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Garrett spends the walk back from Dark- to Hightown in a complete daze. Still, it’s probably some of the fastest walking he’s ever done.
*
Anders kisses like himself; deep, yearning, earnest. Also, while he's on the analogy, hot.
Garrett shifts beneath him on the bed, draping his arms languorously around Anders' neck, letting him open up the kiss, slip his tongue past Garrett’s lips, his weight pressed comfortably against him.
If he's honest with himself, he's still stubbornly in a state of not quite believing this is actually happening, that Anders is on top of him, willingly, in his own bed, because it hasn't happened in three blighted years, so why start now?
Garrett smiles, lazy, as Anders skims his mouth over his beard, down his throat, all blunt teeth and hot tongue as his hands get more insistent.
Anders sits up suddenly, straddling his thigh, and it’s funny because the heat should be gone, and it sort of is, but Garrett still feels just as feverish. Anders fumbles at the clasps of his coat, his hands so much less steady this time, and a few moments seem like an eternity before he finally shrugs the coat off his shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?” he says, staring down at him. He rakes his eyes over Garrett's body, unashamed, and that's more than alright because Garrett is doing the same.
“Hm,” he murmurs, and he lets his hands settle at Anders' hips, “I think we met about... what, three years ago?” Maker's breath, he's slender--all smooth slopes and hipbones.
Anders chuckles. “That's what I like about you, you're so modest.”
Garrett eyes him. "You talk a lot." Then he tightens his grip and grinds his leg against Anders' cock through his trousers, and Anders, half-hard already, shuts his eyes and groans.
That's the final straw. Garrett clambers up, slipping his hands under the thin cotton of Anders' shirt, rocking his leg against him. His skin's soft, not like a warrior's, warm against Garrett's palms. He winds his hands through Anders' clothes, one into his hair and the other tangling in his smalls to grip the curve of his ass.
It's like they're teenagers, Garrett nipping at his throat so he can hear those little noises Anders makes with every rock, his breath hot on his ear. He must have bathed somewhere that wasn't Darktown, because his skin tastes clean, musky, and the thought warms Garrett in a deep place.
Anders presses him back down into the bed, still gripping at his thigh. "Garrett," he whispers, a half-moan, before pulling back.
"You talk a lot," he repeats, but he smiles breathlessly. Anders gazes down at him, a curious and rather wicked look on his face.
"This isn't your first time, is it? With a man?"
The question takes him by surprise. The proper answer is a resounding not even close, sweetheart but that might be a bit of a mood-killer, and he'd worked so hard at the fireplace. He thinks, and it takes him back to places, places that unfortunately aren't here but probably ultimately led him here, and then he laughs.
"Good," Anders says, understanding, and he believes him, because his expression is a strange but congruous mix of sincere and breathtakingly predatory. "But have you ever been with a mage?"
Whatever intent is on Anders' face, Garrett most definitely wants to be the focus of it. "I'll bite," he says, "what could I possibly be missing out on?"
Anders leans forward, rolling his hips over Garrett's for good measure, and hovers inches over him, silent except for that look of excitement and affection and hunger, which, really, speaks volumes itself, and suddenly the anticipation is bursting from his chest.
Then Anders kisses him, but this time it's different--there's a tingling at their lips, arcane and warm, and when he pushes the kiss deeper Garrett can't keep his gasp back, because the tingling is on his tongue, running along his teeth, into the back of his throat.
Ah, he realizes.
Anders slips his hands from his hair and slides them under his shirt, riding it up, and the sudden warmth of his skin and his tingling hands on him make Garrett’s dick twitch between them. Garrett grinds up against him, tangling their legs together as he clutches at him, and when Anders groans, the electricity pulses.
That day on the Coast, when Isabela and Anders had realized they knew each other, and then when they realized they knew each other, Garrett had been equal measures skeptical and flabbergasted. Anders, it turned out, had quite the sordid past, and Garrett wasn’t quite ready to wrap his mind around that, though he was always more than willing to wrap his legs around it.
But now he understands, or he's beginning to, and it takes all his bloody power to not just rub himself against Anders like a cat in heat, though Anders might appreciate the analogy. "Maker," Garrett breathes, "why are we still wearing clothes?"
Anders laughs, and he answers by tugging Garrett's shirt over his head and flinging it off the bed; his own is so loose he practically falls out of it. In the three years they've known each other, this is the first time he's seen Anders without all his meddlesome robes and pauldrons and chastity belts. He's flushed, with fine, dark blond hair dusting his chest, and all that skin there, his to touch, to taste, and as much as that sounds like one of those brilliant Orlesian novels, right now all he really wants out of life is to put his mouth all over Anders.
And Anders, Maker bless him, has the same idea, hungrily and maybe a little desperately biting at his collarbone, down his chest, over a sensitive nipple as Garrett clutches at him. His hands are still electric, and he’s sliding them over Garrett’s skin in reverence, leaving trails of tingling hairs on end.
There’s a small tug at his waist as Anders unlaces his trousers, and Garrett slips his fingers into Anders’ hair and pulls him up for the shallowest of kisses, distracting from that brief moment of blind, brilliant anticipation as Anders slips his hand down, over tan skin and coarse black hair--then he curls his fingers around Garrett's cock and they both groan.
"Is that what you want, then?" Garrett murmurs through his grin, and Anders smiles, deceptively sweet because there's that deviousness lingering still behind his eyes.
"You're what I want," he says, stroking at his cock gently, no trepidation, enough to coax his erection along, like a prologue of everything he has to offer.
"Oh, well, lucky you." Garrett rolls his hips into the touch and fumbles at Anders' trousers, eager to touch back, but he bats him away.
"Let me," he whispers, breathless. "I want to do everything to you."
What little blood's left in the rest of Garrett's body rushes to his head. "Who's to say that feeling's not mutual?" he says, but his bravado's dampened a bit by the heavy heaving. The look on Anders' face could light up the Deep Roads--all of it, and he kisses Garrett again, soft and full of adoration, before sliding off the bed and between Garrett's legs.
"Let's shimmy these off," he says, so with a flush of excitement Garrett lifts his hips as Anders helps him out of trou. For all his confidence he’s been practically a priest for almost a year, not quite, but bloody close, and being completely naked before someone so important rightfully has his stomach starting at knots out of habit--but it’s a good kind of knots, and one look at Anders’ face as his eyes darken with lust sends the last remnants of hesitation running.
He moves to sit, but Anders smirks up at him. "Best to stay put, love. Unless I've become completely rubbish at this, you won't be able to hold yourself up."
The cheeky shit; that confidence makes his cock jump. "I'm sure you're just a marvel at it," he says, grabbing a pillow to prop his head, because damned if he isn't going to watch every second of this. "Either way, you'll not catch me complaining about getting my dick sucked."
"You’d better not, I might just leave," Anders purrs, and then he's leaning forward and licking the tip of his cock so coyly, and Garrett's toes curl. It starts slow, Anders easing back the foreskin, tracing lazy, tingling circles up his thigh as his tongue grows bolder.
That, Garrett thinks, as Anders licks a long, hot stripe from base to head, was the emptiest threat he’s ever heard. He sighs contentedly and watches Anders through heavy eyes.
Anders works lavishly, savoring every inch of him while Garrett grips at the bedsheets, and he’s wearing a confidence like he's the master of all things blowjob. Which, right now, he might as well be. Garrett squirms, groans as that insatiable need for more courses his body. "Come here often?" he smarts, breathily, but his mind is foggy, and Anders is two steps ahead of him.
"I hope to," he says. He cups Garrett’s balls in hand, gently rolling them, slides his other hand under Garrett, fingers on the base of his back, and before he can get out a pithy, bit far north, there, aren’t you, white hot pleasure rockets from his spine to his groin as smallest nips of electricity escape Anders’ fingertips. He’s never felt anything like it--it’s like someone’s touched a magic (capital M) nerve, and he has to bite the back of his hand to muffle his sharp cry. Anders does at it again, that tingle and touch of his fingers as he sucks eagerly at the head of Garrett's cock, and he moans around his arm, chews at his lip, then buries his hands in Anders' hair.
"That's rude," Anders says lightly, easing Garrett's hands from his hair and pushing them down at his sides. "I've barely gotten started."
"Yes, well, all that magic's made me a blushing virgin, so get to it," he says, but obligingly keeps his hands on Anders' shoulders instead.
Anders eases off the sparkles for a moment, sliding bare fingers along his erection like worship, other hand still gently playing at his balls, letting the slow burn of need agonizingly build. Then he leans down, granting him the smallest of warning smirks, and Garrett gasps when his balls are suddenly enveloped in a wet, blinding heat--Anders has drawn them into his mouth, tongue rolling over the loose, soft skin. Garrett loops a flexible leg around Anders' neck, pulling him closer. His cock is painfully unattended, because he’s painfully hard, the gasps coming unbidden from his mouth now, and bollocks to this.
He grabs Anders by the nubby topknot, and this time he has no smart reply; he just flings Garrett a breathy smile, eyes crinkling, and takes him into his mouth.
“Anders,” he moans, foggy from the wonderful warmth of his mouth, sucking, licking, and Garrett slithers his other leg over Anders’ shoulder, toeing down his skinny back. Anders pushes his legs impossibly further apart, but not impossibly for Garrett, because all that leaping and slashing and general roguery has left him rather bendy.
He’s lost the struggle to keep his hips down, and Anders bobs forward, takes him so deeply his nose touches Garrett’s groin. He can feel his cock brush the back of Anders' throat, muscles spasming around him, sweet Maker, and the room is silent and heavy but for the sounds of skin and breath.
Anders is gorgeous like this, head tucked between his legs, breath hitching as he deep-throats, and only possibly metaphorical sparks flying--Garrett can't tell if it's magic or just Anders, because Anders is magic.
He’s so close, wrapped in that wet heat, thrusting into it, but suddenly the hand at his balls turns sharp, and the air is chilly on his dick as Anders withdraws. Just like that, he's off the tantalizing edge.
"Oh, you bastard," he says, groaning.
"My mother was a lovely woman," Anders smirks, voice a bit hoarse, his lips swollen and red like he's just had a dick in them, and when he lifts Garrett's thighs around his hips, Garrett growls.
"I suppose it's too much to ask if you've got anything, isn't it, you tease?"
"Unfortunately," he sighs, fingers dancing idly over Garrett's thighs. "Magic can only do so much, but--"
Garrett groans again, lurching toward the bedside drawer and rummaging for the phial of oil he keeps--should have had it ready, so stupid--then throws it at Anders maybe a little harder than strictly necessary.
Anders smirks and pulls the stopper with his teeth, and unless he spits it back into the bottle Garrett doesn't give a toss where it goes. He'll--they'll--use every bloody drop of it if he has anything to say about it, and Garrett always has something to say.
Anders sits back on the bed, gazing over Garrett’s spread legs and glistening dick as he coats his fingers in oil, as if this was going to turn out any other way. Anders, he decides, is a master at his craft, and what an excellent craft to master.
The reality of the situation hits him full force--he wants this so much, but not just this, he wants all of it, so as desperate as he is, he drags Anders up to kiss him again. But Anders is better at compromise than he lets on, his kiss thoughtful as he slips his hand between Garrett’s legs, oily fingers teasing the sensitive skin so Garrett’s shuddering against him.
“Are you ready?” Anders whispers.
“Is that a real question?”
Anders laughs, sitting upright as he slides his dry hand reverently down Garrett’s taut belly, grasps his hip--and then he’s pushing in, just the one finger, through tight muscle, and Garrett clutches at the bedsheets. Anders inhales sharply at the feel of him, wriggles his finger deeper, massaging inside him, and it feels phenomenal, but--
“Don’t take--nnngh--” he moans as Anders strokes a little harder, “Don’t take your time on my account.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint,” he says, and Garrett moans again when a second finger pushes in slow, so tight, and he clenches reflexively. Anders leans down and takes the head of Garrett’s cock in his mouth, and he’s not sure if it’s to loosen him up or because Anders just can’t help himself, probably both, but either way it’s worked because now he’s sucking and stroking and stretching, and Garrett’s writhing down on his fingers.
"Ohh," he manages. "Do the electricity thing again. Inside me."
Anders stops, breath catching at Garrett's words. "Not yet, love," he says, "trust me." Garrett groans, pushing down on Anders' hand, legs spread, toes curling, eager for so much more, and Anders probably can't help the tiny sparks.
It's hard to get purchase to grind down, and he must look like an eager Rose whore right now, more's the better, and Anders isn't helping at all, content to just watch him, rapt, as he practically fucks himself.
"You're beautiful," he says softly. "All the time, but especially like this."
"That's my charm, now do it." Anders smirks in response--that lopsided grin of his--and withdraws his fingers, leaving an aching emptiness, and then he's pulling away, sitting at the edge of the bed and decidedly not sticking his dick in Garrett's ass.
"What are you doing?" he demands.
"I am not laying with my boots and trousers on. Not this first time, anyway."
"That’s very romantic," Garrett groans, straining with the effort to not do... do something, likely involving hands and Anders and both of those things taking care of him. "Now get back in the blighted bed and fuck me, you sod."
Anders' hands stumble at his boot buckle and he flushes pink, Garrett notes with deep satisfaction, but he won't be deterred. "Not until I've done off these boots."
Garrett digs the heels of his hands into his eyes; he knows he’s being petulant and impatient, but Maker, a man could only take so much. But when he hears the soft thud of boots hitting the floor, and opens his eyes to see Anders freeing himself from those incorrigible trousers, cock hard and reddened and delicately curved, it’s all he can do to shift his open legs in invitation, as if he didn’t already have warm oil spilling from his ass.
Anders (for his part) seems more than fine with it as he crawls toward him, smoothing his hands up the insides of Garrett’s thighs, and it’s finally going to bloody happen--but then he stops, leans back on his haunches, their cocks touching from the proximity, and unties the band in his hair, shaking it free and massaging the shape out of it.
"You'll pay for this, you know," Garrett growls.
Anders smiles, his hair falling in his face, looking like he should never not be in Garrett’s bed. "Promises."
Anders grabs the phial again and drips it over his cock and into his hand, but for once in Garrett’s miserable life he’s determined to pull himself out of his typical mire of selfishness, so he stills Anders’ hand and strokes with his own, reveling in the feel of Anders’ cock under his fingers, in his tentative gasps as Garrett thumbs at the tip. Anders pushes into his touch, those muted little thrusts probably painful from restraint. The oil is especially slick, beading where Anders has already leaked, and Maker take him, Garrett can feel how empty he is, how much he needs this, now.
"That's enough," he grunts against Anders' shoulder, "it's enough, it's fine, Anders..."
Anders nods silently, probably the most affirmation he can give, and Garrett tries to roll onto his front, but Anders stops him and cups his cheek.
"No," he says, "I want to see you." It's so puncturingly sweet that even now, trembling like a white Orlais virgin and wanting nothing more than to be fucked out of his mind, Garrett can't stop himself from brushing his lips against Anders' and smiling into a kiss.
All the fuzzy feelings in the world don’t overcome the heat of Anders against him, and he snatches a pillow and stuffs it under his ass, elevating himself. Anders gets the wordless, frustrated message, sitting up with dick in hand, positioning, and Garrett feels the head press against his sensitive skin.
“Please,” he hisses, not begging, definitely not begging.
And then Anders eases forward, pushing in, past that tight muscle, and he groans deep, “Ohh, Garrett...”
He forces himself to relax, adjust to the feeling of Anders’ cock, inside him, slowly filling him, thick and deep. It should burn, but Anders' suddenly cool hand is on his hip, so it doesn't, no pain, all stretch and heat. He's barely got sense left enough to notice Anders, face buried in Garrett's chest, dazed at how tight he is--for the first time tonight, Garrett’s wiped that clever expression off his face, stripped him to gasping and gnawing at his own lip, like being inside him has made him finally lose control.
Anders chuckles, a desperate noise, and Garrett can feel the exertion of his body, of his willpower, fighting to not stay in this clingy but spectacular limbo forever, or at least too long to still be considered decent sex. But then Anders gets it together, his hands back on Garrett’s hips, and when he pulls out, pushes back in, it steals Garrett’s breath.
"Maker,", he moans.
"Anders," Anders corrects.
You utter scamp, he wants to say, wants to grab his ass and pull him tight, wants more of that cock deep inside him, Anders all around him. He feels every taut thrust, the friction of him pushing through muscle, and he spreads his legs, wraps them tighter around Anders' waist, anything to pull him closer, drive his cock deeper. Anders moans, whispering his name as he crushes his hips down, and Garrett can't hold his eyes open anymore. Anders' hand is at his balls again, fingers tugging, rolling, sending jolts of pleasure and that not-quite-electricity, and it's a wonder he can keep up his rhythm with fingers dancing at the head of Garrett's cock and Anders’ mouth--still tingling--catching at a nipple. The whole room is crackling with energy.
He digs his heels into Anders’ back, but it’s not enough, so Garrett clutches Anders tight and with a grunt rolls him over, onto his back, dick still buried inside him, and slides down all the way until he can feel Anders’ groin against his ass. Anders’ grasps his hips as Garrett wipes the sweat from his brow, clutches at his own hair, and rolls his hips forward.
Anders’ mouth is caught open as he stares up at Garrett through messy hair, just watching him as he rides shamelessly, grinding down, searching for that spot--
"Oh," Garrett gasps, catches his breath, groans, "Right there, yes."
Anders manages an elated smile, gently stroking the underside of Garrett’s dick, thumbing at the tip as Garrett builds up rhythm quickly, anything to hit that spot again and again, Anders’ hips raising to meet him with a satisfying slap of skin against skin.
He’s breathing hard now, sliding onto his elbows and bowed around Anders, angling just so as Anders thrusts tightly into that spot of nerves, and it’s so good, so perfect.
The pressure is building, deep inside him, almost unbearable, and he hears himself moan--then Anders stills, pulls out, and the moment is gone again, maddeningly out of reach. Garrett can't move; he’s paralyzed and empty without Anders inside him. Anders pulls him low, whispers hotly in his ear, “Headboard.” He scrapes his teeth over Garrett’s ear, on that spot high on his neck behind his beard, and Garrett somehow finds it in himself to obey. Unwinding himself from Anders is torturous, but he does it, maneuvers up, away, on his knees and clutching the headboard.
Anders is at his back, hand sliding around his waist, cock pressed against him, ready, and the anticipation is practically enough to kill him. The vague part of his brain that still functions is swearing to pay Anders back tenfold, but then Anders pushes in, filling him so slowly, so completely, and his thoughts vanish. Garrett fights a groan down, doesn't say anything, just listening to Anders' desperate breathy noises.
"Just do it," Garrett finally breaks, "Maker, you are the biggest tease in history of the world." He feels Anders grin against his shoulderblade, and then he's moving, thrusting, driving even deeper than before.
He tries to push back, practically bloody bouncing on Anders’ cock, his moans getting louder, unbidden and wavering, and with as deep and strong as Anders pushes, it doesn't take long for the pressure to mount again.
Anders presses a finger just above where his cock is buried in him, and Garrett feels the tingling for a split second before white heat floods his body, and suddenly every thrust, every brush against that spot is magnified. Garrett can't stop his shout, and he loses his grip on the wood, falling, but that only drives Anders' thrust harder, and that's all he needs.
Teeth grinding, face twisted, snapped tight and drugged by that unstoppable pace of Anders deep inside him, Garrett uncoils, releases. Orgasm rockets through him, amplified by magic, whiting out his vision and roaring in his head, and somewhere on the other side of coherence he feels Anders muffles a cry as he comes inside him, dazzling and freeing and probably sticky.
Garrett exhales shakily.
They're both curled around the headboard, and Garrett falls into a boneless flop. Anders is still lazily stroking him, still buried inside him, and normally it would start to hurt, but all that blighted magic... the room is spinning pleasantly and he just feels like he's floating.
Anders snakes his arms around him, his lips at Garrett’s neck, possessive, gentle. He finally notices Anders' hands, callused but smooth, smoother than his own, smoother than the Lothering boys', not quite as smooth as the girls'.
“Go lacking for three years,” he hears Anders say, still breathless, behind him, “you have to find some way to make it last.”
Garrett snickers with the only energy he can muster.
They finally pull out and fall backward on the bed, tangled in the pillows and each other. Anders gazes at him, skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, on his back, hair plastered to his face and looking thoroughly fucked. He's gorgeous.
"I think I owe Isabela a sovereign," Garrett says, because every other thought running through his head is a bubbling miasma of deep and intense feelings. "We didn't bet anything. I just feel like, after that, I probably owe her something."
Anders laughs, then rolls over to nuzzle his face in Garrett's neck; he's such a cat person. His stubble tickles, and Garrett slides his arm around Anders, playing idly with his hair.
"I'm serious," Garrett says, "you could write a book with Varric, 'Having The Most Brilliant Magic-Sex and Why Mages Should Be Free'. All that celibacy, a good rutting and..." he fumbles, "capital-M-magic fingers is bound to take the edge off. Chantry attendance shoots up, sex revolution, we can stuff the priests into corsets--"
"Garrett," Anders murmurs, and he must in a good way, because he just looks up at Garrett, adoration in his tired eyes. "You really should stop talking, you're terrible at it," he says, and the obviously resultant kiss is obviously slow and sweet.
*
"I love you," Anders says. The room is quiet, warm from what's left of the fire and their second go of it, and everything smells of sex. It's not quite dawn, and Garrett had been idly (and bonelessly) wondering if he could work in another round of buggering Anders face-first into the coverlet before the moon sets.
But Anders' soft words sink like a stone, and Garrett opens his eyes. Anders sits up, slowly, deliberately, and only the sudden weightless feeling in his chest pushes Garrett to join him.
“I love you,” he repeats, like it's a revelation, like Garrett can't see it in the crows at his eyes, can't feel every pulse of it in his sex.
He takes Garrett’s hand, laces Garrett’s fingers in his, their naked legs wound together in the stained sheets, but that hint of distance still between them, the last remnants of that guard that kept them from this moment for three years, or at least from being bed-mates, because he’s not sure when this moment came about, only that it’s been a long bloody time.
“I’ve been holding back from saying that,” he says, gaze glued everywhere but Garrett’s face. “You should have a normal life, not be tied down to a fugitive with no future.” Anders is talking, reasoning and doubting like he always does, but then his jaw is set, and his hands tighten around Garrett’s.
“But I don’t ever want to leave you.”
It’s like a spring flood, he’s overwhelmed, the words that normally burble like frothing mud from his mouth failing him, for better or worse, and there’s nothing for it, so he just shits, “Want a sandwich?”
...Oh, that could have been better.
Anders rolls his eyes and plants his face on Garrett’s shoulder--his new favorite place, apparently--and he can feel Anders’ chuckle against his skin.
“You’ll be an inspiration to generations of romantic poets.”
Garrett doesn’t hide his relief or his smile, because this is part of it, what twists his insides about and subdues his kicking and screaming as it pushes him into the light. "They'll sing songs of my exploits,” he says. “Grandiose tales of slaying small dragons and rescuing cute kittens and scruffy blond men from the sewers--" Anders tangles a hand in his hair, "--then wooing them with my irresistible wit."
"Your wit, that must be it," Anders says lightly, tracing lines in the muscles at his shoulders. "Why else would I put up with this carpet you call a torso?”
“I’m very Fereldan,” Garrett huffs, “and I’m not that hairy,”
“You’re perfect.”
Garrett's mouth twitches, full to bursting with all sorts of terrible jokes and not-quite-but-still-maybe embarrassed deflections, but he shuts up for once, lets it lapse into silence, the dying crackle of the fire a kind of solace.
Being honest got Anders naked and between his legs, in his house, in parts of himself deeper than any of that.
It’s worth another try, at least.
"I want you right here," Garrett says, hand clenching at the sheets beneath them, "until the day we die." He half-wants to play it off as a joke, because right now he could spend every moment he has left with Anders in his bed, their bed, and if the sex is anything like that again he suspects he doesn't have much time left anyway, but those creeping tendrils of maturation and being a decent human and Anders’ hands in his keep this solid, keep him real.
"Do you mean that?" Anders asks, voice soft and eyes as intense as he can probably muster, but not half as intense as the thoughts likely swirling in his head. “You would tell the world, the Knight-Commander, that you love an apostate, and you’ll stand beside him?”
The fire finally dies, leaving only the moon and his answer.
* * *