Title: The Finer Points of Enjoying Wine (2/2)
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Fenris ♂, Anders ♂
Rating: E (L3 N4 S4 V0 D1)
Warnings: Dysfunctional assholes are dysfunctional, the internet is for porn, mulled wine, creative uses for oranges, creative uses for Lyrium Ghost
Notes: How many places can Fenris stick his glow-in-the-dark hand? Second chapter, the smut part.
They ended up taking the rest of the wine upstairs, and curled up with it, on a stained but recently-beaten rug, before the fire. Anders’s hair had come untied at some point, and his fingertips were stained with wine, from dipping his cup into the pot for more.
"Hawke’s going to notice your kitchen, eventually." Anders pointed out.
"Then perhaps he will stop complaining that I don’t eat." Fenris lay on his side, propped up on one arm, cup in the other hand. "This is really very good. Sweet and sharp and heavy. I suspect I will wake up still tasting it."
"And here I was hoping you’d wake up tasting me."
"Remind me to lick you in the morning."
"You’ll let me stay?" No matter how many times it happened, Anders still looked surprised.
"I’ve seen what you call a bed. You had the day I had, and you are not staggering through Darktown drunk and exhausted, to pass out on that lumpy thing, in a sewer," Fenris snarled.
"Careful, someone might think you’re sweet on me."
"There are none here but you and I, and I hope we both know better. The only sweet here is this wine, since we finished the almond bread."
"You could start buying it for yourself, you know," Anders pointed out.
"And then I would be a ghost no longer. No, I think I will continue to pay you to bring it to me." Fenris shook his head and dipped his cup into the wine again. "Fasta vass!"
Anders looked over to find that Fenris had finally managed to dip his fingers in the wine. "Finally catching up with me, I see."
"I am absolutely certain this is somehow your fault, mage." Fenris continued to hold his cup over the pot to avoid dripping wine on the already-stained rug, pointless, but reflexive.
"Oh, it is." Anders set down his own cup and plucked Fenris’s from his dripping fingertips, setting it in the wine stain already in front of the elf. Even without dripping fingers, the cups had already left their mark. He didn’t touch Fenris’s hand with his own. Their hands together was never a pleasant experience. Instead, he leaned down and licked Fenris’s fingertips clean.
"If you dunk your hair in the wine, you’re on your own," Fenris muttered, stroking the mage’s tongue with two fingers.
Anders licked the fingers into his mouth and held the knuckles in his teeth. "It’s not that long."
"It’s getting there." Fenris pulled his fingers out of Anders’s mouth and used them to tuck the hair behind the mage’s ear.
Anders snorted. "I should cut it, before Hawke decides to use it to tie me to the headboard while I’m sleeping, again."
Fenris sucked in a sharp breath. "I’ll break his hands."
"No, no it’s fine. It’s just Hawke being Hawke." Anders shook his head.
"He doesn’t know, does he?" Fenris squinted at the mage.
"Not if I can help it, no." Anders looked down into the pot. "Oh, look. Oranges. Wasn’t I saying something about putting those to delicious and awe-inspiring uses?"
"Are you going to come over here and help me with these buckles?" Fenris asked, tugging at his own armour. Drunk and exhausted was no way to handle buckles, but maybe with two of them trying, he’d get out of it. "I doubt you want to lick what’s on the outside of my armour."
"Given the course of the day, I’m pretty sure whatever it is has already been in my mouth." Anders finished his wine and moved behind Fenris, squinting intently, as he tugged at straps. "You’re lucky I didn’t just pass out, when I stopped at home, to change. Couldn’t go to the market wearing that much blood and … I don’ t even know what that was. Ichor?"
"I’d say let’s not do this again—"
The chestpiece fell away, and Fenris peeled his shirt off, elbowing Anders in the chin, as he did so.
"Ow!" Anders toppled backward, too tired not to.
"If you weren’t sitting so close…" Fenris grumbled, trying to decipher the laces on his leggings.
"If I wasn’t sitting so close, I wouldn’t have been able to unbuckle you. Besides, I’m about to get a whole lot closer."
"Are you?" Fenris asked, eyebrows arcing elegantly up.
"Or I could just leave you stuck in your pants. Up to you." Anders grinned wickedly.
Fenris struggled with the laces a bit longer. "How is it that I can barely feel my hands, and you, for all that you look like you rose from the dead for the occasion, have something resembling manual dexterity?"
"Our enjoyment, this evening, is Justice-powered. No need for thanks, he approves of me licking you." Anders leaned over, picking apart the knots.
"That’s really how you get away with this, isn’t it." Fenris shuddered at the thought, but pressed his hand to Anders’s cheek, glowing faintly, as it sank just into the surface of the skin.
"No, it really is mostly about me being a little less of a disaster. But, it definitely doesn’t hurt my case when you do that." Anders kept his hands off Fenris’s skin as best he could, as he tried to shove the leggings down.
Fenris lifted his hips and twisted counter to where Anders pulled. Eventually it worked, and the leggings pulled free. Fenris kicked them off somewhere away from the fire.
"Oranges, hmm?" he asked, looking up at Anders.
Anders leaned over him and pulled one out of the pot, letting it drip onto Fenris’s chest. "Oranges."
"You are still dressed," Fenris pointed out.
"You’re drunk and exhausted. Let me do this for you, and then we’ll talk about how much I’m taking off."
"No. Take it off," Fenris insisted, tugging at Anders’s robe.
"But—" And then the light went on in Anders’s head. "Shit. Sorry. Of course I will."
Anders set the orange on Fenris’s chest, and then set about extracting himself from the weighty layers of cloth. He’d picked the heaviest robe he owned, after what went on, that day, just to put that much more distance between himself and everything else, just for that warm, fluffy feeling. He tossed the robe roughly in the direction of the bed, leaving himself bare but for his boots, and picked up the orange again.
The corner of Fenris’s mouth tipped up. "Much. Now, come show me why I haven’t yet surrendered to sleep."
Anders squeezed the orange, the juice and wine running out the holes punched in the ends, to pool on Fenris’s chest and abdomen. Still clutching the fruit in one hand, he leaned down to lap it up, starting low, tongue flicking between the lines of lyrium. He laved the narrow planes of Fenris’s chest, leaving only sticky, damp trails where the fluids had been.
"Orange and wine is a good flavour on you," Anders offered, between sweeps of his tongue.
"Is it?" Fenris asked, only dully aware of anything beyond the heat from the fire warming the wet stripes on his skin and the feel of that devastatingly talented tongue painting new patterns between the ones branded into him. For a moment, he wished he could read better, because he had a sense about some of those lines.
Cracking the orange open, Anders peeled out a slice and held it above Fenris’s lips. "Taste it. You’ll see."
"I’m not in the habit of licking myself, mage." Still, Fenris stretched up the extra inch and took the orange slice into his mouth, sucking Anders’s fingertips, before he sank back to the floor, with a quiet moan. "Remind me again why I don’t trust you to put things in my mouth?"
"Mage," Anders replied, drily, squeezing half the orange and tipping it to spill across Fenris again. He worked his way down from the top, this time, lips and tongue capturing every drip. "I might be up to no good."
"Or you might be working to satisfy the depraved appetites you’ve given me. Which is, of course, the least you could do, after introducing me to these wretchedly delightful desires." Fenris laughed. "I will not be surprised the day you reveal yourself to have truly been a demon of desire, this entire time, and it will be with the profoundest regret that I will clutch your heart, that last time. But, I will kill you."
"You say the sweetest fucking things, Fenris." Anders’s lips closed around Fenris’s half-interested knob, tongue dancing along the lyrium that lay even here. His hands worked to pull apart half the orange, piling the pieces on Fenris’s chest, as his mouth occupied itself elsewhere.
"Anders!" Fenris ground the back of his head against the floor, trying to throw his head back while already lying down. His hair tangled in the tattered edge of the rug, from the effort, and he might get around to caring later, but for the moment it was enough to feel his pulse throb against that talented tongue.
Anders hummed contentedly, and Fenris saw stars. Entire galaxies were born and died between his eyes and the ceiling.
"Mage. You only get one. I’m exhausted," Fenris warned. "If you — If you want anything else from me, tonight…"
Anders made a decidedly warm and devilish sound that resonated through the curves of Fenris’s hips, before he backed off, letting the now extremely interested flesh slip from his lips.
"And here I thought you might be too drunk and tired for anything else, and I’d be left with the company of my hand and the sweet smell of your skin." Anders grabbed one of the orange slices and popped it into his mouth.
"You’re not getting me off this floor, unless you put me in a bucket and pour me into bed, but I’m not going to discourage you from taking your pleasure with me." Fenris squinted suspiciously. "The usual limits continue to apply."
"There’s no way I can do this without my hands, but I’ll get them off you as fast as I can."
Anders was right, and Fenris would concede the point, this once. "Hurry up, before I pass out and you get nothing."
Laughing, Anders cast a grease spell into one hand and quickly worked most of it along Fenris’s length. As Fenris watched, in a poor impression of impassivity, eating slices of orange from the pile on his chest, Anders pushed his greasy fingers into himself. This was part of it, Fenris knew, how Anders would writhe on his own fingers, biting his lips until they were red and swollen, but never drawing blood. They were both so terribly clear on how entirely unsafe the mage’s blood was. And so Fenris pretended disinterest and ate oranges, while Anders made an enticing vision of himself.
It wasn’t until the last slice was swallowed that Anders pulled his fingers out and wrapped his hand around Fenris again. Fenris’s skin crawled at the touch, but soon enough, it was gone, and he was sheathed inside the warm, tight body of this mage who so loved to please him. And wasn’t that a lark, a mage who wanted to please him, to pleasure him. He might never grow used to this, however much he came to enjoy it.
This was what his freedom meant, though, he thought, running his nails up Anders’s thighs, not just the right to say no, but the right to say yes. Which he did, repeatedly, as the mage impaled himself again and again, slow and tight.
Fenris offered his hand, translucent and blue, and Anders actually moaned at the sight. The sound shot through Fenris, his eyes widened, his hips bucked, his toes curled. The idea that Anders, who was so very silent, once his knob was involved, had a sound like that in him was completely foreign, but terribly welcome.
As the glowing hand curled under him, stroking behind his balls, Anders looked a bit confused. The glowing usually went into his scars or into his chest to caress his heart. And then the fingers pushed up into him, and all thoughts left him. Those fingers stroked erogenous zones he hadn’t even known existed, that no one else would have been able to find. One of the many joys of Fenris, Anders had discovered, was that there was always something new. Fenris could find some way to push him just that much further than he’d ever been, to turn some strange act of destruction into a touch that made every nerve in his body sing with pleasure.
Anders started to shake, with Fenris inside him twice, so close together and touching such different parts of him. They were so tired. This wouldn’t take long.
Under the mage, Fenris thrust up, over and over, fingers roughly digging in to places he thought he might have to apologise for, later. His eyes were locked on Anders’s face, every flick of tongue, every squint of pain, every slack-jawed gasp of pleasure. And then Fenris squeezed just right, and Anders made a ragged little sound and clamped down around him, wringing all the flesh inside him. Fenris wondered, for a moment, which muscle he’d reached into, and then he hadn’t the space left to think. Panting and growling he met every bounce with a thrust, knuckles grinding against the edge of his pelvic arch as he kept his fingers hooked inside the beautiful golden abomination that rode him like the world was ending.
A few hard breaths and sharp gasps, and it was done. Anders held himself up with one shaking arm, dripping sweat onto Fenris’s sticky chest.
"Festis bei umo canavarum," Fenris panted, extracting his fingers from Anders’s insides.
"Only if you don’t kill me first." Anders wheezed something that might have been a laugh. "Bed?"
"Will your Warden stamina get us both there?" Fenris groaned.
"We’re not going another round. I can spare it." Anders unseated himself slowly, flinching at the sudden emptiness. "Still going to have to touch you."
Fenris groaned some more. "I’ll throw up on you, later."
"I’d rather you didn’t. Weren’t you going to lick me later?" Anders scooped Fenris off the floor and staggered to his feet.
"Mmm. I was."
Anders wobbled and stumbled toward the bed.
"If you don’t drop me, I’ll even let you pick where I lick."
"Does that mean I get to put something in your mouth that isn’t food?" Anders rested his knee on the edge of the bed and laid Fenris on it, before climbing over him.
"Maybe. Depends on how I like the taste." Fenris fought the blankets until he managed to get under them, pulling them up to just under his eyes. "Goodnight, abomination."