If You Blow Chunks and He Comes Back…

Anders let himself in through the back of Fenris's mansion, carrying a basket containing almond bread and Antivan brandy. "It's just me!"

Fenris met him in the front room, stretching lithely as he came down the stairs. "Mage."

"Broody Death Elf." Anders held out the basket.

"It's to be like that, is it?" Fenris asked, taking the basket.

"I barfed on Hawke."

Fenris stared. "I could almost kiss you, right now, if putting my mouth on you didn't still sound like the most revolting idea I'd ever had."

"Please don't. Not until I've had a lot more brandy." Anders squinted down at the elf. "And you put your mouth on me all the time."

"Not there." Fenris looked a bit surprised by the brandy, but simply turned and took the basket back up the stairs, leaving Anders to follow him.

"Can you eat?" he asked, breaking the bread, as he sat by the fire.

"Yeah." Anders took the offered chunk of bread and sat on the other side of the basket, staring into the flames.

"Tell me." Fenris opened the bottle with his teeth, took the first swig, and held it out to Anders.

He'd been at Hawke's, the night before. He was at Hawke's a lot of the time, except for Wednesday nights, which were for cleaning, shopping, and having supper with Fenris — not that Hawke had any idea about the last of those. He'd been at Hawke's, having a wonderful time, in fact. The sweaty and naked kind of wonderful time.

They'd been going for hours, and Hawke was all hands, tugging Anders's hair, squeezing his ass, stroking his thighs. Hands and mouth, and Maker's breath, the way Hawke begged and demanded, Anders couldn't help but give. Two mages, and sometimes the magic was fun, but some nights, like this one, they just didn't need it — the flesh was enough — more than enough. Hawke's fingers dug in hard enough to bruise, and there wasn't enough of Anders that he didn't feel it in his bones. He'd never been quite as solid as Hawke, but he could remember not being quite this bony.

And Hawke, being Hawke, caught the shift from meditative to reflective, the way he sank into himself, and the hands pulled him down. Hawke's kisses were fierce and reverent, as if he could impart some of his own love of Anders to the man himself, if he could just apply enough tongue. It was, Anders thought, terribly endearing, just like the way Hawke would start to recover, just as his own stamina began to flag, pushing lazily up into him as he curled up, elbows to knees, dripping sweat and rubbing his cheek against Hawke's. There was something deeply satisfying about the catch and drag of stubble on stubble, Anders decided, before fading into pleasurable incoherence, again.

When Anders next found sense, he was kissing Hawke again — that happened an awful lot. Seemed to be nearly as important to breathe Hawke's air as it was to breathe at all. One of his hands was on Hawke's chest, fingers curled, just appreciating the texture of Hawke's chest hair, stroking and kneading. There was a great deal to appreciate about Hawke, as long as one wasn't halfway up the Wounded Coast with him, in the middle of another fight his mouth had gotten one into.

Anders sat up and rolled his hips, and Hawke's eyes fluttered shut, fingers digging in to Anders's lank, scarred thighs, hoarse praise spilling from his throat. Hawke's hands moved up, squeezing those sharp hips, sliding up over the too-thin planes of lean abdominal muscle. Anders stretched, head tipping back to bare that pale, stubbled neck, arms reaching up, as his hips canted back enough to nearly lay his cock flat against Hawke's belly.

Hawke's fingers traced the lines of some scars, one hand finally sharply tugging at a nipple, and Anders sucked in a sharp breath. That was good. A little more work and his hips matched the rhythm of Hawke's teasing fingers. And then Hawke's other hand found another scar. A small one, just above the other nipple. It wouldn't have scarred, if he'd healed it, and Anders knew it, but he'd taken that one intentionally and stupidly, and as his stomach rolled, he regretted it again. He'd had it coming. Nate had clipped him one across the chest, after some prank gone horribly wrong, and he hadn't healed it, as a reminder to himself. — "The next time I'll cut it off." "Only you, Howe, would threaten a man's nipples." — Unfortunately, the slice had turned out to be deeper than he'd thought, and as the scar evolved, it had taken on some unpleasant side effects. Like the one where Hawke's thumb stroking that nipple was making his stomach increasingly unhappy.

He pushed the thought and the discomfort aside — Hawke was panting and howling, and those beautiful blue eyes had rolled back in his head. A little more, and then Anders would bat that hand away, while Hawke was too distracted to take an interest in why. A few more seconds — and then Hawke's fingers closed around that nipple, the one Anders could only feel half of, and tugged sharply as he came.

The scar disagreed with this, and Anders returned to his senses curled forward, facing a puddle of the last thing he ate, with Hawke still throbbing inside him.

"I'm sorry." Anders wiped his mouth and turned his face away, looking for something to wipe that up with.

"Oh, shit. Anders? Anders, look at me. You ok?" Hawke's hands wrapped around Anders's upper arms.

"Don't move too much. It's mostly on your hair." He wouldn't look. Very much not looking at Hawke, right now.

"I know that." There was the edge, the slow drawl of Hawke trying not to shout. "And if we're stating the obvious, I've got my dick up your ass and you just put up your supper in my hair. What just happened, so I don't ever do it again?"

"Lunch. I didn't eat supper. Actually, I'm not sure I ate lunch. That might have been breakfast. Or yesterday's lunch." Anders babbled as he leaned over the edge of Hawke's enormous bed and grabbed a sock. Probably not big enough, but it was something.

"Anders. Stop. Look at me."

Reluctantly, Anders stopped blotting at the pool of vomit and let his eyes drift toward Hawke's face.

"For once in my life, I might be happy you don't eat more often," Hawke joked, stroking Anders's arm. "What the fuck did I do to you?"

And that was Hawke, Anders thought. 'What the fuck did I do?'

"Next time, can we leave my left nipple out of it?" Anders asked, hysteria bleeding into the last few words.

"All this time, and I've never done that before?"

"You've usually got that hand somewhere else."

"And this would be my reminder to keep that hand somewhere else."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't expect —"

"I love you."

"What?"

"I love you, and it's going to take a lot more than some barf to get rid of me." A lopsided grin settled on Hawke's face, and he reached up to tug at the edge of the sheet. "Here's what I propose: we throw this sheet in the laundry basket, I go fill a bath, you wash my hair, I suck your dick, and then we go back to bed like none of this ever happened. And I never do that again."

"Sold." Anders rubbed his face with both hands. "Hawke, I'm so—"

"Stop apologising and get up. The situation is not going to improve, until you get off me."

"So I got off him, and then he got me off, and then I got him off again, and then there was a whole lot more getting off, in which we both pretended I didn't just lose my day-old lunch in his hair." Anders poked at the fire with the rusted sword Fenris kept for just that purpose.

Fenris sat curled before the fire, elbow on his knee, forehead on his elbow, bottle of brandy hanging from the same hand. "This is my warning to keep my hands off your left nipple."

"It's different when you do it." Anders reached around Fenris and grabbed the bottle. "You do it like you're going to tear my chest open and bathe in my blood and lust."

Fenris snorted and squinted across his arm at Anders. "And somehow this is less nauseating to you."

"It's also usually a lot less nipple-grabbing and a lot more lung-squeezing. And you glow in the dark, which is incredibly distracting and really kind of sexy." Anders grinned.

"Only 'kind of'?" Fenris snorted again and snatched the bottle back, taking a long swig.

Anders huffed. "Fine, yes, it's breathtakingly erotic, and I'm extremely attracted to the feel of your hands in my skin."

Fenris squinted across his arm, again, calculatingly. "Say it again."

A sly smile curled across Anders's face as he twisted and put his hands on either side of the basket of bread, lips a breath away from Fenris's ear. "It's breathtakingly erotic, when you light up like that, and I'm extremely attracted to the feel of your hands in my skin."

"Mmm, yes. But, can you make it through the night without vomiting in my bed?" Fenris teased. "Of course, I'm also not Hawke, which should help."

Anders swiped the bottle and sat back. "I like Hawke."

"You love Hawke," Fenris corrected, staring into the fire.

"Is that a hint of envy?"

"What would I do with a mage's love? I have enough with just your knob, mage," Fenris scoffed. "And if your love comes with vomit on my pillow, I'm just as well without."

"Fenris?" Anders paused, like he was weighing a confession.

"Mmm?"

"Fuck you." He handed the bottle back to the broody elf, beside him.

"Fool mage." The corner of Fenris's lips tilted up in the vaguest suggestion of a smile, which he hid behind the bottle of brandy.