Jan 272015
 

Title: How Far Can Too Far Go? (Chapter 3)
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Fenris , Anders
Rating: M (L3 N2 S3 V1 D1)
Warnings: Heart-fondling, knob jokes, inadvertent smuttery, Justice has a lyrium fetish, Anders has a death wish, legendary Warden stamina
Notes: Anders. Death wish. Seriously. This man has no damned sense. See also ‘fisting, Fenris-style’, no pre-existing orifice involved. No mages were harmed in the making of this chapter, but Fenris and I may need to go re-compose our senses of reality, a bit.


Anders lay sprawled before the fire, still half-dressed, with Fenris crouched over him, fascinated, as he told stories of his time at Vigil’s Keep. They’d kicked the table out of the way, an hour ago, and the pillow was now under Anders’s head, instead of his ass, and the Maker only knew what had become of his hair tie.

"So, yes. They’re intelligent enough to torture — some of them, anyway. Some of them are even intelligent enough not to. But, the most terrifying thing I ever saw was an enlightened broodmother. Mad as a lyrium-addled Templar, not that I blame her. Have you ever seen one of those things? They’re not meant to consider their condition." Anders shoved his robe down a little further to show the top of a wicked rose-coloured scar that curved along the inside of his hip. "She gave me that one. Broodmothers have tentacles. Did you know they have tentacles? I didn’t know that. You should know that. It’s very important, if you ever end up meeting one."

"Mage. Breathe." Fenris looked amused. "I won’t be held responsible, if you hyperventilate and pass out on my floor."

"Neither will I. I might be held irresponsible, though. I can be terribly irresponsible when I want to be." Anders grinned up at the elf crouched over him. "And I do love to be irresponsibly held."

"Do you?" Fenris asked, unfastening his gauntlets and tossing them aside, to finally press his bare fingers against that huge and fascinating scar he’d been avoiding. "How irresponsibly can I hold you? And which parts of you can I irresponsibly hold irresponsible?"

An inhuman sound ripped out of Anders as those slender fingers prodded at the centre of the scar, and Fenris jerked his hand back. Panting, Anders reached up and took the elf’s hand in his own trembling fingers and pressed it against his chest.

"I made you a promise."

"That sounded like pain. I don’t want to hurt you — no, that’s a lie. I usually want to hurt you quite a bit, but I’m not trying to hurt you right now."

"That’s not pain. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, but it’s also not pain." Anders tried to ignore the way Justice clawed at the inside of his skin, trying to get closer to the lyrium lines pressed against them. "So, please, touch me like you mean it. If I need you to stop, I’ll tell you, but you can’t handle that one delicately. It’s… kind of nauseating, and it makes my feet cold."

"If I can’t be delicate, will you let me…" Fenris let his hand phase out in a blue glow.

"Yes," Anders breathed, gazing up, dumbstruck at the idea, his eyes tinged with a blue glow that threatened to dance across his cheeks.

A chill ran down Fenris’s spine. He’d really never put his hand into someone’s chest consensually, and here was a mage — a mage he knew and found almost tolerable, some of the time — offering up a part of his body that had been not just violated, but nearly destroyed, for Fenris to take in a hand he’d only ever used for death. He wanted to believe Anders could stop him, that this wasn’t the completely brainless act of faith it appeared to be. But, no mage had ever been able to stop him.

Slowly, Fenris pushed his fingers in, his awareness of the scar shifting as his hand passed through the tissue that passed through his hand. Again, the sounds Anders made were inhuman, as his eyes rolled back in his head, and electric blue bolts flickered across his skin. Justice. Of course. He’d opened the Fade inside the body the spirit inhabited. Fenris stopped moving, fingers still buried in Anders’s chest to the second knuckle.

"Mage? Anders?" Fenris tried to keep the anxiety out of his voice. "Talk to me, Anders."

He started to pull back, but Anders’s hand locked around his wrist like iron. Not that he couldn’t phase his way through it, but Fenris took that as a sign to stop moving. Hawke would kill him, if he damaged the mage. This mage.

"Anders, do you want me to stop?"

"Nnnnn—" The grip tightened as Anders forced his eyes to focus on Fenris. His swirling, electric-blue eyes. "More. Touch… more."

Okay, admittedly, it was probably weirder than a Genlock ballet, to have someone touching your insides. It was definitely weird to be touching someone’s insides — actually feeling them, rather than just reaching in and tearing organs out. At least the mage was expressing an interest in more of the same, whatever else might be going on with the spirit and the Fade. Unless the blue eyes meant he was talking to the spirit — but he’d heard the voice of Justice, and that wasn’t it.

His hand slid in deeper, fingers curling laterally through the scar, as his thumb investigated the thick stripe along the side of the mage’s heart that continued across part of a lung. He’d touched hearts and lungs, before, even if he hadn’t really noticed them until he’d removed them, and that… there was no way Anders could have survived it, even as a healer. Even with a team of healers. But, the heart still beat, the lung still took air, and the mage could still complain about his cold feet. "You are a lucky man," Fenris reflected, quietly.

Below him, Anders started to shake, vibrating, fingers fluttering, teeth chattering.

"Is this acceptable? Are you well?" Fenris became still, again.

"Yes… yes. There — that— I’ve never — No one — Yes!" The blue glow crackled around Anders’s body, swirling at the centre of his chest, like a pool.

"Well, no, no one would have. I’m told it’s something of a unique talent." All the hair on the back of Fenris’s neck had stood on end, but, the mage wasn’t telling him to stop. He wondered, briefly, if Justice could stop him, if this got out of hand. Fade spirit, lyrium etchings… he decided Justice could likely do a lot more damage to him, in a few seconds, than Denarius ever had, and the thought was somewhat comforting.

It did not, however, address the fact that he was reaching through a living piece of the Fade and into a living, breathing man’s chest. The light from Anders had crept up his arm like an Orlesian opera glove, which was a little unnerving. Still, Fenris didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on, in his entire life. Actually, he’d never been turned on, except for the thing with the orichalcum potions that he still had nightmares about, and he really didn’t count that. But, he held the beating heart of someone he didn’t intend to kill, and the person it belonged to wasn’t asking him to stop. No begging, no pleading, no weeping terror. Just fluttering fingers and maybe cold toes.

"The magic is in all of you, isn’t it?" Fenris asked, eyes sliding shut as his thumb stroked Anders’s heart almost fondly. "I can feel your blood, all of it, and it itches like it’s part of me."

Anders made a small sound, catching the edge of his lip in his teeth.

Fenris absently forced power through the lyrium lines, to quiet the itch, like he’d done a thousand times before, in his life, and Anders arched off the floor, Fenris’s knuckles connecting with the back of the scar. Anders — no, Justice — howled like a tempest on the open sea, and one hand would not release Fenris’s arm. The Fade-glow tore through the mage’s body, gleaming through in cracks and slivers, radiating like a storm.

Fenris, like any sane man, panicked and froze. Don’t move. If you don’t move, it won’t see you. and then Don’t move. If you damage it, Hawke will kill you. Twice.

And just as suddenly, the light went out, leaving Anders, sans terrifying blue sparkles, lying on the floor, sweat-soaked and panting at the ceiling. He licked his lips. "Maker’s breath. What did you…"

"Have I harmed you?" Fenris asked, straightening his fingers. "Will you continue to be well, if I retrieve my hand?"

"I think I’m okay. I think. What just…" Anders forced himself to release Fenris’s wrist. "I’m sorry, yes. Take your hand."

"I didn’t think," Fenris admitted. "I tried to scratch an itch — it’s complicated, but it doesn’t involve actually moving, for obvious reasons. And then Justice, I suspect."

Anders’s eyes widened, and he tried to lean forward, as if to sit up, but discovered an elf in the way, and settled for holding himself up with one elbow. "Did he hurt y—"

Fenris slid his hand out, slowly, and Anders stopped in the middle of the sentence, head falling back to bare the stubble along his neck. A low, deep moan of relief poured out of the mage, and after a moment, his teeth clacked shut.

"Andraste’s tits." Anders could feel the blood rushing to his face, probably leaving blotches across the top of his chest. "Fenris, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know."

"What are you babbling about, mage? Your demon-spirit thing did me no harm." Fenris had little patience for mages not making sense, but that minuscule tolerance was apparently even lower while wearing armour ill-designed to contain the throbbing ache that lay along his inner thigh. It was a problem he hadn’t anticipated dealing with. Ever, really. But, the beating of this mage’s heart against his palm, the rush of blood against his fingertips… He didn’t think anyone could have anticipated that.

"Justice… I mean, we… I didn’t think he could!"

Anders continued to refuse to make sense, so Fenris shifted from crouching to sitting, pinning the mage down. And then the problem became obvious.

"I’m not sitting on one of those ridiculous fasteners you use for your robe, am I?" Fenris’s expression was impossible to read.

"It’s a little large for that. Throw off the whole aesthetic," Anders joked weakly.

"You were apologising for this."

Anders cleared his throat and stared at the wall behind him, throat bared. "More than that, but yes. I know how you feel about wizards’ knobs."

"More than this…?" Fenris wasn’t sure whether to be disturbed or impressed.

Anders grinned like he wanted to be punched in the teeth. He probably did. "Legendary Warden stamina."

"That’s disgusting," Fenris responded, reflexively, leaning forward over Anders, until they were face-to-face. "Tell me more."

"You want me to tell you more about my knob?" Anders joked, amusement gleaming in his eyes, before he moved his arm and stretched out along the floor again.

It took a moment for Fenris to focus, as his eyes crossed in momentary horror. "No, not your knob! This legendary Warden stamina."

"This legendary Warden stamina is definitely about my knob," Anders pointed out. "And my magic. Neither of which you like."

"Tell me anyway." Fenris let his back bow, relaxing between his stiff arms, one hand on either side of the mage’s head.

"You’re leaning on my hair."

Fenris moved one hand, with a faintly contrite look.

"You were never wrong about me being dangerous," Anders opened, "but you were wrong about why. Sure, I’m a mage. Sometimes, I set things on fire. Sometimes, I set people on fire. But, I’m also a Grey Warden, and that’s… You can take the man out of the Wardens, but you can’t take the Warden out of the man."

Anders shrugged. "You have to understand, there are things I can’t tell you. Literally can’t."

"Does it so bind you?" Fenris had been on the wrong end of some magics like that.

"It would be dishonourable, and Justice has some really strong objections."

That actually nauseated Fenris, to some degree. "Go on."

"Suffice to say, we’re tainted. We’re immune to the darkspawn taint, because there’s already something powerfully wrong with us. I mean, other than the fact we’ve signed up to march against an unending horde of vile beasts from the depths of the Abyss."

Fenris almost smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"It also means Warden blood is something you don’t want to get on you. It’s pretty gross, really. If you ever do kill me, wash your hands. But! Somewhere in that rank Warden life-blood is the power to just … keep going. You want to be sure a Warden will stay down, you cut their head off and pray. You know, I worked with the Hero of Ferelden, for a while. I make no guarantees even that would stop him. I’d want to grow up to be that man, if it didn’t mean tripping over assassins, on the way to bed every night…"

"Wasn’t the Hero of Ferelden an elf?"

"I can aspire to greatness!"

Fenris laughed, hanging his head, until Anders sputtered from the hair in his mouth.

"Tell me about Justice," Fenris prodded, eventually. "You apologised and blamed Justice, before I discovered you were talking about your knob. Have you named it after your spirit, for occasions like these?"

"There are no occasions like these." Anders rubbed his face and then tapped Fenris’s armour. "Take off the plate, and I’ll tell you. You’ve poked and prodded at the scars on my chest, and I don’t even know what yours look like."

"You kept your promise." Fenris nodded and sat up, unfastening buckles as he moved. He paused, as his ass settled onto Anders again. "Still?"

Anders just coughed and rubbed his face again. "Legendary," he complained.

Fenris’s armour clattered to the ground beside him, and he tossed the gauntlets into the plate, not to lose them. "Why do I have no doubt in my mind that you’ve thoroughly tested the limits?"

"Because I’m handsome, young, and lusty, and you just know me that well?"

"I debate ‘young’."

"But, not ‘handsome’? Maker, I must’ve made some good choices, somewhere." Anders grinned. "And, I am young! Not a grey hair on me!"

"Mmm. Which is why you were polishing knobs twenty-odd years ago, is it?"

"Hah!" Anders choked on a laugh. "I did not actually say that. On the other hand, it might be… Nope! Eighteen years of spit-polished good times."

"Because that makes you so much younger," Fenris teased.

"On the other hand, I’m a Warden, so I’m probably already middle-aged. We don’t live so long."

"You sit around writing manifestos and shouting at young Templars. You’re definitely middle-aged." Fenris cocked his head, knowingly. "If that spirit let you eat, you’d be some pudgy revolutionary scholar."

"I would not! You take that back!" Anders jabbed a finger at the elf, landing a sharp poke at the intersection of several lines.

Fenris sucked in a sharp breath. "Careful."

"I thought you said they didn’t hurt." Anders pulled his hand back quickly.

"They don’t. You’re magic." Fenris rubbed absently at the spot.

"Wait, my magic or I’m magic."

"The latter. Possibly both." Fenris shifted his weight. "Weren’t you going to explain something about Justice and your knob?"

"The knob you’re currently sitting on. Yes, I was." Anders ran a hand through his hair and tried to figure out where to start. "I don’t remember about half of that. Justice… he likes lyrium. Says he can hear it sing. It reminds him of home. So, when you put your hands on me, he goes a little nuts."

"And when I put my hand in you…"

"I’m the first body he’s been in that worked. He’s usually trying not to pay attention when I do things like that. Well, no, not like that, there’s nothing like that, you know what I mean."

"And you? Did you enjoy it, as well?"

"… Next question."

With a frustrated sound, Fenris grabbed the mage’s hand and pressed it against the tight-stretched inner thigh of his leggings. "I put my hand inside you, because you let me. I felt the beat of your heart and the rush of your blood. I could have killed you, and you told me you wanted more."

He let go of Anders’s hand, waiting to see if the mage would pull away, but Anders just lazily stretched his fingers along the length. "Did you enjoy it, or was I talking to Justice?"

"It’s my knob you’re sitting on. What do you think?"