to give a warning of sorts. "It's not - " But how to explain that his back was a mess of criss-crossed line-and-curve scarring because he had been incapable of staying inside his cage? "I don't take orders very well." He attempts to make a joke out of it, but his face gives everything away; he's fooling exactly no one.

It hadn't been terribly often that Fenris had gotten this close to anyone who could be construed as shy. No, they were drunken nights, people who were overly forward, people he could be terribly forward with. The perceived shyness makes the elf smirk again. But as there is no move to stop him, no request for it to end, Fenris follows through, pulling Anders' shirt up and then off, tossing it aside to join his armor upon the floor. He's about to lean in to place a kiss to Anders' jaw when the mage speaks and he pauses, blinks. "Don't ta-" Fenris begins to parrot, putting together what Anders has said. "Oh, Maker…"

It's not every day where you are forced to stare into the face of your beliefs and really question them. In his own anger, in his hatred, the Southern Circles, with their Templars and their security, always sounded to Fenris the right idea. The thought of them soothed the scared and scarred parts of his soul that fueled his anger, and his want to keep fighting. He needed that anger. This, though, this he was - somehow - not expecting. It's not the scars that bother him. No, those he wouldn't blink at. After all, plenty of slaves, and escaped slaves, had similar. He was lucky on that front, perhaps, that scarring to such an extent would have disrupted the carefully wrought magic in his flesh. Danarius would never have it, not for Fenris. For others? Frequently. And staring at the evidence of the same cruelty he had seen in the Magisters from the Templars…

The whole thought process takes a few moments, but eventually, Fenris continues leaning in to the mage. In fact, it's perhaps even a touch more passionately. Kissing a fierce line under Anders' jaw, his hands grab at the mage's hips, sliding up his sides, and wrapping over his back, a smooth, fluid motion that does not linger but expresses approval none the less. Eventually, his hands travel over the tops of Anders' shoulders, one trailing down the mage's arm, the other coming to rest on his chest, feeling his heart under his rib cage.

Honestly, Anders isn't sure what he expected to happen when the drawn-out silence finally came to an end - there were possibilities, best- and worst-case-scenarios - but the steady, forceful acceptance that comes hadn't even made the list. Anders' eyes flutter closed, a breathless and disbelieving shiver of a moan working past bitten lips while one hand clutches almost desperately at Fenris' side. It's a hold he maintains even when his other arm shakes and twitches under the fingertips trailing down it, held still until there's a palm flat over his racing heartbeat and suddenly he can't anymore. That arm lifts to meet its mirror match, pressing palm to palm and lacing fingers even as he ducks his head to catch Fenris' mouth with his own - to kiss him fiercely… openly, equal parts hungry lover and sentimental fool.

Fenris was intent on a very specific goal, it seems. And honestly, what sort of hypocrite would he be… Their marks may be different, but the proof his torments is as obvious on his flesh as Anders' is. Arguably, more so. Scars you could hide under clothes. So he lingers on it not, just as he always wishes people would not linger on the lines of lyrium twisting over his body. He laces his finger easily with Anders, and meeting that kiss passion for passion. Once more, the elf shudders, still so entirely overwhelmed with the singing, ringing, bright sweetness that was this touch. So… Familiar… To a part of him, and yet so entirely foreign for most of his senses, to his mind. He takes Anders' lower lip in his teeth, worrying at it, with a sharp fierceness, painful and almost… Territorial. That hand upon Anders' chest pushes into the mage, urging him down again.

Anders drinks in that passion, the shuddering, overwhelming man in his arms eliciting something simultaneously wild and vulnerable. The sharp jolt of pain makes his back arch hard, flinging his head back and instinctively baring his throat with a low, pleased rumble in his chest. He does not resist the press against his chest, but lowers himself down slowly. By the time he is once again stretched out over the bed, his hair has entirely slipped its tie and falls over one shoulder to fan out against the obnoxious quilt. He doesn't tug this time; this time - as he lifts the hand he holds to where he can kiss and lick and nibble on and suck at those fingertips - he will wait and see just where it is Fenris wants them to go.

That bared throat, that pleased noise, the falling back as he is bid… There's a feeling then, something he's known before, something twisted and turned against him. Over Anders like this, so full of wanting, and feeling… Raw and feral and vicious. Fenris growls, but in that pleased, passionate way of lovers, not a warning. The growl deepens to a moan as Anders brings his hand to his mouth, and Fenris shudders, the muscles down his arms twitching and flexing. And all the while the mage's head is turned, and Fenris can see his pulse under his skin, and he presses his body down, so they are chest to chest, and sinks his teeth into Anders' neck, moaning against his flesh. There's that territorial claiming, again, wild and purely instinct.

And Anders beneath him, heat pooling and twisting in his stomach when the rumble of that growl turns into a rich, deep moan - this is soothing, this is freeing. This is everything in his nature that has been used against him his entire life until it turned him entirely inside out and sideways. He doesn't expect the pressure-pain of teeth in his neck… and yet he does. It's a bruising burning that sharpens into something exquisite that draws a loud and broken moan from him, that turns flat fingers into curved clawing grips on his hip while his own buck up against the body pressed to him, whimpering under his breath and oh so needy now. He'll have a livid bruise there for days and Anders is thrilled.

With a moan earned under his teeth, Fenris shifts. Rather than straddling the mage, he slides one leg between Anders' knees, supporting his weight on the other. The hand upon the mage's chest travels downward, slow but firm, fingers curling to rake his nails lightly over the skin of Anders' naval. Stopping at the closure of the mage's trousers, deft fingers begin to pull them loose, fast and fevered, pulling Anders free of his clothing with a hunger he can't contain. Green eyes inspect the mark of his teeth upon Anders' neck, and the elf smirks, a dark and suddenly almost dangerous expression.

The change in posture over him is noticed but not fought against. Anders does try to grind against the leg between his own, seeking friction without having consciously decided to do so. Nails over the sensitive skin on his stomach make the muscles beneath them quiver and twitch, but when Fenris attacks the closures on his trousers, Anders is quick to lift his hips to assist in their removal. Hard and wanting, he sucks in a sharp breath when the chill of the open air meets heated skin, but it's the edge of dark and danger that makes his pulse jump under the mark on his neck. He does not fear Fenris, but that he is powerful and deadly goes without saying; there is something beautiful in it, something entirely magnetic.

Fenris makes short work of Anders' clothes as soon as his hips lift. Really, he should probably be more gentle with other people's property, but he can't help himself. The feral want goes deep, too deep, for him to deny it. Tied up intrinsically with what he is, conditioned to live a hidden box inside his heart and yet… Right, somehow. And the bone-deep exhaustion that comes along with it, the waning high of the fight in the square, it's all… So familiar. So uncomfortably familiar if he stares at it too long.

He opts not to.

With Anders free of his clothing, Fenris unlaces their fingers, sliding down the mage's body with a serious of sharp nips, to collar, chest, naval, hip. Fenris growls, rumbling his chest still pressed against Anders as his slow progression downward continues.

Anders isn't concerned with the lack of care regarding his clothing. It's not like he owns anything nice. What he has is sturdy for the most part, but any damage is certainly reparable. He starts to squirm and shift as Fenris moves down his body, not at all accustomed to any kind of 'passive' role. He moves his arms almost as if he'll try and tug Fenris back up within reach, but the sharp sting of each bite - the change in skin as each one goes from white to aggravated pink - keeps him exactly where he is. He is no seeker of pain or intentional discomfort, but there is something white-hot about the sensation of teeth against his skin that transcends what he typically considers pain and leaves him panting and gasping and all but writhing against Fenris' chest as he moves down the mage's body. Anders doesn't try and change his course, but his torso curls as Fenris moves lower, keeping him close enough that both hands - now free - can stroke over shoulders and arms and any skin he still can reach.

All of the sharpness fades quickly as Fenris reaches what appears to have been his goal. Shivering under Anders' touch, Fenris dips his head to trail his tongue along the underside of the mage's length. One hand still upon Anders' hip, the elf purrs, gripping tightly, his tongue circling the head of the mage's cock with an almost languid precision that is maddeningly slow. The heat and passion are directed to his nails digging into Anders' skin, his mouth now turned to exploration, finesse, and, if he was perfectly honest, no small amount of teasing.

The curling that kept Anders in such easy reach of Fenris' skin snaps like a broken bow string the moment that wicked tongue first touches such sensitive skin. He falls back to the bed, a high and keening whine echoing in the air between them without Anders ever having decided to make the sound. His hips twitch and jerk against the hands that hold them firm and his hands twist fistfuls of sheet and blanket and quilt as that purring, taunting mouth moves over his cock - apparently on a mission to drive him entirely mad. His breathing goes ragged with embarrassing speed, whimpers and soft little sobs soon coming on every single exhale. Most of it is entirely unintelligible, the babbling mind reduced to feral cries and guttural moans, but every so often a word makes it through, single syllables that sound very much like the filthiest prayer ever uttered by somehow sacred lips.

"Fen… oh, Fen, please…"

The speed at which he is able to turn Anders into a whimpering, moaning, begging mess stokes a fire in Fenris' chest. Maker, forgive him, but this was the most keenly satisfying thing he had ever known. The begging, the whimpering, that had all come completely unexpected to Fenris, but it pleases him, and he gasps a moan, shuddering at the sound of Anders speaking with desperation and reverence. And the shortening of his name, even is strangely pleasing, distancing this further and further from the tainted familiarity that hangs in the back of his mind. He's thankful for the distance, each inch of that ground reclaimed with moans and nips and shivers, and shining, bright light. The lyrium in his skin is awakened entirely now, Anders having had so much contact with him, but that song… The way it pulses with his heart, flutters as his eyes close, and fills every inch of his skin with a tingling brightness as he gives in to the request of those moans. Lips parting, Fenris takes Anders into his mouth, warm and soft, purring deep into his throat, felt through his tongue that still pulls slow circles around the head as Fenris dips to take as much of his length as he can manage. His pleasure is clear and crisp as a bell in his mind, amplified and augmented by Anders' own, with the energy shared between them. He shudders involuntarily, pulling his head up and breathing in through his nose, ragged and touched by a moan deep in his chest.

This is not what Anders knows of pleasure. This is not the low and pleasant warmth that comes from the affection received when his efforts are found pleasing - nor is it the bright, hollow flash of quicksilver sensation that comes from quick unions of an entirely physical nature, there one minute and gone the next… often leaving the space it had occupied seeming somehow carved out more for its having been there at all.

This is something entirely new and as the pulsating harmony arcs between them, as all of Fenris' lyrium kindles, as Anders' cock is engulfed in wet heat and undulating pressure, as every sense he has approaches overload… Anders begins to shake. It's a full-body thing, a trembling that is the natural consequence of feeling as though he is about to break apart into innumerable pieces and lose himself entirely in the process. There is something that feels darkly like guilt, to be spiraling this high on pleasure this intense, winding tighter without actively participating in doing the same for his partner. Anders feels so unbelievably good and is absolutely writhing against Fen's hold and twitching hard inside his mouth, but the sounds leaving his lips now border on distressed. He is riding the most impossible wave of pleasure he has ever known and perhaps it's a mark of his nature - that core place that could never be hardened no matter how many tried - of his weakness, but he doesn't want to do it alone. Literally the only thing he wants - he craves - in this insensible moment is to share this - specifically, to share it with Fenris.

Fenris purrs again, continuing his rhythmic, careful work over Anders' length, shuddering with his own pleasure at the process. Deeper back into his throat with each dip of his head, picking up speed. His hand releases the mage's hip, running his hand down his thigh, touching flesh hungrily. When Anders's sounds turn toward distress however, Fenris' eyes open again, looking up at the mage with concern. Slowly, gently, he pulls his mouth away, shifting to move up slightly, his hand coming up to cup Anders' jaw.

"Are you alright?" He asks, voice made slightly hoarse by the recent activity of his throat. He searches for the mage's gaze, holding it and seeming legitimately worried.

It legitimately takes Anders a moment or two to gather enough of his brainpower back to attach thoughts to words and be able to string more than two together at once. The hand that cups his jaw is turned into and nuzzled immediately, the response a base and instinctive one. The question posed, however, Anders finds impossible to answer. The concepts that were a moment ago so crystalline inside his own head now feel hazy and indistinct. Without the immediacy of impending orgasm pounding a beat inside his skull, the guilt and distress feel so much less tangible; no way he tries to explain sounds anything but childish to his own ears and so he takes the path that is familiar. The steps he knows are so much less frightening than the prospect of asking for something he doesn't entirely understand, himself.

"Come here?" he asks, breathless and soft. His hands tug gently at biceps and shoulders - the suggestion of movement, rather than any attempt at force - and he leans up to seek Fenris' mouth with his own.

That request only makes Fenris blink for a moment. He moves as Anders bids, holding himself above the mage once more, and meeting his lips to Anders'. This kiss given is a shade gentler however, warm, almost soft. His hand remains at Anders' jaw, thumb passing back and forth across his cheek as he kisses him deeply. The elf doesn't understand the request, but he's not complaining. Just having a hand upon Anders is enough to make him shiver, kissing him is more than satisfying, at least for now, and it is met with yet another purr from the warrior.

Anders watches Fenris' confusion with something a little like helplessness. Fenris wasn't going to be anywhere or do anything he didn't want to - Anders has seen that. He should have trusted that the world wasn't going to end if he just let go - but no. Apparently this is one more item to be added to the list of things of which he is incapable.

He is well-used to moving forward from his own shortcomings and while Anders chases the subtle flavor of his own skin in Fenris' mouth, his hands slide down bare sides toward the trousers still clinging to deceptively slender hips. He brings one hand forward and down, reaching for the center to ghost over the place where the fabric attaches only to pause before touching the strings. He pulls back from that deep (oddly reassuring) kiss only just enough to be able to look into beautiful sylvan eyes.

"May I?"

This man. This mage. Walking in through doors left ajar, climbing into windows left open. At first it was just his being there that made Fenris wonder. Now, though, here he was again. In the deep, dusty rooms he thought well secured, and he's not just there. He's replacing worn down candles, mending the drapes, dusting away cobwebs. And Fenris… He couldn't complain. Looking down into Anders' eyes, the crush in his chest at those words… Those two simple words… How many times had Anders said them at this point? And yet none of the others had felt like this. They'd made him pause, they'd struck him, they'd eased his worry, but this… There was something delicious in this.

"Yes." Fenris says, nearly breathless, shuddering, and leaning to press a hungry kiss to Anders' jaw. There's something more behind it, though. More than just the passion, the pleasure of his touch, the pounding of his heart in his chest… A sweet, churning, tightness, palpable and almost emotionally overwhelming. A gratitude, unspoken, but without need of words.

There is a silence between them here, but it doesn't hurt the wy that silence so often does. Anders watches the face above him, searching for subtle changes and simply learning over again the curves and angles when they aren't folded and pinched into pain or distress. It begins in those heartbeats before Fenris breathes his answer, but that one syllable comes with an explosion of life. There is an affection behind Anders' lungs, so sharp and soft and fragile that it aches in a space that feels too small for it. It frightens him, so soon on the heels of learning that he cannot trust what his own sickly, needy heart tells him is good and what is not. It frightens him how much the trust inherent in that one word lights him up from the inside out. This kind of joy is dangerous.

His entire life has been a lesson in this, if nothing else: it is too dangerous to have anything you cannot bear to lose.

This sensation unfolding in a rib cage that has so little space for air makes his hands shake as they work at the ties which bind Fenris' pants. It is something uncertain - wonderful and terrible in equal measure - and the smart thing to do would perhaps be to escape before he got any further in over his head but, well… Anders is occasionally a colossal idiot. He loosens the ties enough to slide one hand inside the opening created, seeking - fingers making a gentle exploration even as he exhales a single ragged breath and dips his head to suck a love bite into Fenris' shoulder.

Fenris had learned a similar lesson a long time ago. Nothing was permanent, not when he needed to keep moving, and anything that he couldn't bear to leave behind was just pain waiting to happen. And yet, he grew tired, so very, very tired of running. He couldn't keep doing it forever. Eventually, somehow, there would have to be a place that he turned and stood his ground. While Kirkwall had not let him rest since he had arrived, this… This might just be what it is that makes him decide that this where the running stops. He couldn't let Danarius run him to the ends of Thedas.

Lingering thoughts fade away again, however, as his pants are unlaced. Fenris gasps at the touch of Anders' hand, but it is not a noise of disapproval. The elf shudders, taking a ragged breath, and moaning as Anders bites him. The pounding of his heart quickens, bringing color to the edge of his ears, blushing there before anywhere else, always. Such was the curse of elves, their ears always gave them away.

Anders knows a thing or two about running; Kirkwall was supposed to be a stop. The music of gasp, ragged breath and outright moan is so sweet against Anders' ears. He smiles against warm skin and soothes that bruise with swipes of his tongue. One hand rubs soothing circles over the small of Fenris' back, the other wrapping around the length of him for no other purpose than to enjoy the tactile sensation of the weight and heat against sensitive palm. When he starts moving that hand, it's with light touches, slow movements - pressure here and there while he listens to the pattern of Fenris' breathing. It's a sport he has always taken pride in, this ability to find all those little places that make a person writhe and curse, but this feels nothing at all like his usual game. It's softer than that, sweeter than that, Anders letting a little of that sharp affection color the way he touches, the way he soothes, the way he kisses a line up the side of Fenris' neck to pull the sensitive lobe into his mouth once again.

The deep seated shudder that comes from Fenris is almost violent. Never, not once, could he remember pleasure like this without an overwhelming amount of pain. It's but light touches, but Fenris loses himself quickly. His elbow gives up on holding his weight, and he drops to it, burying his face against Anders' shoulder. He moans against the mage's skin, hips rocking to meet his hand.

With a display of the kind of stubborn strength that's been the only thing keeping him alive some days, Anders takes Fenris' weight and rolls them both to their sides. The arm around his back holds him close as Anders' other hand finds a steady rhythm, though never a heavy one. Those rocking hips set his pace for him and the moans against his skin make his own hips jerk against Fenris' leg, but his mouth is soft along the length of that ear as he draws his lover's pleasure as high as he is permitted.

With as wracked with pleasure as Fenris is, there's no resistance to being moved to his side. The moans turn more gratified, and the pace that rocking of his hips set is firm and natural. Almost a dance, the undulation of hips, the shiver that runs down his spine, the gasps as his Anders' lips trail up his ear. The moans turn to whimpers, but they are not noises of distress. Fingers reach up to lace into Anders' hair, holding there firmly, but not pulling. Fenris turns his head, burying his face into the bed beneath them, his other hand gripping at Anders' side, sharper than he likely means. His breathing is heavy, quick, taken in gasps between moans and spasms. "Anders…" The name is moaned long and low, muffled into the quilt.

It may perhaps be sharper than intended, harder than intended, but Anders is so far from complaining. The tight grip in his hair and at his side makes his breath stutter funny and there's a quiet little moan at Fenris' ear. The sound of breathing so labored is wonderful, but the way his name is called has him struggling to breathe, himself. What air he manages to get is expended in soft, heated murmurs that tip perhaps a little too obviously into that kindled affection.

Fenris is too wrapped up in this beautiful, delicious pleasure to care in the slightest bit about the implications of saccharine, heated nothings murmured into his ear. In fact, the sound of those near-nonsense syllables makes the elf shiver, just enough sense made to wind around his heart, to kindle the fire brewing in his chest, the tumultuous of feeling that alights from every inch of his skin. The grip to Anders' side tightens, and he pulls himself closer yet. Away from the quilt his head turns, and the elf buries his face into the mage's neck, hungry, desperate kisses and nips placed to what flesh he can reach. Punctuated with rumbling moans, the tensing of the muscle all through his body makes obvious the edge that Anders is drawing him to in with a surety, though he does not seem to be complaining about that approaching precipice.

Anders sucks in a sharp breath when Fenris turns his attention back to the delicate skin of his throat; it's one of his weaknesses, this stretch of skin, and those sweet nonsense nothings are interspersed with curses just barely breathed. The arm around Fenris' back tightens its grip without Anders really meaning to, fingers dragging down over one shoulderblade, some kind of grounding in this otherwise surreal slice of time. Tangled this close, that tension is obvious - as is its meaning. Knowing his time is short, Anders twists a little uncomfortably, nosing at Fenris' jaw until he can claim that mouth, kissing him deeply as he speeds the pace of the hand driving Fen toward that edge.

"Anders…" Against that name is moaned, released in a breath against the mage's skin. He shivers under the drag over his shoulder, and he growls deep in his throat. But as his mouth is caught, he returns the kiss, breathless and fervent. Desperate, even, and he holds hard to Anders' hair. That increased pace, though, and it's the last of Fenris' self control, shredded and tossed aside. With a cry muffled against Anders' mouth, Fenris shudders through his whole body, his back arching as much as it can without him pulling away from Anders, and Fenris comes to his climax, intense and white hot in his mind. It leaves him shaking, gasping for air, crumpling and breaking their kiss to bury his face once more in Anders' neck. Small, pleased whimpers follow, spasms catching him every few seconds.

There it is, the breaking point; wild and beautiful. Anders works him through it, stilling his hand only when he feels that final shudder into bonelessness. For a moment longer he is simply still, catching his breath in the warm silence. When he does move, it is not much - and certainly not far. His hand is gently pulled free of pants that end up somewhere around the tops of Fenris' thighs in the process, lifted so that from forearm to fingertips he can lick Fen's release from his skin - looking like nothing so much as a very pleased feline. When he is marginally clean again, Anders wraps both arms around the elf burrowed into his neck, his temple and cheekbone resting against soft white hair. With the thumb on one hand, Anders rubs small circles in the small of Fen's back; with the other he strokes gently back and forth along one of his biceps. Obviously, he's not planning on moving any time soon.

Oh Maker, that lapping licking clean of his arm makes Fenris shudder again. Purring, the elf settles against Anders, but his stillness only lasts a moment. He takes a deep breath, taking in the smell of Anders' skin. The warm, fuzzy cuddling is broken suddenly, however, as Fenris places another bite to Anders' neck. Pushing himself up, he presses Anders over onto his back again. The bite doesn't linger, before Fenris is travelling down Anders' body, this time with a trail of kisses. One of his hands reaches between Anders' legs, nimble fingers teasing along Anders' length.

Anders isn't ready for the bite to his neck. He hisses out pain between his teeth, but it's a sting that shoots straight down his spine in a way which makes him tip his head back. At this rate, he'll look like a randy teenager for at least a week and still he welcomes more. The thought makes one corner of his mouth quirk up higher than the other, but it's chased away when he finds himself again on his back. Unquestionably lost, Anders opens his mouth to ask when words are cut off by a choked sort of whimper. Maker, did that come from him? But there are kisses moving along his torso and fingers reaching down to play along the length of his cock. "Fen - " But the question mark doesn't quite make it out into the sound. Still hard and sticky from where he'd been leaking, even the lightest brushes feel like sparks over his skin. He can't breathe; the world is still spinning while he tries to figure out the jump from Point A to Point C. It's not easy to think through the sudden pleasure, but damn it, he's going to try.

"Yes?" Fenris does manage to ask after the tone in that statement of his name, but he doesn't stop. Let it not be said that he's a selfish lover, he's at least got that much going for him. There's a smirk at the touch of confusion he can feel from the mage. Did he think Fenris would just expect to be done? That was cute. With a rumbling moan he takes Anders once more into his mouth, returning, it seems, where had left off before.

Well, actually… yes, that's exactly how 'the mage' expected things to shake out. Isn't that how these things usually worked? "I - what're you - fuck." Anders doesn't even get a chance to finish his question before there is a mouth where a moment ago there were only fingers (which were hard enough to think through) and everything is cut off by the high, drawn-out keening it rips from his throat. He scrabbles for purchase a moment, eventually taking up again those fistfuls of bedclothes and doing his level best to try and remember how to breathe.

Fenris looks up to Anders, but does not lift his mouth away. There's the smallest hint of a smirk, but it fades quickly, difficult to maintain with a cock in his mouth. How these things normally worked… Maker, no. When Fenris bothered to force himself past his pain because he needed this, he didn't waste time with making a poor time of it. And this time, he doesn't even have to contend with the pain. Anders's surprise just encourages him, and he dips to take him to the hilt into his throat, purring low and pleased. His hand reaches up to one of the mage's, prying his fingers free from the quilts, holding it tightly.

…now that's an image that will follow Anders for as long as he lives. The sight of Fenris looking at him with his mouth full of cock and looking entirely, beautifully smug… it shoots heat straight through the parts of Anders that have always found precise applications of impressive power incredibly attractive. Anders cannot speak to any experiences but his own and this… so many things about this are different that a traitorous voice in the back of his head (which sounds suspiciously like a certain aggravating Templar and his hopeful passenger) points out a solid 'told you so'. It's a depressing train of thought to follow to its natural conclusion, but Anders is given no time to consider anything beyond the elf currently attempting to short-circuit his brain. The hand stealing his grip from the quilts is perhaps most surprising of all, but Anders holds to it tightly as he struggles against the urge to buck up into more of that heat.

Well, it's certainly obvious this is not the first time Fenris has done this. Feeling the tensing that can only mean the want to lift his hips, Fenris shifts so his shoulders don't pin the mage. Dipping his head down, and pulling up by the indicated speed of that tensing, he subtly encourages Anders to buck if he wishes to. He's not made of glass, it wouldn't break him. Breathing through his nose, he holds the mage's gaze for another moment before his eyes close again, and he purrs once more. Placing his weight on his knees and the wrist of the hand that is laced with Anders', he takes his other hand and slides it down Anders' thigh, sliding just under Fenris' own mouth, careful fingers caressing sensitive flesh.

If a karate chop from the ass-end of a Qunari greatsword didn't break Fenris - and it very demonstrably only cracked him a little - Anders is fairly certain nothing can. Certainly nothing he can do, at any rate. But even when Fenris shifts his shoulders and tugs with his mouth in a way that makes Anders see white and shake as his breath catches in his throat, he remains still. His muscles clench and strain, but there is no more than a slight rock - an involuntary downward press into the source of that pleasure. The rumble of purring around him has Anders loosing a string of whimpers that slur down into a desperate whining, but it's the fingers exploring beneath that mouth that make the center of his back arch up off the bed.

Well, it did break him, to be fair. He's alive, but he'd been more than a little broken. That would have been nasty to deal with if he hadn't caved to Anders' healing. Nevertheless, this certainly wouldn't do so. Deft fingers cup and trace gentle circles, exploring what touches elicit stronger reactions than others. For just a moment, Fenris pulls his mouth away with a flick of his tongue, looking up to the mage, smirking more properly this time. "You don't have to hold still, you know." He says, glancing to Anders' hips, noting their tenseness obviously. He doesn't wait for an answer to that however, dipping his head down again, quick and firm and eager.

Pfft. Anders had seen that lyrium-lit fury racing toward him; there's a degree of impossible invulnerability that will likely forever surround his perception of the elven warrior. There is still a touch of awe when he lifts his head enough to meet that wicked gaze with his own, but its cause is much more complex than simple, straightforward heroism. The combination of wet heat and pressing fingers is one that sends him spiraling higher and higher until he feels the faintest touch of that same lack of control that so distressed him earlier. When Fenris pulls back and smirks up at him properly, Anders has the urge to kiss him until he's stolen the expression to keep for his own. "Of course I - " But Fenris doesn't wait and the eagerness is what finally lights the candle in his head. His experience at being on this side of this particular act is relatively limited, but the encouragement - the explicit permission to move - makes it possible that Fenris' tastes are somewhere closer to his own than usual. Releasing some of the tension around his pelvis feels wonderful. He's not so far gone as to start fucking the mouth that brings such pleasure, but there are little jerks and rolls every time a particularly sensitive place is brushed. His grip on Fenris' hand tightens and one particularly deep swallow has him struggling to keep breathing. "Yes, Fen. Yes, please… please." It's as before - as always; insensible pleading means he grows close, need overwhelming his mind's capacity to know what it craves, only that it does and deeply.

Maker forgive him, but that pleading felt nice. Why, exactly, he couldn't tell, but it makes him purr, deep and satisfied. The little rolls and jerks and shivers lead Fenris to following. He takes them as cues, repeating actions and testing, to see how much reaction he can draw from the mage before he loses all control. The elf shivers himself, the grip at his hand growing tight enough to not be something easily ignored. Though he's not complaining about that at all, it seems.

That grip of hands is an anchor to which Anders clings gratefully. His body feels like it is simultaneously being wound up and unspooled, leaving a trembling to start in his limbs and move along into his core. Fenris' efforts undo him remarkably, slowly tailoring themselves to those that make his thighs burn hot and his spine arc back like his body thinks it could fold him backwards if not for the bed. It is an embarrassingly short length of time before Anders is writhing and panting and begging, entirely helpless beneath Fenris. It's enough strong sensation that his own release takes him by surprise, A single shout trailing into rough moans interspersed with repetitions of 'Fen' and 'Fenris' as his hips give one hard jerk off the bed and then slowly go still until he is entirely spent.

Fenris would, like many people in Kirkwall today, take solace in small victories. (Must be a theme.) And this definitely counted. Moaning against the cock in his throat, Fenris can feel the tell tale twitches that come before release. Taking Anders deep into his throat, he swallows back the mage's release, holding his breath. As it finally ends, he pulls his mouth away with a small gasp, breathing a moment before crawling back up to face Anders properly. Unlacing his hand from the mage's, he settles over him for a moment, leaning down to nuzzle in the Anders' jaw with another low purr.

One lesson that has stuck with Anders fairly hard over the last few years is that there is nothing else but the small victories you carve for yourself. Laying in bed like a limp noodle with Fenris warm over top of him and nuzzling into his jaw - purring - absolutely counts as a victory. Especially since the day could have ended a lot worse. He doesn't fight the tug that separates their hands, moving his now to rest, warm against Fenris' bare back. The purring nuzzle makes him smile, sated and dopey and happy like a physical sensation. He leans into the touch at first and then turns his head, pressing slow, lazy kisses to his lover's mouth.

The kisses are returned, warm and languid. Eventually, slowly, Fenris turns so he slips onto the bed beside Anders, finally letting his arms stop supporting his weight. Lifting a hand, he runs it through Anders' hair slowly, watching golden locks pass through his fingers, over and over. The exhaustion was catching up to him now, in the way his arm trembled, in the relaxing of his shoulder, the way his eyes grew heavy and lidded. Nevertheless there remained a faint, lazy smile upon his face, not quite crooked enough for a smirk, but not unlike one either.

It's Anders' turn to purr, safe and happy and warm. Well, warm-ish. The room's air starts to feel a bit chill on bare skin when still. As Fenris settles on his side, Anders reaches behind himself to tug over that side of the ridiculously large, bright quilt covering the bed so that it folds them in like a sandwich. He doesn't withdraw the arm afterwards either, settling it around Fenris' waist and leaning into the body heat and the hand in his hair. It's terribly cliche, but this is comfortable in a way beyond Anders' experience; he falls asleep in moments and for once in his life will sleep the whole night through if he's allowed to.

In fact, he is allowed. Fenris doesn't stir him. It's only a few moment after Anders falls asleep that Fenris does as well. And while his sleep isn't completely peaceful, it never is, it is much more so than usual. And his small moments of wakefulness are calm, quiet, easy to fall back into darkness from.

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