Chapter Text
Fenris needs air.
He stumbles out the doors of The Hanged Man, leaving the carnage behind him in search of air that doesn’t smell like blood and death. But Lowtown air stinks like sewage and piss and fish, always the scent of Maker-damned fish wafting up from the docks. He stumbles, bloodied gauntlets catching on the nearest wall, little bits of stone crumbling beneath their points, and it seems like his lungs aren’t working properly, because he takes great gulps of air into his lungs and still feels as though he cannot breathe.
His head swims. He sees Danarius’s hands sliding, cool enough to feel wet, over his skin, the magic in those fingertips sending little jolts of pain up his markings every time his fingers caressed a line of lyrium, Danarius’s voice - smug, pleased – murmuring, ‘Very good, Fenris.’
Leto, Varania called him, and yes, he can remember that – that was his name, once, before, but she said he had wanted this, fought for it, and Fenris feels dirty, everything he thought he knew about himself turned on its head. Magic has marked him, magic he chose, magic that stains everything he has ever been. He had his fingers around Danarius’s throat, his fingers in Danarius’s throat; he snapped the man’s spine with his bare hand, so why is it, “The word is ‘master’” that he hears, again and again, instead of his own words. “You are no longer my master,” he had growled, and for a moment he’d felt free, but he keeps coming back to the fear, deep-deep-bone-deep-bend-your-knees-now-like-the-dog-you-are fear that gripped him at the first sight of the man he has run from for almost a decade. For a moment he hadn’t been sure that he would fight; perhaps he would bow and slaughter Hawke and everyone else he holds dear, as he had killed the Fog Warriors once at Danarius’s whim.
Fenris snarls, curls his fingers into a fist and punches the wall beside him. He did not, but he could have. For all his talk of his freedom, to come so close to willingly surrendering it all over again, merely because he saw Danarius’s face and heard his voice…
Fenris bends over and retches into the gutter, his battered knuckles throbbing.
“I am no longer a slave,” he says, to the night air and the beggar huddled in a doorway four houses down. He straightens, spits to get the taste out of his mouth, and nods. He fought. Danarius is dead. He is…free.
Someone starts applauding in slow, measured claps behind him. Fenris turns, and Anders is there, draped casually against the wall, watching him with bright eyes. No, not bright, exactly. Triumphant. victorious… predatory.
“No, you’re not,” Anders says, and his voice is soft and warm, entirely at odds with the hunger in his eyes. The hunger Fenris knows well; they have fucked enough times over the years for that to be normal, but this gentleness in Anders’ voice is not.
“You hear my diatribe against the evils of mages and magic and decide now is a good time to follow me into a dark alley?” Fenris rolls his eyes. Of course he did.
“We have had some spectacularly good times in alleys, if I recall correctly,” Anders says, pushing off the wall with one foot and sashaying towards him. “And, despite the aforementioned diatribe, your greatest enemy is dead, and I think...” he hooks his fingers in Fenris’s breastplate and tugs him away from the pile of vomit and deeper into the shadows. “…that is a perfect reason to celebrate.”
Fenris bats his hand away with a warning growl, but Anders, never one to be deterred, just grins at him and drops to his knees.
“See, you’ve killed one mage, and you’ve got another at your mercy here, so I’d say magic is serving you just fine.” Anders smooths his hands up Fenris’s thighs and works at his laces as he talks. Fenris can feel the heat of those fingers even through the fabric of his leggings and he inhales sharply.
He threads the gauntlets on his uninjured hand into Anders’ hair and tugs his head back ungently, which has the desired effect of a few loose strands falling into Anders’ face and the mage turning heavy-lidded eyes up at Fenris. Anders licks his pretty pink lips.
“Venhedis,” Fenris hisses, hard and straining against his leggings just from the press of Anders’ long fingers. Anders smirks, and opens his mouth to start talking again, but Fenris tightens his fingers in Anders’ hair and knocks Anders’ hand away with his other hand to free himself more quickly. “You and your incessant talking,” he grunts. “And you wonder why we always end up with my cock in your mouth.”
“You know you love my mou-” Anders quips, silenced quickly when Fenris takes himself in his fist and taps the head of his cock against Anders’ lips. Anders opens his mouth and licks him. He tongues the underside of the glans, hollows his cheeks and swallows him down, and his mouth - kaffas, his mouth is hot and wet and perfect, like always. Fenris falls back against the wall with a shudder. Everything is heightened with his cock down the mage’s throat – he can feel Anders’ silky hair in his fist, the coolness of the stone against his neck, the near-painful press of Anders’ fingers into his hip, the delicious pressure of Anders’ mouth around him most of all. Anders looks up at him, his eyes gone molten gold in the shadows and moonlight, with some kind of intensity Fenris can only guess at, because who can tell why the mage does anything?
The reality of the situation hits Fenris in a rush. He isn’t hiding anymore, he’s fucking a mage’s throat with short, controlled thrusts of his hips only a stone’s throw away from the tavern where his master’s corpse grows cold, and he laughs, sudden and short.
“Free,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t know what he’s going to do with that, but suddenly he realizes he can do anything, anything at all, and he laughs again, fingers gentling in Anders’ hair and cupping the back of his head.
Anders hums around him, sending shivers up Fenris’s spine. He looks down to find Anders smiling. Anders pulls off Fenris’s cock with a wet pop and Fenris growls at the loss of the warmth of his mouth, but the grin on Anders’ face is wide and his eyes are warm and fond. He nuzzles forward and tugs Fenris’s leggings down further to kiss the inside of his hipbone, though he stops after a minute because he can’t stop smiling and just rests his forehead there against Fenris’s hip.
It does something to him, the sight of that expression on Anders’ face, all happiness and affection that make the shadows under Anders’ eyes and the lines around his mouth all but disappear. Fenris feels his chest lighten, expand. He touches Anders’ cheek with the back of his gauntlet, leaving a smear of red behind, and Anders turns his face towards him.
“Anders…” he starts, perplexed by his own reaction.
“Shh…” Anders murmurs. “Let me take care of you, Fenris.”
Fenris studies him for a moment and then nods, and Anders smiles again. He presses kisses along the length of his cock, wraps clever fingers around the base, and suckles at the head, teasing, just enough to make Fenris growl and squirm. Just as Fenris is about to tighten his fingers in Anders’ hair and demand he get on with it, Anders takes his cock down his throat. Fenris closes his eyes and slumps back against cool stone, the muscles in his thighs and stomach clenching. Anders bobs up and down, his hand a steady counterpart to his mouth, and they have done this so often that the way Anders touches him is perfect, almost better because it is familiar and reassuring and good in the face of a future Fenris realizes he has never given thought to. Anders is making greedy noises and doing things with his tongue that leave Fenris shaking with pleasure. He looks down and Anders is watching him, his eyes never leaving Fenris’s face.
“Anders,” Fenris murmurs again, the name catching in his too-full chest and tripping its way out of his mouth, and Anders moans when he hears it. He lets go of Fenris’s cock and devours him to the hilt, till his nose brushes Fenris’s dark curls. “Fasta vass,” Fenris snarls, bucking his hips as Anders pulls back only to swallow him again. Anders reaches up, blindly, for the hand that is not already in his hair, the one Fenris has braced himself against the wall with. He drags his hand down Fenris’s vambrace and tugs his arm close, and then when he can reach Fenris’s gauntlet he threads their fingers together, heedless of the blood stains or the sharp metal digging into his hand.
And Fenris is shaking apart as Anders sucks fervently at his cock, but Anders holding his hand is something new. It sends a sharp stab of pain through him, from knuckles Fenris thinks might be broken, but he barely registers the pain because when he grips Anders’ hand back, Anders’ bright eyes turn feverish. Anders groans eagerly, a line of spit dripping down his stubbled chin and still, that intense eye contact, and Fenris is tight and aching, heat pooling low in his body and he wants the mage, wants, wants, wants, with a ferocity that rips through him and sends him stumbling back half a step with nowhere left to go. Anders’ mouth works his cock and Fenris’s fingers are anchored in Anders’ hair and hand, but it’s not enough, those three small points of contact, and Anders must sense it too because he shifts forward and presses as close to Fenris as the position will allow, tugging so that their joined hands rest on his shoulder.
Fenris growls his name, again, and Anders whines, his eyes pleading and Fenris says, “Yes,” breathes the word without understanding what he’s agreeing to, but he is free and he can do what he wants and what he wants is to give Anders anything he asks of him. Anders closes his eyes, looking blissful, and it pleases him so much that Fenris says it again. “Yes.”
He shudders, close, so close that every brush of Anders’ tongue feels like it might send him over the edge, but he struggles for lucidity, because he was going to say something else, he was going to say…he doesn’t know why the sudden need to speak these words now, and they terrify him because they are true, but it’s his choice, it’s Fenris’s choice. He waits till Anders opens his eyes and focuses on him again, and then he whispers, “I am yours.”
Anders draws in a surprised breath and Fenris fears he might choke, but then he’s moaning and sucking at Fenris’s cock with renewed fervor and Fenris’s whole body tenses. He doesn’t even have time to warn Anders; he just comes with a strangled moan, pleasure broad and sweeping in contrast to the tight uncomfortable fear in him from what he has just said. But Anders makes enthusiastic noises and holds his hand tighter, nurses him through the aftershocks with little licks and nuzzles, and Fenris could almost forget he said anything. He slides down the wall to the ground with a soft groan.
Anders meets him there before he’s even settled, burrowing in under his chin, kissing his neck, pressing eager against him, mumbling a stream of nonsense that Fenris has to strain to make sense of.
“…fuck. Fuck, Fenris, you can’t just…Fuck, sweetheart, I…”
“You are talking already.” Fenris represses a smile.
“No shit.” Anders pulls back and stares at him with wide eyes, frames his face with both hands and kisses him deeply.
Fenris pulls one of Anders’ hands away gently and frowns at the angry red scrapes his gauntlets have left against Anders’ skin. Anders looks down. His hand glows blue briefly with a flash of healing magic that leaves Fenris’s markings pulsing.
“Good as new,” Anders murmurs, smiling at him.
“My hand.” Fenris remembers. He flexes his fingers and hisses with pain.
“Let me see.” Anders reaches out, pulls off Fenris’s gauntlet. Fenris lets him turn his hand over and inspect his bloodied knuckles. His middle finger is definitely broken. With a tsk, Anders looks up. “May I?” Fenris nods, and Anders heals him easily. “There.”
“Anders, I...” Fenris stops because he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to take it back, and he doesn’t want to take it back, and that frightens him.
Anders considers him for a moment, probably reading the fear on his face because he’s damned good at reading everything, but Fenris hopes he reads the want too. Please believe me.
“Do you want to be alone tonight?” Anders asks softly.
Fenris thinks about his cold, dark mansion, about the prospect of cleaning his master’s blood from his armor alone and worrying about what in the void has come over him regarding Anders. He shakes his head.
“Then I’ll come back to the mansion with you. It’s been…an emotional night, sweetheart. You don’t have to figure anything out right now.”
“Thank you,” Fenris whispers, and the two words seem incredibly inadequate for the tangle of emotions inside him.