Jan 272015
 

Title: How Far Can Too Far Go? (Chapter 5)
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Fenris , Anders
Rating: E (L4 N4 S4 V1 D1)
Warnings: Heart-fondling, erotic asphyxiation, Justice not getting it, smutty smuttings of the non-vanilla variety, unlickable floors
Notes: Erotic asphyxiation, legendary warden stamina, and Anders mouthing off at the best worst times. Done. DONE! Do you see me being done with this fic?


It started slow. Fenris wanted to watch Anders come apart for him, not the demon-spirit thing, so he kept his hands outside the mage’s skin, to start, tracing that long dusky coil from Anders’s ankle all the way up. Somewhere just past the knee, the mage started to sweat, a smell like ozone and elfroot. Fenris looked up along the pale length of the mage’s warm body to find that Anders had his palm pressed against his forehead, eyes squeezed shut. This was not what he was looking for, even if it was technically what Anders had offered.

His fingers traced the scar further up, moving more quickly, until he reached the place Anders had warned him about, earlier, stroking and kneading it with his thumb. Fenris could feel Anders’s body relax against his hand. A soft sigh followed by a warm groan spilled from Anders, as Fenris continued to caress his inner thigh.

Anders wanted to say something, to give some direction, some hints about his own flesh, but for all that this was about turning him into a fucksore pile of goo, it wasn’t actually about what he wanted. If Fenris wanted to know, he’d ask. And he would, too. Anders had no doubt of that.

Feeling his body warm to Fenris’s hands, Anders began the slow, rolling flex of muscle in his other thigh — the one that under other circumstances, he’d used to bring himself off under countless tables during meetings he probably should have been paying attention to. But, that would have required him to be in a very different position. As it stood, it was simply another sign of his desire.

"From this alone?" Fenris asked, timing the motion of his hand to the flex of the other thigh.

"Probably not. Not like that," Anders admitted.

"Show me."

"Give me your other hand."

Fenris looked longingly at his gauntlets, for a moment, before offering the hand to Anders. "Show me quickly."

Covering Fenris’s hand with his own, Anders stroked his thigh with Fenris’s fingers, dragging a nail along the edge of the scar, demonstrating where to pinch, how hard to twist, how to press mercilessly on that one spot that made his back arch and his hips roll. And just as quickly as it began, Anders withdrew his hand.

"Like that," he breathed.

"Like this?" Fenris’s fingers danced across the mage’s skin, and Anders bucked and twisted.

"Yes! Yes, Fenris, yes please." Anders’s eyes squeezed shut and his legs tensed.

"So easy to push you so far," Fenris teased, with a sharp pinch beside where the scar joined the curve of Anders’s hip.

Anders gasped, gulped, and took a heaving breath — an almost silent series of sounds that faded into the crackling of the fire. "I showed you how to cheat," he breathed, "how I’d put my hands on myself. Do you want me to make this more difficult for you? I can lie here and think about the Knight-Commander."

"No, no. I like you easy. I like that all I have to do is press and pinch, and I can feel the blood race through you, watch your pulse as you dribble across your belly." Fenris punctuated the thought with a solid flick to a point the skin seemed thinnest.

Anders arched, chest canting up to press the back of his head deeper into the pillow, as he choked off a strained sound into a huff of breath. Another strike to the same spot, and his hands clenched, rhythmically squeezing nothing. Fenris dug his thumb in beside the scar, where it curved beneath the joint, just below where it rose up into the bowl of Anders’s hip.

A sharp breath shot out of Anders — just "Ah!", and his teeth clenched shut, as his entire body fell loose, below the neck. The first spurt hit his neck and chin, dripping down into his hair, and he breathed slowly and deeply, just letting it wash over him as he painted his chest white.

Panting, a lazy smile spreading across his face, Anders wiped his chin and licked his fingers clean. "Too many years since I left the tower. I’m getting loud."

"That was loud?" Fenris let his hands wander over a few other scars.

"Loud enough to get caught. I used to yawn louder than I came." Anders’s hand twitched toward his still-interested cock, but stopped, hand tense, and dragged his nails up his palm, instead.

"Earlier… your whole body was tight. If I didn’t know I could pass through it, I’d have thought you were going to break my wrist. And squalling to break my windows, too." Fenris traced just outside the edge of a spatter.

"Earlier, you had the interest of my less-delightful half. Do you want me to clamp down and scream for you? I might be able to do it." Anders rubbed his lower lip against a tooth, as Fenris considered the offer.

"No. This is what you are, and I would know you, not what you think I want you to be." Fenris traced the line of another scar, passing his finger through it, letting it pass through him. "Soft and quiet, in the height of pleasure. Not what Varric’s books or my own observations would lead me to believe."

"Is that your way of saying I’m obnoxious?" Anders squinted at the elf fondling his scars.

"No. But, you are obnoxious." Fenris plunged a finger into what looked like an arrow path through Anders’s shoulder.

Anders hissed and tipped his head back. "Templar. Saw it coming and just kept going."

"You really are crazed. You know that, don’t you?"

"Every second, every day." Anders licked his lips. "You sounded like you were going to ask something else."

"In Varric’s books," he wouldn’t talk about his own experiences, "there is a great deal of thrashing and squealing, clenching and howling, much like your … ‘less-delightful half’. You are very different."

"That’s not a question, but I’ll answer it. If you don’t shriek, you don’t get caught. If you don’t tense up, you don’t get hurt. Or caught."

"Hurt?" Fenris lifted an eyebrow, inquisitively, fingers stilled.

"No. If you want me to do that again, I’m not talking about it. Ply me with Antivan brandy and ask me another night." Anders rubbed his knuckles against the stubble on his cheek.

"Drunkard," Fenris teased.

Anders stared until Fenris met his eyes. "Yes."

Fenris twisted his hand until a slow, white dribble ran into the curve of Anders’s shoulder, to meet his fingers. Sliding his fingers slowly out of the deep corridor of scar tissue, he swept up the gobbet of spunk.

"You got some on me."

"Did I?" Anders opened his mouth, eyes never leaving Fenris’s.

Cold sweat trickled down Fenris’s spine as Anders sucked and licked his fingers, an almost inaudible hum of contentment resonating along that talented tongue and buzzing through his knuckles. There had been no challenge, no argument, no sense that this was some punishment to be avoided. The mage had just opened his mouth and taken it, and Fenris dimly wondered how far that would go, how far he could push, before Anders drew the line.

His other hand settled gently around Anders’s throat, for a moment, prompting the mage to make an encouraging sound and tilt his head back. Fenris settled for scratching the stubble along the line of his jaw, enjoying the sound and the sensation against his fingertips. Eventually, he pulled his now-damp fingers free, of those tempting lips, plunging them straight back into that deep, round scar.

Tension rippled through Anders, there and then gone, and a hitched breath seemed to be the extent of his opinion on the subject.

"Is that all?"

Anders pulled his shoulder up, trembling with the sensation of pulling Fenris’s fingers deeper into him. "You want the back, for that one."

Fenris pulled his fingers out again, eyeing Anders expectantly.

"If I roll over and drip on the floor, it becomes your problem. Your floor is not fit for licking." Anders squinted pointedly at Fenris, as he sat up.

"I would take no pleasure in you licking my floor, whatever I might think of you." Fenris ran Anders’s last sentence through his head again. "Is there a floor that is fit for licking?"

"Ask Isabela about Val Royeaux. I guarantee she’ll start with the story you want to hear." Anders rolled over, to his elbows and knees, resting his head on his forearms. "I wasn’t there. I’m glad I wasn’t there. But, if I were ever going to lick a floor of my own free will, it would be that one."

Fenris didn’t ask after the implication, this time, but ran his hands down Anders’s back. Here were the patterns he recognised, along with the usual assortment of gashes and burns, and that long melted-looking blotch that had surely obliterated several other scars. He pinched a strange-shaped scar on the curve of the mage’s ass.

"Fell off a cliff and broke my hip. Luke’s fault," Anders muttered.

"Luke?" Fenris inquired, letting his hands wander over the ragged map of scars.

"Warden-Commander Lucien Surana, the Hero of Ferelden. Nice guy, but no sense of his surroundings, sometimes. Went after a revenant, and hip-checked me off the bluff. Ended up swarmed by freshly-hatched darkspawn. Nothing a little lightning and a whole lot of healing couldn’t get me out of."

"I take back everything I have ever said about your fine fortune."

Anders wiggled his ass. "Weren’t you going to grope me? Or am I kneeling here, dripping on your floor for nothing?"

Fenris dug two fingers into the scar on the mage’s shoulder, fully physical, feeling the change in density between the raised scar and the flesh beneath.

Anders twisted his hips and stretched one arm along the floor, putting himself even more deliciously on display. "Harder," he gasped, against his better judgement.

Finding himself all too happy to comply, Fenris jammed his fingers against the scar, letting his nails bite into the skin. Something shifted under the surface, and the scar sunk in as he pressed. It felt like some part of the muscle underneath had never mended. And the mage seemed to love it, panting, gasping, and hissing, chest pressed down, ass straining upward.

Fenris watched the short stripe along the floor grow thicker, as Anders dripped in anticipation. Mimicking some half-remembered motion, Fenris cupped his other hand against the mage’s lower back, and pressed the heel of his palm against Anders’s tailbone.

A heaving breath shook Anders, shock giving way, almost instantly, to pleasure. He rolled his shoulder and ground his ass against the welcome pressure.

Discarding what little remained of his good judgement, Fenris twisted, squeezing Anders’s ass at a slightly different angle, in order to bring his face closer to his other hand. Turning his fingers, just a little, he bared some of the scar, without easing the pressure, and dragged his tongue across the ridge of flesh at the edge.

Anders’s eyes snapped open, already rolled back in his head, and words died on his tongue, over and over, in a breathy stream of garbage syllables. As Fenris’s teeth sunk into his back, tongue darting around the insistent pressure of those deadly fingertips, Anders sighed, lazily shifting his weight back against Fenris’s other palm as he emptied himself onto the floor.

"Mage?" Fenris muttered against the wet skin under his lips.

The only response was a low, rumbling moan and a giddy-looking smile.

Fenris eased up, kneading the scar, as he stopped trying to drive his fingers through the flesh without phasing out. His tongue lingered, and the taste of the mage laid heavy in his mouth.

Anders finally managed a response. "That’s three. I can go another round, but if you want me to stay in this position, you’re going to have to hold me up."

"Maybe not so legendary, after all," Fenris teased, with a last nip to the scar.

"You want to say that again after three orgasms, half a bottle of wine, and your first meal in two days?" Anders complained, stretching in a distinctly feline fashion. "I’m still good for another one, if you want it. Maybe two, but I wouldn’t put more than two sovereigns on the second one."

"Anders?"

He squinted up over his shoulder, inquisitively.

"I want it." Fenris looked surprised by the words, and tried them again, feeling the weight of them on his tongue and the taste of the mage that lingered in his mouth. "I want it. I want to wring it out of you. You…"

Fenris ran out of words, without running out of sentiments to express, and his hands slid across Anders’s skin, clutching and kneading as if to wring the missing words out of him.

Anders eased himself onto his side, without moving away from those questing hands. A wry smile crept across his face. "I know; I’m beautiful."

"Insufferable mage," Fenris huffed, flicking Anders in the other shoulder.

"You seem to be suffering me gladly, tonight." Anders picked a few flakes of drying spunk out of his hair. "Any thoughts on how you want the next one?"

"You…" Fenris looked away, checking the room for a bottle he hadn’t already emptied down his throat. "You said something earlier, tonight. How it might be … ‘hot’ if I grabbed you by the neck. Was that just your mouth getting ahead of you?"

"You want to choke me for it?" Anders didn’t look disgusted.

"Yes. If—" Fenris gesticulated loosely with one hand.

"If I’ll let you. Which I might." Anders ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. "Two rules. One, I need you to tell me that you know what you’re doing, at least enough that you’re not going to slip and kill me. You kill me, you get to tell Hawke."

"I know how not to kill you." Looking back, Fenris caught Anders’s eyes, and Anders knew better than to question the surety in that assertion. "What’s the second one?"

"This is the one where you tell me to get dressed and go home," Anders predicted. "If you want to wring my neck, I need you to bang me like a cheap cellar door. If you just want to throttle me a little, that’s fine, too, but that’s not going to be number four."

"You expect me to—"

"I don’t expect anything from you. I’m telling you how to get what I think you want, in the way you said you want it. You want to squeeze my neck until I shoot out all over myself, I’m going to need you to bang my ass so hard I can feel it in my throat." Anders pulled at his own hair, checking it for crunchy spots. "Don’t worry about hurting me. You will hurt me, if you do this, and that’s kind of the point. If that isn’t what you want, pick something else."

"How many people have done this with you?" Fenris asked, curiously.

"With? One. Repeatedly. Great weekend." Anders smiled warmly at the memory.

The ‘to’ was implied, Fenris gathered. "On the bed?" he offered.

"No." Anders pulled the pillow out from behind him. "You should probably kneel on something. Don’t worry about me, unless I stop breathing."

Fenris looked uncertain, hands reachng out and then not touching Anders. "How…?"

Anders rolled onto his back, again, pulling his knees to his chest. Sweat broke out on the backs of his thighs, and he swallowed. "Please don’t kill me, Fenris."

"This once, I don’t want to. You’ll live." Fenris picked at the lacings on the last of his clothing, as if untying this last barrier was grounding him. Standing, he pulled off the leggings, light travelling the lines in his skin as he took a few breaths.

"Giving me a rough time about my smalls, when you don’t wear them, either," Anders teased. "Typical."

"You have seen how my clothing fits. Did you honestly expect I did?" Fenris knelt between the mage’s raised ankles and ran a hand down Anders’s chest.

"Oh. Here, you’ll want this." Holding out his hand, Anders cast a small grease spell.

Fenris dipped his fingers in it and looked like he might pass out. "I don’t know…" he finally admitted. "I don’t know how."

Anders shifted position and sat up, careful not to spill the grease. "Give me your hand."

Fenris put his hand out and Anders spilled the grease into it, without touching him.

"Come on, you know Varric’s books. You know how this works."

"Did you actually just ask me to do something Varric wrote? I prefer to keep his fictions a decent distance from my reality."

"He’s a little overboard with the adjectives, but the mechanics are relatively realistic. First apply grease, then apply knob."

"‘Melchior slipped his slick fingers into her juicy crevice, lapping the honey from her swollen bob’?" Fenris recited, deadpan.

Anders choked. "You can quote them?"

"Obviously."

"Well, licking my ass isn’t really necessary, but if you want to, I’m not going to turn it down." Anders cackled nervously, palm pressed into his eyesocket.

"Getting hysterical on me?" Fenris asked, stroking the grease onto himself, first, tracing the lines of lyrium with his thumb.

"Maybe a little." Anders laid back down and took a few breaths, before he felt Fenris’s fingers opening him up.

"You want me to fit that in here."

"That’s the idea. People do it all the time. I should know, I’m one of them!" Anders struggled not to touch anything regrettable with his greasy hand.

"I will buy Varric a pint of the good ale, if this works," Fenris muttered under his breath, pulling his fingers out, as he laid his cock against Anders’s ass. He pushed gently, and Anders relaxed.

"Push, Broody, it’ll fit," Anders encouraged.

"If I break anything, I want it perfectly clear it was your fault," Fenris growled, shoving forward and burying the head in Anders, who made a low, warm sound.

"Just like that. You can fit it all."

Fenris made a strange sound and stopped moving, bracing himself with one hand on Anders’s knee. "Mage, if I … If I become someone else, don’t let me kill you."

Anders squeezed the hand on his knee, briefly. "Flashbacks club," he joked. "You don’t let me surrender to death if I white out, and I won’t let you kill me if you white out."

"Deal." A flash of resigned disgust bloomed on Fenris’s face. "You just wiped grease on me."

"… Shit."

"Please don’t."

Anders whooped with laughter, until he managed to choke it down to a persistent cackle. "Shut up and fuck me, Broody."

"You want it, mage?" Fenris growled, leaning forward, as he tucked his shoulders under Anders’s knees. "You want me to cram all of this into that tiny, tight hole?"

Anders nodded, gleefully. "That’s exactly what I—"

The words cut off in a surprised yelp as Fenris did exactly that, all at once, and then froze, crouched over Anders and shivering. Anders flexed encouragingly, a few times.

"I can feel you squeezing me." Wonder and delight radiated from Fenris. "You’re so hot and soft, inside."

"If I knew all it would take to make you smile like that was my ass, I’d have started trying sooner."

"Stop that. You sound like Hawke."

Anders smiled that dangerous smile again. "Make me."

Fenris took stock of the entire situation and all its angles in a split second, lunging forward in a way that nearly folded Anders in half and wrapping a hand around his throat.

"Move your hips," Anders choked out, eyes gleaming.

"Bossy, commanding, mage," Fenris snarled, delivering each word with a thrust of his hips. Thrusting… He decided he liked thrusting. Below him, Anders nodded encouragement, and he picked up the pace, driving himself faster, harder, deeper into the mage.

Anders scrabbled at the floor, trying to keep himself in place, as Fenris found a rhythm, hammering mercilessly into his body. The hand around his neck was just tight enough that each breath came in slow and raw, but there was no danger that he wouldn’t get it.

This was easy. Anders relaxed into it, holding on to Fenris’s back with his heels. Slow, long breaths, stuttered by the impact of another body against his own. That lean body arched over him, glowing faintly along the lines of lyrium — the lyrium he could feel inside him, a delicious ache, as it slid over his insides, never in one place long enough to settle. He tapped one of Fenris’s fingers and gestured to suggest a tighter grip.

Sweat dripped from Fenris’s brow and shoulders, and low sounds of delight bubbled up from his chest. "This… I can’t…"

Anders’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he gestured for Fenris to please himself. But, he couldn’t stay lost for long.

Fenris snapped his fingers. "Mage… Mage!"

As Anders tried to focus, Fenris phased out his free hand and gestured questioningly at Anders’s chest. Anders nodded so hard he thought his head might roll off.

And then Fenris was inside him again, stroking his pounding heart. Stroking his heart, hammering his ass, and squeezing his neck…

"Your life… in my hands…" Fenris panted. "Don’t… let me kill you."

The magic danced across the lyrium in Fenris’s skin in ways he’d never before felt, the heat of it welcome, instead of distracting. This mage, under him, wrapped around him, inviting his most intimate and deadly touch… Wilfully submitting to his whims…

It was too much. Fenris’s hands gripped tighter, as his hips bucked and rolled, forcing him in as deep as he could be, when the pleasure obliterated his awareness of everything else. He was dimly conscious of the way he throbbed and spurted as the mage clamped down around him, hot and tight. The mage…

Anders could go a bit without breathing. He’d never been entirely clear on whether that was a Warden thing, or an ‘I’ve had the life nearly choked out of me on multiple occasions’ thing, but it served him well. His heart hammered desperately in the hand that clutched it, Justice rising toward the lyrium suddenly in his chest and up his ass, which Anders would freely admit, was not a place he ever expected to have, want, or enjoy lyrium, but his opinions on the subject were changing rapidly.

Still, he fought with Justice, for a few seconds.

YOU ARE DYING.
I am not dying, and you’re ruining my good time. Back off.
YOU ARE NOT BREATHING AND YOUR HEART IS STRUGGLING. YOU ARE DYING.
Andraste’s tits, you ignorant creature, whatever it is you’re doing, stop it! I am this close.
TO DEATH.
Nooooo! Earlier? With all the throbbing and the howling? I’m about to do some more of that, if you would just piss off and let me.

Just as Fenris managed to focus his eyes again, still distractedly grinding into the mage, Anders bucked under him, choking for breath, as he spilled onto himself, the fluid pooling around Fenris’s wrist. Fenris jerked back the hand from Anders’s throat, catching himself on the mage’s shoulder, as he started to list, and loosened the death grip he’d gotten on Anders’s heart.

"Mage?" he panted.

Anders cleared his throat and smiled beatifically. The smile spread out into a grin as he huffed out what might have been a laugh and held up four fingers.

Fenris extracted his other hand, slowly, and clung to Anders’s shoulders. "Legendary."

Anders’s grin turned cocky.

"Varric lied. It’s better." Lifting the hand with the dripping wrist, again, Fenris brought it to his mouth and licked. "Good, but strong," he decided, with a grimace, offering the wrist to Anders, who licked and sucked every drop off him.

Anders tried to say something, but ended up with a few slivers of sound and some rasps. He tilted his head back and forth, remembered to heal his throat, and tried again.

"Worth it?" he asked, unhooking one leg from Fenris’s shoulder and stretching it out.

"However opposed I may be to everything you stand for, I would not be opposed to doing this again, if you were willing." Fenris looked down at the sweat and spunk smears on Anders’s chest. "Another night. It seems your stamina truly is legendary."

"Do you want me to go?" Anders asked.

"Later. When I can get up." Fenris sighed. "I have to get up, don’t I? Or I’ll end up touching more of you than I already am."

"Let me try something. If it doesn’t work, then yeah, you have to get up." Anders unhooked his other leg and closed his eyes for a moment. "Can you glow for me? Just for a minute."

"What are you doing?" Fenris asked, but the lines flickered to life, if a bit spottily.

The response came in the form of the blue crackle that raced out from the centre of Anders’s chest. "Don’t worry. You don’t have to talk to him. He’s not even talking to me, after that. He’ll do this, because it’s important to my safety, isn’t it, Fenris?"

"Yes. Of course it is. I would be most displeased with having to get up. I might have to put you out to cross Hightown in nothing but your boots," Fenris teased, lowering himself onto Justice’s blue glow.

"Is it working?"

"I don’t feel a driving urge to leap up and tear you to ribbons," Fenris conceded. "What are you going to tell Hawke?"

"That we had dinner, discussed things, and agreed to disagree on the bulk of matters. I might mention we discovered some mutual interests, including wine that doesn’t taste like it was dredged from a sewer."

"You don’t mean to tell him about this?" Fenris asked curiously.

"If I tell him, he’ll tell Isabela. And Isabela will tell Varric. And then there will be a book."

"Should this continue, we will need to inform him, eventually," Fenris pointed out. "He will, in time, become concerned about one or both of us. Most likely you, first."

"If I tell him, he’ll want to watch."

"Would you let him?"

"I have let him. Would you?"

"I don’t know. I think I have done too much thinking for one night." Fenris tucked his head under Anders’s chin. "Goodnight, mage. I promise not to kill you while you sleep."

Just like a cat, Anders thought. Pins you to the floor and goes to sleep, and if you try to pet it, you lose an arm. He struggled to reach the pillow, to pull it back up under his head, before he tried to sleep on this unlickable floor, in a puddle of his own spunk. Elves, cats, he couldn’t win.