Work Text:
The blasted mage stepped close, barely a breath away in the darkness of his mansion, and Fenris didn’t know why he wasn’t doing anything – backing away, turning tail to flee – either would be acceptable alternatives to the pleasurable shiver he gave as Anders ran a hand down his arm. Fenris had sought comfort from all sorts in the past, and his encounters left him experienced to know where this was leading; lips parted, breath quickening, eyes wandering all over him… He knew Anders was going to kiss him, and yet when the mage’s lips touched his own, he gave a start. Anders jerked back immediately. Exactly like he had before.
It was two days ago, the morning light was just beginning to show itself, and Anders had run away as soon as he kissed him.
“I’m sorry,” he sighed. His voice was soft and low and Fenris had to force down the thought of that voice whispering filthy things in his ear. “I know you don’t… Think of me in that way, and we’ve come so far… I don’t want to ruin this friendship.” Anders huffed in laughter. “If you can call it that.”
Fenris tilted his head in honest thought. “I don’t know what I’d call it.”
The two had certainly worked up something of a truce over the last year or so – Hawke’s outburst at the Hanged Man had shocked them into re-evaluating aspects of both themselves and each other. They’d slowly but surely stopped fighting every time they saw each other, then gradually progressed from forced civility to genuinely not hating each other. Hawke had watched them with a knowing smirk joining her usual sharp gaze whenever the two were together. After weeks of finding himself pondering Anders’ smile or what exactly he wore under his robes – often in the most inconvenient moments – Fenris was beginning to understand just why she’d been smirking. It pained him to admit it, but he knew now that he liked the mage. Like liked him. Maker, it was sickening.
And it appeared that the ridiculous mage liked him too.
“Fenris?” He’d been silent for a moment too long, and Anders was looking at him with concern. “Are you alright? Maybe I should-” he turned to leave, but Fenris grabbed his arm, feeling the sharp sting of magic even through his gauntlet.
“Stay, please.” His voice was so rough compared to the mage’s, like a farm-hand addressing a prince. “I know that the two of us becoming," he struggled for words, "entangled is a bad idea. But that does not mean I do not want to.”
“You… Would want to… Entangle yourself? With me?” Anders looked as though he was about to laugh, but for what reason, Fenris could not tell. “Maker, but I am a lucky man."
That time, Fenris didn't startle, and they kissed long and slow.
They’d been in the library of Fenris’ reclaimed mansion when this all began. Anders had wanted to borrow a book – any book. He claimed he needed something to read before bed, but Fenris knew how hard Anders worked at his clinic, and when he wasn’t there he was out working even harder to help Hawke with the Quest of the Day. Fenris had seen the weariness seeping into the mage’s body during the last few hours of the day, and knew that when the last patient was healed or enemy killed, his shoulders sagged to the floor and it took him twice as long to open his eyes after blinking. And then there was his Manifesto. Anders didn’t have time to read.
Although he apparently had time to ‘drop by’ Fenris’ mansion and linger in his library. He wasn’t complaining, though; Anders was regal in the fading light and Fenris had succumbed to his need to study the way his hair shone gold and his eyes darted, ever bright, over the spines of the books.
He'd drifted again, lips slowing, and Anders brought him back with a feather-light touch to his face. Long, slender fingers trailed down his cheek and neck, coming to the hidden buckle of his breastplate and undoing it slowly. Fenris held his breath, but didn't stop him. Anders worked slowly through the other buckles until he was able to drop the armour to the floor, leaving Fenris defenseless but for his gauntlets. Somewhere between the third and fourth buckle Fenris had begun breathing again, and now his chest rose and fell as though he was in battle. Anders glanced up from his task and was surprised to see Fenris' eyes boring into his own.
“Okay?” he asked.
Fenris couldn’t quite make his mouth work, but nodded instead. The mage’s hands immediately slid to the hem of his shirt and under, encircling his waist with slim fingers and Fenris was woken. His mouth worked fine when it was pressed against Anders’; moving hard and fast, tongue teasing noises from deep in Anders’ throat and wandering hands satisfying his need to touch. The gauntlets weren’t helping, he decided, and not breaking the kiss he tore them off. The clang of metal on the stone floor made Anders jump and he pulled away – only to reattach his lips to the elf’s neck instead. It was Fenris’ turn to moan as sparks shot from his tongue, dancing on the slave markings he hated so fiercely.
Fenris had prepared himself for the burn of magic, the usual sting and ache that came in waves when a mage lay hand on him, but it didn't come. Instead, the ache was subtle, a pulse that was so intense it bordered on uncomfort – but not pain. There was no pain.
It was the lack of pain that spurred him on, and suddenly cloth was flying everywhere. Skin to skin, they fell back against the wall, limbs, tongues and thoughts tangled into a web neither could escape from – even if they so desired. Anders was moaning and squirming deliciously between the wall and another hard place, Fenris drinking in any sound the mage deigned to make. He’d never had such a vocal lover; Anders was louder even than the pirate had been, and Fenris loved it.
When they’d sunk to the floor, sweaty and exhausted and thoroughly pleased with themselves, doubt began to seep back into Fenris' mind. Should he have restricted himself as viciously as he would've a few years ago? Was this change in him for the better, or was he just reopening himself up to a familiar world of hurt?
Anders ran a slender finger down a strand of his tattoo and the elf decided that he didn't care. Such thoughts could wait until the morning.