Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The tavern he’s in tonight hardly deserves the name. It’s dark and dirty, filth piled in the corners, the furniture all scarred and half-burnt. The back room smells heavily of rats. Fenris drinks from a bottle, since he can at least wipe it clean before setting his lips to it.

In other words, it’s perfect for his purposes. He tips his hood further over his face and settles in to lurk in a shadow, waiting for his prey to present itself. This is a place made for secrets, but his eyes and ears are sharp enough to find what he’s looking for.

There. A human dressed in the distinctive canvas and tarred tails of a sailor, but without the rolling gait. When he waves at the barkeep, a gold ring flashes. No sailor would wear a ring, let alone afford better than iron. 

Fenris sips his drink, observing his prey. He’s hungry, but that isn’t unusual. He can wait a little. Disgust and anticipation twist his stomach into knots. 

His prey orders a drink, baring his teeth in a predatory grin as he speaks with the barmaid. Fenris is too far to hear them over the sounds of a busy tavern, but it doesn't make a difference. She shrinks back, eyes a little wider than before. 

The drink he pays for is a glass with dark liquid, and he carries it to one of the few empty tables, and takes a chair facing the door. Oblivious, he settles in, clearly watching for a contact he will never meet. Fenris takes a last swallow from his bottle, letting the empty bottle fall.

Fenris stands, removing a glove. His markings shimmer in the dim light, and he quickly tucks his exposed hand beneath his cloak. No need to draw attention. As he passes behind his prey on the way to the door, his bare hand darts out and brushes against the exposed skin on the back of the man’s neck. 

It takes less than a second. Fenris glances back as he opens the door. His prey is already getting to his feet, dark and hungry gaze fixed on Fenris. 

He’s waiting when the door slams open again. He offers his bare hand. “Come with me.” The not-sailor takes it, eyes black with desire.

“Yes.”

Fenris backs down the alley, drawing his prey further into the shadows where they won’t be seen. He pushes the man against the wall and sinks into a crouch, watching as he tears at his clothes, hands shaking. 

When he tastes him, takes his cock in his mouth, Fenris groans in pleasure. He’d been so hungry. And this man tastes strong; at another time Fenris might have wanted to take his time with this one, draw it out, tease every drop from him. 

But it’s late, and he’s always been a fast eater. When the man comes, gasping, filled with possessive greed, Fenris swallows him down, pulling and pulling greedily, until the man gives a final shudder and falls still. 

Fenris lets the corpse fall and rifles through his pockets, a little dizzy with the sudden surge of energy. Perhaps this slaver was unwise enough to carry information on their hideout. 

There's more coin than he expected, and he finds two letters that he can't read. He draws his knife across its throat and leaves the body for the guards to find, and heads back to Hightown. 

—

He's becoming accustomed to fighting alongside Hawke and his companions. 

The first time he joined Hawke on a job, he surprised himself with how easily he allowed himself to be led, instructed, ordered. But Hawke is easy to follow, and he affects everyone around him with a pull not entirely unlike Fenris' allure. 

Fenris can only wish Hawke would have chosen differently who to fight with. 

The letters he collected from the slaver yesterday have led them to a den. Fenris was eager to join Hawke in hunting them, though his other choice for companions is… lacking. Both apostates have their uses, but it still makes Fenris feel uneasy. 

"Do you find it wise to bring a blood mage and an abomination here?" 

"Will you still complain when my blood magic is used to kill slavers?" Merrill pouts at him. 

Yes, he thinks, but bites his tongue. 

"I have plenty of work in the clinic, Hawke, I'm happy to sit this one out." 

"Stop it, all of you. I need a healer, Anders," Hawke explains, and shrugs. "Just get along." 

"No," Fenris scoffs. 

It's oddly satisfying to snap at Anders, watch his frown deepen and the grip on his staff tighten. They will not start brawling, not next to Hawke, Fenris is pretty certain. But the risk sends a rush through him. Should he have to fight Anders, if the abomination loses control , Fenris will be ready. 

It's not something Fenris wishes to happen, but he must be prepared for it. He would mourn the loss of a healer among them, though he has to admit to himself that Anders is more than just a healer. Fighting beside him Fenris has experienced first hand that he is also a powerful battle mage . 

The tension between the three of them doesn't ease, it never does, but they don't continue the argument. Maybe it's all Hawke should hope for. He leads them to an abandoned foundry right on the outskirts of Kirkwall, and the slavers attack them on sight. 

Fenris is ready for it, sword drawn, targeting one of the nearest mages. She isn't prepared, and Fenris knocks her down with his first strike. Unfortunately the rest prove to be more of a challenge. Fenris tries to ignore the familiarity of fighting with blood magic around him, both from his targets, and his companions. 

He notices an archer preparing to call for backup, but while Fenris wants to target him - he can't. Too many hired swords spill into the large hall, surrounding him, forcing his attention on them. 

He doesn't bother defending, instead striking at every opportunity he gets. Hawke is beside him, and the two of them fall into an easy rhythm, attacking side by side. 

It's not until he hears a yelp from behind him that he realises a wave of shades was summoned, from the other side of the room, and they are all targeting Anders. Fenris leaves the warrior he's fighting for Hawke to take care of, and using his markings he rushes in Anders' direction. 

The instinct to protect a mage overwhelms him when he sees Anders surrounded by shades. Watching him flail his staff in a pointless attempt at melee calms him down. Anders is as far away from a magister as he can be, at that moment. 

Close enough to draw the shades' attention, he taunts, and they all abandon their previous target, judging Fenris more dangerous. Foolish. Anders doesn't waste time, and as soon as he has manoeuvring room, he directs his magic at them, freezing them in place. It's an opportunity Fenris appreciates, and with a strong strike, they shatter. 

He wouldn't admit it out loud, but they make a good team.

Unfortunately though, they are not enough by themselves, and with Hawke and Merrill taking care of the slavers on the other side of the room they have to handle it alone. Fenris has been mostly unharmed until he isn't, all at once; blood magic envelops him, cutting off his breath, and a shade takes advantage, clawing at his neck. 

Panic almost settles in, but he fights it, falling down to his knees, gasping. The shade gets knocked away from him with what he assumes is a stone fist from Anders, and the connection with the blood mage is severed a moment later. 

His hands reach to his wound, warm and slick with blood, enough to make him feel lightheaded as he tries to rise. Anders is by his side in a moment, hands hovering over him spreading healing magic. Anders glows golden with it and, in his blood-loss delirium, Fenris can’t help but think he’s beautiful.

It's a welcome relief, flesh knitting together, but he knows already it will not be enough. He will have to find another victim to feed on sooner than he'd like. If he still looks worse for wear when Anders is done, neither of them comments on it. 

Despite their usual animosity, Fenris intends to thank him for the healing, but a cry for help from Hawke draws both of their attention back to the battle. 

It's not until he is hit by another spell that he notices Anders' healing has also taken away the pain from his markings. Something he is still getting used to, fighting alongside the mage. 

He can't afford to think about it while the fight is still going, and by the time they have won the pain returns. 

"Fenris, I saw you get hit, are you well?" Hawke asks when he approaches, concerned, and Fenris is touched.

"I got to him in time, don't worry," Anders responds on his behalf, reaching over to place his hands on Hawke's arm, healing him of his injuries as well. 

"Thank you." Hawke's reply is to Anders, but he is not breaking eye contact with Fenris as he speaks, and it makes his stomach flutter. Ridiculous, that he should be affected by something like this, but Hawke's gaze is intense, and Fenris finds himself wanting . 

He restrains himself from snaring Hawke, and looks away. It would be easy to let his allure capture Hawke, to wind it around him like a lover, to make him come to Fenris, desperate, pleading… but it's not what he wants. Hawke isn't a meal, would never be just another victim. Should Fenris ever use his allure on him, he'd have to be willing. Of course, for that to happen, Fenris would have to confide in him to begin with. 

That… would be uncharted water. No one outside of Tevinter knows of his nature. If he could even trust Hawke to know, it would be an entirely different thing for him to accept it. To want Fenris as he is. 

He shakes his head, clearing his thoughts. There is no reason to dwell on it now. More importantly, he needs to find a new victim to feed on now that the slaver den had been cleaned out. 

Chapter Text

Fenris has thought long and hard about asking her. It was a difficult decision to make; he was surviving as he was, and he could continue to do so. But Isabela was warm and persistent. She has made it very clear that she would welcome him in her bed, and the thought of that warmth was as tempting as her curves. 

He's not too hungry tonight, he’s been feeding regularly this week. He wouldn't trust himself to go with Bela if he wasn't. They haven't touched yet, he makes sure of that, she must be able to make a clear decision. If she is still interested when she learns of the consequences, it will be a relief. Otherwise, Fenris trusts her enough to keep it a secret.

He can only hope that their friendship will not be harmed. There are not many friends he can spare, and he's grown fond of Bela.

It seems she has grown fond of him as well. They sit across from each other at Varric's table, exchanging smirks. She leans her elbows on the table, knowingly framing her breasts and drawing Fenris' gaze to her cleavage. 

"See something you like?" She asks with a wink, as if the answer is not obvious. 

"I see something ," he chuckles, gaze heated as he slowly reaches towards her, until his gauntlet brushes against her arm. The tip of it catches on the edge of a card she has not-so-successfully hidden, and he drags it out from under her with triumph. 

She pouts, but ends up winning the round regardless. 

It's easy to follow her once everyone retires for the night. His gaze lingers on Hawke as he leaves, but there's nothing he can do. Maybe he could someday follow Hawke to his bed, but not tonight. 

Her hips sway as she walks into the room, nimble fingers loosening her sash and tossing them across the room. Fenris is momentarily lost in her sensual display. Enough for her to almost make contact when she reaches for him, hand outstretched to his arm. He steps out of the way, hesitating. 

He's never done this before - telling someone he's an incubus. 

Naturally, she senses his apprehension, and rests her hand on her hip, eyebrow raised. 

"Well, out with it." 

A breath, and then, "Will this be your first time with an incubus?" 

Her eyes give the answer away, wide and bright with sudden anticipation, but with an obvious note of healthy fear. This is fine, he can handle it. 

"Oh, so that's why it took so long to take me up on my offer?" 

"Perhaps," he deflects, not willing to admit the layers of his inexperience. He's not sure what level of intimacy he can expect with Isabela, but it will surely be more than he's ever had. 

Anticipation gives him a rush, and he walks towards her in careful measured steps. "It will not hurt you," he assures her. 

“Is it true what they say? That you can kill with a kiss?” She was leaning towards him, eyes bright with fascination. 

"I could ," he admits. "But I won't." 

"Any long lasting effects I should worry about? I'm not going to wake up with white hair am I?" 

"No, there is no danger for you. You will feel light headed, at most." 

"I can handle that , sweetheart," she smirks back at him, a spark in her eye. Maker, she’s brave; he can see the fear, hidden just beneath the surface.

"You won't be able to refuse me, you will only beg for more." He warns, trying to prepare her as best he can. Not that one could ever truly be prepared.

"I'll try anything once," she says casually, and kisses him, pushing her body flush against his. 

There's a brief moment where Fenris could pretend Isabela is not ensnared, that he's here just because he wants to be and not because he's a monster that needs to feed . He could, but he doesn't, and Isabela exhales into his mouth, shoulders sagging: she is ensnared, he's not here just because they both want this, and he is a monster. 

She melts into the kiss, hands reaching to his neck. It hurts, of course it does. Having a willing victim doesn't change how his markings feel, but he tries to ignore it. It's only pain. 

Isabela tastes like the cheap ale she's been drinking. Fenris enjoys the kiss, and having a warm body against him. His hands instinctively go to rest on her hips, and of their own accord slide down to grope at her ass. She moans appreciatively into his lips, and he takes a small sip of her energy. It's barely enough, but he doesn't dare to take more at once. 

With a swift motion, he slides his hands under her thighs, and she moves with him, wrapping her legs around him. He holds her up comfortably, careful not to pierce the skin with his gauntlets, carrying her easily to the bed. Her hands tangle in his hair, holding on as if it would kill her if he pulled away. It might just feel that way, to her, thoroughly ensnared as she is. 

He drops her onto the mattress, leaning over her, kisses along her jaw, down to her neck. The feeling of her pulse at his tongue excites him. He feeds, slowly, chest tightening at the fact that this is offered to him.

Throwing her head back to give him access, she whines, and Fenris revels in it. The desire to feed freely is strong, and the fact he has to resist puts him on edge. Bela's nails dig into his back, and he focuses on the pain to stay sharp. He won't harm her. Refuses to. It cannot happen !

His kisses trail lower, and he finds himself drawn to her breasts. After spending all night wondering what they would feel like, what they would taste like - he gets to know. He pushes at the straps of her dress until they fall to her shoulders, giving him free access to her chest.

"Yes," she moans, arching her back to press even closer as he sucks a nipple into his mouth. With a hint of teeth, he indulges in another sip, feeding off her arousal. He feels her shudder under him, breathlessly panting, tangling her hands in his hair to press him closer. 

"Please," she begs, undoubtedly not aware of how lost she is or what she is asking for. But Fenris intends to be gentle. 

He replaces his mouth with the tip of his gauntlet, teasing her nipple with just the hint of sharp metal, before he moves lower. She writhes under him, and with urgency he slips his hands under her dress, finds her smalls and pulls them down and off her legs. He can smell her already, and his mouth waters.

"Fuck, please," she gasps, spreading her legs unabashedly to invite him. That might as well be all Isabela, regardless of the allure. Fenris can't help smiling; it is different to feed on someone he knows. He wants to make it good for her, he admits to himself, hands caressing her thighs. 

Falling to his knees at the edge of the bed in a familiar motion, he pulls her toward him, settling her legs over his shoulders. 

Sliding her dress up and out of the way, he trails his tongue over her folds, teasing and enjoying her unrestrained whines, before starting to lick in earnest. She's already incredibly wet, her taste strong on his tongue, and he can barely stop himself from feeding on her. 

"More," she cries, and something curls at his stomach knowing that – though ensnared – she would be willing regardless. She’s made that clear often, brazenly enough to creep into his dreams.

He indulges in the occasional quick pull of her energy as he laps at her, drawing desperate little broken sounds from her throat. Her heels dig into his back, pulling him closer, holding him where she wants him, and he hums in satisfaction. Yes; she’s enjoying this.

With a pointed tongue, he licks her clit until her thighs shake, before gliding back to her slit. She grinds at his mouth, and he fucks her with his tongue, coaxing more delicious sounds from her. The steady waves of arousal are intoxicating, and the urge to feed without care is almost overwhelming. But he keeps it under control. 

As her moans begin to stutter, he moves back to lave at her clit and suck on it gently. It's enough to make her mewl, back arching in bliss, and Fenris doesn't pass the opportunity to feed on her climax. Carefully. Gently. He will not harm her .

He pulls away, standing up and licking his lips. Now that they're no longer touching, and the meal is done, there is no need for his allure. He restrains himself, pulling it back from her, watching as she sobers up gradually, sprawled on the bed in utter bliss. 

"Mmm…" she sighs, "That is quite a talented tongue you have."

He flinches inwardly at the choice of words, but keeps his expression controlled. Isabela sits up on the bed but makes no effort to fix her state of semi undress. "Not the worst way to go, given the choice."

"Not the worst, no," he chuckles, flexing his gauntlet. 

Were this a usual encounter, this would be the time for Fenris to leave. Even when his prey survived the feeding, there's no reason to linger. But here, with… a friend, he thinks tentatively, he should stay. His thoughts must show on his face because Isabela looks at him knowingly, and then lowers her gaze to his evident bulge. 

"Well, we're not done, are we? I am not letting you leave before I see what's under these tight leggings… " 

"If you'd like. I will try not to take any more," he reassures her, even if she did not ask for it. Though she has proven to be quite strong under his allure, he does not mean to take more than is safe. 

"So you can fuck without feeding? Just for fun?" she asks casually, while lifting her dress over her head and casting it aside. 

The question catches him off guard. He can fuck without feeding, had to often enough in the past when his master wished it, just to play with him. But the thought of doing it for fun doesn't occur to him. He has to feed to survive; Bela might as well have asked him if he breathes for fun. 

His eyes travel along her body, now that she's entirely bare and leaning back on the bed. If he were to enjoy sex, even a little, it would be now. "There are worse ways to pass the time,” he smirks, and she grins at him in return. 

“Most definitely,” she purrs, spreading her legs, inviting him in, and without conscious thought he moves towards her, taking off his gauntlets and tossing them on the bedside table. He's got one knee on the bed when he's done removing his belt, peeling his leggings down just far enough to release his flagging erection, stroking it back to full hardness. Her brazen attitude is back in full force, her eyes playful and focused on his cock. 

She whistles, clearly wanting, willing, hands reaching of their own accord to pull him down for a kiss. Now that he's fed from her, it's easier to hold most of his allure back, and his lips meet hers in a way that feels new and meaningful. 

The kiss is heated, Isabela hungrily licking into his mouth, enjoying her own taste on his tongue. He gets lost in it for a moment, Isabela's hand sneaking down to his chest, tugging at him. Willingly, he moves with her, until he's laying on his back, Isabela straddling his hips with a wicked smirk. 

Her body is inviting and warm, and she wastes no time teasing, aligning herself on him. She moans loudly as she slides on his cock, and he groans with the effort of holding back from feeding on her pleasure. Grip steady on her waist, he meets every roll of her hips with a matching thrust, until they fall together into a steady pace. 

"Fuck, this is good," she says breathlessly, leading his hand to her breast. He gropes it, thumb circling her nipple, drawing a gasp from her. With her head thrown back in pleasure, sweat shining on her skin, she's absolutely beautiful. 

If it weren't for the dull pain from his markings, and the strain of resisting to feed, he would enjoy this. The urge to weave his allure around her, to drink every moan that falls from her lips is strong. It was the right decision to only come to her after feeding on others throughout the week. 

He can tell by her sharp panting that she's getting close, so he moves from fondling her breast to tease her clit. It works well, by the way she clenches around him, and he plants his feet down on the bed, thrusting up into her in a faster rhythm. 

Her nails dig into his arms, catching on lyrium, and he flares his markings instinctively against the pain. As the blue glow fills the room, she grinds against his fingers and shudders. Out of habit or reflex, he draws from her climax, little sips of energy that wash over him. 

She sighs as she rides out the waves of her pleasure, eyes closed, and though he stopped feeding on her she sways, losing her balance. In a rush he rises to catch her before she falls off him, and gently lays her on the bed, pulling out from her.   

"Oh, that was new ," she giggles, and then pointedly looks at his erection as he pulls his leggings back over it. "You don't need to take care of that?" 

"No," he says quickly, and hopes no additional questions follow. 

She shrugs, sprawling on the bed, loose limbs and a cat’s content smile tugging at her lips. "Alright, sweet thing." He stands up, putting his gauntlets and sash back on when she adds, "The light show was lovely; draining my life… less so." 

The words hit him harder than he expected, shoulders tensing. He glances at Isabela and finds her just as relaxed as before, despite the rejection. She picks up on his hesitation, and blows him a kiss. Still bare, laying on the bed, beautiful. "No hard feelings." 

No, this is already more than he could wish for. To trust her and have his trust reciprocated is more dizzying than the heavy scent of sex. If it has been for just one night, that is a memory he will cherish. He manages a smile before he closes the door as he takes his leave.

Chapter Text

It’s a bad season for hunting. The autumn storms have begun, which means shipping is limited. The slavers and smugglers have settled into their bolt holes to wait out the ship-killing gales. Which means that Fenris is reduced to small sips from unlucky drunks and cutpurses, unwilling to kill a relative innocent for his own gratification.

What he’d really like is to find a murderer or rapist - or even a blood mage - but they’re thin on the ground in Kirkwall this season. So much for its terrible reputation. He had hoped to find an… arrangement with Isabela, but no. He should've known better than to hope. 

Hawke isn’t cowed by the rain. He’s happy to splash along in the puddles, mud-flecked and soaked to the bone, with the promise of a warm meal and roaring fire at the end of the day. That’s all very well for him and his mabari, but Fenris can feel himself growing weaker. He can only live on sips and snacks for so long, but there’s very little he can do to change the situation. Every day, he tells himself he’ll say no, stay at home, not waste his energy on tromping around the city and fighting whoever draws a blade on them, but every day he finds himself strapping on his sword anyway.

So it’s no surprise that he is too slow, too dizzy to avoid the cudgel coming his way. He feels a thunk echoing through his bones; sees the world become a smear of browns and reds; hears Bela’s scream. Everything goes dark. 

It's Anders' magic that pulls him back to consciousness, a warm, featherlike caress that travels along his skin. As soon as the magic fades, the pain hits him like a blast. His vision returns slowly, and he notices Isabela first, laid out in Anders’ arms, both of them covered in blood. It must be the reason Fenris isn’t healed all the way through, his muscles are still aching, his head throbbing with pain. But Bela’s condition is urgent, and Fenris can handle his own injuries.

The thug that knocked him out must have thought he was done, and Fenris reacts instantly when he sees him preparing to strike Anders. The mage is still focused on healing Isabela, and Fenris uses his markings to close the gap in the span of a breath. Metal claws phase through bone and muscle, and come out holding the man’s heart. Blood splatters across his chest and face, and the rain washes it down his skin.

Despite the healing, he’s still weak, ears ringing, and almost loses his footing slipping on what must be Isabela’s blood on the ground. He swirls, dodging an arrow heading his way by accident, when he spots Hawke fighting a few feet away. There are only a few men left now, the archers that are aiming at him, wisely so– since he, Anders and Isabela are easy targets, close together– and two warriors that Hawke is barely keeping up with.  

“Mage,” he warns, using his sword to block an arrow aimed at Anders’ chest. 

“I need another minute!” His voice breaks, and Fenris sees the sweat dripping from his forehead. Fine. With a grunt, he downs a stamina potion and runs towards the archers, grip brutal on his sword. He yells at them when he’s far enough from Anders, drawing their attention, and despite being ready for it an arrow grazes his neck. It’s not critical, and he can't spare the time to pause, so he keeps his focus on his targets.

Guilt pangs at him and urges him on. The battle would have gone differently if he had fed prior. He swings his sword slower than usual, but with enough force that the archers aren’t ready for it. It’s a deadly strike and they both fall to the ground. 

Unfortunately, Fenris doesn't notice Hawke is injured until the warrior he was fighting moves on to him. He's too fucking slow, and the warrior’s sword clashes into his at the last second. It knocks him off his balance, and a pommel strike to his head is almost enough to make him black out again. 

He can't fall though, because there's no one else standing, so he snares his target. His allure is strong and focused, and in the short breath that the man freezes, trapped, Fenris slices his head clean off. 

He assumes that silence falls across the clearing, but his ears are still ringing. Now as the rush of battle leaves him, his knees give out under the strain, and he collapses on the wet ground. 

Anders walks towards him, and for a moment his muscles tense in anticipation of magic, but he passes him, calling to Hawke. 

"Fuck, can you stand?" 

Despite the words not being directed to him, Fenris takes a deep breath and rises, leaning heavily on his sword. He will have to help Hawke get back home. 

"You holding up there?" Isabela asks him, and he wonders how bad he is doing that he didn't notice her until she was by his side. 

"I should be asking you that." He eyes her carefully. She's drenched in blood, her dress is torn but she looks alive and well. Thanks to Anders' healing skills, no doubt. 

"Isabela, come help me," Anders calls to her, and Fenris follows, wanting to check on Hawke. He is half lying on the floor, eyes unfocused, blood running from his mouth. Anders is kneeling beside him, looking over to Isabela. 

"Tell me you've found a potion." His voice sounds desperate, and he sighs in relief when Isabela reveals a large glass bottle. "Make sure he drinks it while I fix his leg," he instructs, and moves his hands from Hawke's shoulders to his knees. "Not all of it though, save half for Fenris," he adds, without so much of a glance at Fenris himself. 

A potion won't do much for him now, but he still appreciates it. He watches Isabela and Anders fussing over Hawke, and he wishes badly he could be of more use. 

Instead he simply accepts the half empty bottle, drinking what is left in one go. It's enough to clear his hearing, if not much else. The first thing he hears sharply is Hawke coughing, and his chest tightens with worry. If anyone can help though, it's Anders. Sure enough, a moment later Hawke stands, held up by the mage. 

"This is the best I can do right now. We should get out of here." 

"Let's fucking go," Hawke says breathlessly, and Fenris follows them.

They make it to the clinic without trouble. Isabela splits halfway there, after kissing Anders goodbye, presumably in gratitude for saving her life. 

In this quiet corner of Darktown, Anders downs a lyrium potion and starts healing Hawke right away. He frames Hawke's face in his hands, channelling so much magic that Fenris feels it on his skin despite standing at a distance. 

"Anders, marry me," Hawke jokes breathlessly as colour returns to his face, and Fenris bites his tongue at the pang of jealousy. Now that Hawke is out of danger, he doesn't see the point of staying, and he begins walking towards the door. 

It's been a tiring week, he’s been busy with Hawke on odd jobs, and none of the victims he fed from have been able to satisfy him for more than a few hours. After the fight today, he feels weaker than ever, and despite knowing Anders will heal him without asking anything in return, he does not feel comfortable being this vulnerable next to a mage. 

"Oh no you don't–" Anders starts calling after him, and Fenris only snarls, intending to ignore him entirely when Hawke speaks. 

"Fenris, come back here."

He stops in his tracks. 

"I am eager to return home, Hawke." He hopes it will be enough, but when is it ever? Hawke walks over to him, calmly, a worried expression on his face and for a moment Fenris wonders what it would be like to kiss him.

"Let Anders look you over. Please." It's a command, the way any ‘request’ from Hawke is, and Fenris can't refuse him. With a clenched jaw he takes Hawke's place, sitting on a cot in front of Anders. 

"Take it easy on him," Hawke says, at either of them or both, and leaves. Fenris mentally curses at him, watching Anders drink another lyrium potion, head tossed back as his throat bobs. His hunger must be worse than he thought, because he finds himself licking his lips at the expanse of pale skin of Anders' neck. It would be so easy to stand and feed from him. 

He tears his eyes away to try to clear his head. 

"I can be quick," Anders says, and begins healing. Despite himself, Fenris feels his shoulders sag, muscles relaxing at the familiar warmth of Anders' magic. His cuts close, aches disappearing. He is still incredibly weak, will be until he finds a victim and feeds, but the healing is much needed. 

When Anders reaches for his face, he instinctively flinches in anticipation of pain. But it doesn't come. His eyes widen as Anders' fingers connect with his chin, lifting his face to inspect the head injury.

He is always careful not to let anyone touch him. Most of Hawke's companions have learned Fenris does not wish to be touched, and so they keep their distance. 

The markings always hurt more when his skin is touched, and so they serve as a reminder - not to let anyone touch him. But he is slow today and he doesn't notice Anders' approach until his hands are already touching his skin. Now when he's starving and his control is fraying, his allure seeps from him at the contact. 

Anders reacts instantly, a sharp inhale, pupils blown, pulling his hand back as if he touched fire. He might as well have. 

Fenris doesn't hold back the snarl, moving back, anticipating a lustful grab. "You should not have touched me." 

"This explains a lot." Anders ignores him, unafraid. 

"How–" His markings flare, trying to intimidate Anders. It does not work. He groans with pain as soon as he tries to stand up, and Anders’ hand on his chest pushes him easily to sit back on the cot. 

"Dim down and let me heal you." 

He sighs, deflating as the healing magic works its way through his head, spreading comfortable warmth to the rest of his body. Anders' healing magic is unique, it's what he imagines others feel when he feeds on them. Utter bliss. He's never felt so helpless. 

"Being an elf covered in lyrium wasn't enough for you? You had to be an incubus too?"

"Why does my allure not affect you?" Fenris demands, ignoring the rhetorical question.

Danarius used blood magic to block it. But Fenris would know if that was the case, would feel it like a snake on his skin instead of the comfortable lick of Anders' magic. 

"You want it to?" Anders asks, as if Fenris couldn't have had Anders under him the day they met if he’d wanted. 

"It has proven to be irresistible." 

Anders snorts, "Like you need the help. You're not hard to look at, Fenris. But it does distract from your sparkling personality." 

For a moment Fenris wonders if he's in the fade, dreaming. How is Anders acting so normal? His skin is flushed, his breathing is shallow; he is definitely physically affected, but his hands are steady as he hovers over Fenris, healing him. 

"Is this why you haven't been focused today? You haven't fed?" 

He's right, but Fenris would rather eat his own tongue than admit it. 

"Are you done?" he deflects, waving Anders' hand away from his face. The healing gave him some strength back, and a second attempt to stand proves successful. He is still dangerously weak and will have to find a new victim soon. 

"Let me help." 

Fenris blinks as the words sink in. "Help with what, exactly?" 

Anders rolls his eyes, as if he's not offering his life on a platter. "Feed on me? If you need to."

Fenris scoffs, and begins walking away. "I would rather starve." 

Chapter Text

He is naked, bent over a plush velvet surface while his master leisurely fucks into him. Fenris is hungry; he hasn’t fed in almost two weeks, has been kept from it, in anticipation for tonight. He claws at the table, ripping through the expensive fabric, heedless of the blood that marks his thighs. He’s hungry, and he cannot feed on his master, could not, will not, the scrape of blood magic against his markings almost redundant. Almost: all are prey to a starving incubus. 

“Ah, Marcus,” his master’s voice. “I’ve seen you admiring my pet.” A hand pats his hip, and he doesn’t hold in a whine as his master thrusts particularly hard. He knows what this is; his master is hunting, and Fenris is the bait. “Beautiful, is he not?” 

“Yes my lord.” Magister Marcus Canaveri has been a thorn in his master’s side for months now. “You are to be congratulated.” The man sounds… hungry. Fenris shudders in anticipation. Perhaps…

“Is it true that he’s an incubus?” 

His master thrusts hard again, tearing, and Fenris’ back arches. He’s grabbed by the hair, presenting his face to the magister. His master doesn’t falter, still moving inside him, bending Fenris backwards into a curve. He can see the other man now, watch his pupils dilate, see him shifting his weight as he stares at Fenris. He can’t hold back the hungry growl. 

Magister Marcus swallows audibly. “I see.”

“Would you like to try him?” His master asks slyly. “It is… certainly an experience.” 

His eyes widen. “I…” Fenris can smell his desire from across the room. His allure is wrapped up tight under his skin, where master wants it, but he aches to throw it out, reel the man in. He whines, claws ripping into the fabric beneath him. 

His master chuckles, moving faster now, his hips bruising Fenris’ ass. “Would you like that, little wolf? Would you like Magister Canaveri to have you for an evening?” 

He knows what his answer should be, and he gladly gives it, writhing. “Yes master. Please!” 

His master thrusts once, twice, three times, and Fenris feels him come with a slightly-exaggerated sigh of pleasure, finally releasing his hair. He pulls out and walks around the table, skimming his fingers over Fenris’ back. “Well, Marcus? I’m happy to grant you this… favour.” Fenris hums happily, gratefully, as he licks the blood and semen from his master’s still-hard cock. They both know this is only the beginning. 

Marcus heaves in a shuddering breath. “I… yes.”

His master smirks with triumph.

—

Fenris has been scrubbed and polished by the bath attendants, his hair brushed, claws painted silver to match the ribbons that are his only ornament. Wide silver ribbons twist around him in a river of silk; around his neck like a collar, swooping down his chest in a series of intricate knots, winding around his biceps and thighs, around the base of his cock. He stands in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by lush greenery and stylised statues of dragons that conspire to grant the illusion of privacy. 

His master is somewhere above, on one of the hidden balconies that ring the courtyard, out of sight from the ground. But with a good view: Fenris knows he likes to watch. He almost pities the body slave who accompanied his master this evening, but he cannot think of that now; there are footsteps approaching. 

Magister Canaveri. Tall, dark-haired. Slender in the way of academics, with a hint of a paunch. He’s a little unsteady on his feet: no doubt his master has been plying him with fine wine and delicacies while Fenris was prepared. Not that it matters. Fenris is hungry, and Marcus has offered himself as prey. 

He moves from the shadow of an orange tree. “Greetings, Marcus.” His allure is wrapped around his words, sinking gentle hooks into the man, who has stopped and is staring like Fenris is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He swallows audibly, sweat beading on his forehead. But he doesn’t berate Fenris for being so familiar. Fenris smiles, a hint of cruelty in it.

“What will you require of me this evening?” He moves towards the man, slowly, carefully. A wolf in his forest. The magister’s eyes glow a muted blue for a moment, and Fenris feels a blood magic spell snap into place over the man’s skin, warding off the allure of his voice. Ah. Fenris’ smile widens. A challenging hunt. 

He stalks in slow circles around the magister, sinuous movement and bright claws, winding his allure around the man like the ribbons around his arms. Marcus turns with him, eyes wide and slightly afraid but dark with lust. Fenris bares his teeth in a feral grin. It won’t be hard to break this one. 

He edges a little closer, the light from the lantern falling across his face. The magister’s breath hitches. Fenris is beautiful, irresistible, and the magister knows it. Knows and wants it; wants him . The blood magic might allow him to keep his mind for the moment, but he has been doomed from the moment he made the deal with his master. 

Magic cannot protect him from his own desires. 

Fenris takes the final step, within the reach of his arms, close enough that the magister can feel his body heat. He lifts imploring eyes to the man, hands already reaching up. “May I undress you, domine?”  

He hears the gulp, Marcus sucking in a breath like he’s drowning. The nod is slow; already mesmerised, and Fenris’ hands are already moving, finding buckles and belts with the ease of long practice. He slides the ornate robes off the magister’s shoulders, leaving him bare-chested and pale in the dark. Fenris steps away to carefully fold the robe, and Marcus makes a tiny noise in the back of his throat. Fenris hides a smirk. 

From there it’s a slow, sensuous seduction, eyes and voice and careful touch winding their way around this magister who thought he could beat an incubus. The fragile blood magic shell shatters when Fenris falls gracefully to his knees, and soon Marcus is writhing in the dirt, whining, pleading, begging for Fenris to touch him, please ! 

And Fenris, knowing what his master likes, feeds from him slowly, forces him to orgasm so many times that his cock is bleeding and raw, nothing left to expel, yet Marcus still moans eagerly when Fenris reaches for him, fingers slippery with blood. It coats his hands and Marcus’, thighs, seeping from cuts made by the man’s own dagger. Fenris’ silver ribbons are soaked in it, pure silver turned ink-dark in the shadows of the pretty garden. 

Fenris is astride him, thighs aching from the effort but sated in a way he rarely is. Still, he knows his place. He looks up to the balcony of his master’s quarters, slows his hips, ignoring the magister pleading beneath him. He hears someone cry out, and then his master’s voice. “Finish him!”  

Fenris leans down, heedless of the blood and semen coating the human’s chest. “Marcus,” he purrs, beautiful and predatory in the dim light. “Marcus, come for me.”  

And Marcus, a magister in his own right, powerful and highborn, so firmly ensnared by the incubus he thought he could best, gasps, back arching, and empties himself into Fenris for one final time. Pours his life into the creature on top of him, cock twitching pathetically and Fenris feeds and feeds, not stopping this time, no careful sips, just great gulps of life and pleasure. 

Magister Canaveri dies in the dirt, enslaved by a slave, and Fenris can appreciate the irony. 

Carefully, he pulls himself off the corpse, leaving it there for house slaves to deal with. A crash as something falls from his master’s balcony to land in the shrubbery. When he steps closer, Fenris sees the face of one of the body slaves, smelling of his master’s seed. Her long black braid has been wrapped around her throat, her face dark with strangulation. Fenris regards her indifferently for a moment. She died with her master’s cock inside her, and by his hand. An honour few could hope for. He turns away.

When he is escorted into his master’s presence, still covered in blood and semen, Danarius is lounging on a sapphire-coloured chaise, gloriously naked. He smiles, and Fenris is content. 

“You did well, pet.” A shudder runs through him, and he drops to his knees. His master runs a hand through his hair, petting him as one might a favoured hound, and Fenris could fuck and be fucked a thousand times and not feel as content as he does now. 

“Thank you for my meal, master. He was delicious.” Fenris knows how to give his words exactly the right touch of cruel delight. 

It pleases Danarius. That is all that matters.

—

It’s dark and quiet when he jerks awake, jaw aching, hands shaking like he has the palsy. He lies motionless for long minutes, staring into the dark, listening with everything he has. The emptiness of the room feels wrong, a sharp contrast to the panic and anger in his mind. But he is alone, alone in the dark, lying in a bed in a borrowed mansion, fine cotton sheets damp with cold sweat. His chest is crushed under an imaginary weight, breathing heavy and hard, bile rising in his throat as his mind replays the memory. 

He suddenly tears the covers away from him, feeling trapped, sitting up in a rush. The markings glare of their own accord now, and in their blue glow he drops his face into his hands, chest heaving as he tries to steady his breathing. For someone with most of his memories lost, he could surely spare a few more. It’s been a while since he relieved his time with Danarius so vividly, and he blames Anders for it. 

He often has to remind himself that Anders is no magister, but he resisted Fenris’ allure like one. Now that he knows of Fenris’ nature, he will likely use it against him. Should he reveal his secret to Hawke… Despite the fear that rises at the thought, Fenris can’t bring himself to entertain the thought of asking Anders to stay quiet. Being in a mage’s debt might be worse than being at his mercy. 

The memory is still so fresh in his mind, the way he had to beg to feed, how he longed, hoped, thirsted for his mast- Danarius’ praise. His markings flare intentionally now, the dull pain grounding him to focus on the present, not get lost in the past. He is free. Not of his memories, but Danarius has no hold on him now; no mage does.

He needs to feed, urgently, but at least he is free to choose his victim. 

Chapter Text

Finding a victim today proves even more difficult than it has for the last few weeks. Despite actively looking, he repeatedly gets interrupted whenever he finally finds suitable prey; the last time by Hawke, who drags him into the depths of Lowtown hunting for gang members. By the time they start towards the Hanged Man, he is starving, and the stew that is served at their table only satisfies one kind of hunger . He follows Hawke mostly in hopes of finding a drunk no one would miss, because if he doesn't feed tonight he might not make it another day. 

Definitely not if Hawke asks him to join another job. 

Varric's room is well lit, enough that Fenris worries about how poorly he looks. He can only hope it can be blamed on being tired. For the most part, he is tired , and he is only half invested in the game they're playing. He volunteers to bring the rounds of drinks, surveying the bar and trying to find a meal.

Unfortunately, he returns disappointed every time, only getting hungrier. He loses almost every hand he's dealt - if not distracted by the need to feed, then it's the fact that Anders is sitting right opposite him. 

Despite himself, he can't keep his eyes from glancing at him throughout the night. It's still a mystery how he was able to stay calm after touching him. And he did offer himself. Although Fenris has no interest in Anders, it is a rush by itself to be offered. He only has his time with Isabela as reference, but he would like to feed again on someone who is willing. Someone who understands what he is and accepts him. It's probably too much to ask for. Definitely not something he would get from Anders. 

"You look like shit Broody, everything okay? I thought our healer fixed you up yesterday." 

He frowns, folding his hand, deliberately not meeting Varric's gaze. His control is threatening to break. 

"If Fenris prefers to be miserable rather than let a mage help him, there's nothing I can do." 

Fenris snarls at Anders, unintentionally making eye contact and baring his fangs. He doesn't mean to snare him, doesn't think he even can after yesterday, but he catches just enough of Anders' eyes darkening before looking away. 

"Fenris, maybe he should take a look," Hawke says, reaching with his hand to touch Fenris' gauntlet. 

"Do not–" With more force than necessary, he pushes his chair back and rises, steps sluggish as he heads out of the room. He can't risk looking at Hawke right now, much less touching him. He needs to feed before he ends up making a stupid mistake, like going to a mage for help. The thought sends a shudder through his body, and the fact he can't tell how much of it is disgust and how much anticipation worries him.

Almost stumbling on the steps, he makes it to the bar counter, leaning on the wood heavily as he checks the crowd. Too many guardsmen, too many people who know his face. He knows better than to hunt at the Hanged Man; if he hadn’t been half-dazed he never would have come here in the first place. 

He scans the room one final time, hoping for something, anything to tide him over. Even a sip would be enough. 

It's a struggle to keep his eyes open suddenly, and he doesn't react quickly enough when a drunk patron shoves past him to get the bartender's attention. 

"Fucking knife-ear bastard," the man slurs, hand brushing against Fenris' arm on the counter. 

Fenris' eyes focus, snaring him before his next breath. He's caught, instantly, and suddenly Fenris can't think of anything beyond the meal that's in front of him. The last sliver of control stops Fenris from devouring the helpless man right there by the bar, and he doesn't resist the kiss when lips are pressed against him. 

Just a little taste, and he would have enough strength to lead the man outside with less suspicion. He hopes. But he has not many options left. 

The kiss is wet, feral, sharp teeth drawing blood and clouding Fenris' mind. It's barely enough to be satisfying, but it's more than he had in days , and Fenris doesn't want it to stop. 

The ground almost disappears beneath him when he's pulled away from his victim, strong grip on his shoulder. Anders has come between them. Fenris snarls, blood on his lips.

Damned mage. Fenris could kill him. Probably should, for keeping him away from his meal. The nameless drunk is barely held back by Anders' arm pushing at his chest, he's clawing at it trying to try back to Fenris. 

"Do you even realise how much danger you're putting yourself in right now?" 

Anders' voice is in his ear, his warmth radiating to Fenris with how close they are. Too close, much too close to be safe. He's trying to look stern, Fenris is sure, but he looks out of breath and flustered. To be expected when pressing himself between an incubus and his prey. Prey that is reaching out to grab at him, murmuring pleas in between whimpers. 

"Don’t go, please. I need you."

"Let me help." Anders' voice cuts through the rambling, and Fenris meets his eyes, dark with desire but wide with… fear? Concern? He can’t tell. It’s an effort to fight through the feeding haze and think clearly. He mostly wants to shove Anders away, drag his meal outside and satisfy his need. But Anders is right, damn him, it is dangerous, and for Fenris to take what might be an innocent albeit pathetic life when he is willingly offered help… 

He is insane. There is no other explanation for why he's shoving Anders into a dark hallway in the Hanged Man, backing him against the wall, careful not to touch.

He is absolutely sure he doesn't touch Anders at all, no skin on skin contact, but even in the low light he can see Anders' eyes getting hooded, his mouth parted in a silent gasp. Fenris' allure is oozing out of him right now.

'You're not hard to look at.' Anders told him yesterday. Was that a compliment? What would Anders look like when Fenris is actually touching him? Kissing him? Riding his cock? 

No. That is never going to happen. 

He must be desperate to come to him at all, but this will not be a repeated occurrence. 

"Are you offering yourself?" Fenris asks, voice low, calm despite the rush of blood in his ears. He can feel Anders' heat like a promise, wants to lick his throat as he swallows. 

"Yes," he breaths out, and it's enough for Fenris to fall to his knees without breaking eye contact. Unlacing Anders' trousers, he belatedly realises that he hasn't touched him yet. He's never been this sloppy before, it's too dangerous to go this far without snaring his victim, especially one who knows. But the desire to have clear consent from a… companion, someone he knows, is too strong, and now that he has it, snaring Anders won't be a problem in a moment. He takes his already half hard cock out of his smalls and wraps his lips around it, taking him all the way to the base.

"Oh, you're gonna kill me," Anders chokes, hardening against his tongue so fast Fenris is almost surprised he doesn’t faint. It’s a nice cock too, he thinks dimly. Long, but not too thick, and he tastes of clean human male and a hint of the Fade. 

Now that Anders is hot and heavy in his mouth, Fenris can finally clear his head. He needed this, badly. His shaking hands go to Anders' hips, pressing into the skin, demanding control despite being on his knees, and Fenris inhales with every plunge, taking in Anders' entire length every time. 

He's focused on the taste of salt on his tongue, the smell of sex and sweat, everything he needed to get his strength back. The familiar buildup of energy spreads throughout his body, almost making him lightheaded with it. Anders is clearly affected now, making quiet little sounds above him, broken whimpers and gasps that are barely heard over the sound of Fenris sucking him off. 

There's saliva running down his chin, likely dropping to the floor, but he ignores it, continuing at a steady pace for as long as he can manage, savouring the taste before the need becomes too much. There's only so much time he can spend on pleasure when a life hangs in the balance. 

He quickens the pace, laving his tongue at the head as he sucks, coaxing more heat and energy out of it. 

Anders' cock twitches in his mouth, causing Fenris' sharp fangs to graze the sensitive skin. There's a brief moment of concern that he hurt Anders, but he hears a moan from above him, feels Anders' wave of arousal wash through him. 

So he does it again, purposefully, until Anders' hips buck despite Fenris' grip. 

It seems like he is trying to hold back, but with a hungry growl Fenris takes him deeper, swallowing around him - hard and demanding, pulling his orgasm from him. 

After a week starving, Fenris is finally sated, though he knows it won't last long. 

He pulls away, licking a drop of Anders' release that fell from his lips. His grip on Anders' hips doesn't waver; he expects him to wobble or fall, as most of his victims do, but Anders just shoves off the wall, offering Fenris his hand. As if he would take it. 

He stands up easily, with the energy he now has. 

“Is that all you need?” Anders asks him, lip bloody, face flushed, but otherwise almost unaffected. How? A glance down shows Fenris Anders' erection is still hanging out of his smalls, hard and leaking. 

"I don't truly mean to kill you."

"I can take a lot more," he smirks, "Just give me a bit of warning next time and I’ll last much longer for you." He finally tucks himself back in, and Fenris resists the temptation to take more or to think of how much more he could take. He was desperate, coming to Anders for help, but he won't let it happen again. 

"There will not be a next time," he tells Anders, with only a small glimmer of doubt. 

Chapter Text

Some people have very strange ideas about sex, Fenris thinks. Admittedly, as an incubus, his thinking might be different from most others, but… 

Take this situation, for example. He’s crouched in front of his prey, who is seated in an uncomfortable-looking armchair. His trousers are around his knees, which means the man’s main weapon is out of his reach. His cock is in Fenris’ mouth, his eyes closed…

And really, people would say Fenris is the one with no control here? This rapist, pointed out to him by one of the elves who work in the bar downstairs, has let Fenris inside his guard, allowed himself to be this vulnerable, and he’s the powerful one? 

People are strange. 

Still, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the thrill of the slow seduction downstairs, the fear from the serving girls, how worried they were for Fenris. What matters is how careful he’s being with this juicy morsel, draining him slowly, how his moans are getting weaker, his grip on Fenris’ hair faltering, legs shaking as he spills down Fenris’ throat. 

What matters is how weak he is; too weak to do more than raise his head and watch as Fenris slowly drives a dagger into his belly. He wouldn’t let this one die a quick and blissful death. 

—

Thankfully, the rains ease off after the incident at the Hanged Man. It means that, though the hunting still isn’t plentiful, the scum has started to ooze back onto the streets; if he looks hard enough, Fenris can keep himself satisfied, if not content. And he’s determined not to return to the mage, no matter what Anders might have suggested about ‘next time’. 

Anders has become a mystery, and Fenris doesn’t like it. He’d thought he understood the man: his emotions and thoughts are writ large on his face, and he’s never shy about sharing them in any case, often at the top of his lungs. 

But now… Fenris returns to the thought over and over again, like prodding a loose tooth. Anders knows far too much about incubi and their needs. Anders can resist his allure. Anders isn’t afraid of him, isn’t afraid to get between him and his prey. Fenris remembers the way he stood, looming over him to capture all of his attention despite the drunken prey he’d already snared. 

And he did it for Fenris, not the unlucky drunk. He was worried about Fenris being in danger, not that he’d have surely killed the man. It seems that he keeps some secrets close to his chest. 

Maker damn the mage. He’s been watching Fenris all night, that worried crease between his eyes growing deeper every time he looks. The scrutiny is enough to make Fenris want to snarl at him, but he's forced to admit he probably doesn’t look his best at the moment. That rapist was at least a week ago, and Hawke eliminated the gang Fenris had been stalking before he could get so much as a taste. Still, that’s no concern of Anders’; he should keep his eyes to himself. 

As the group begins to break up for the night, Fenris quickly removes himself to the bar, hoping that Anders would just leave. He is too tired for the confrontation he could see brewing, and he just wants another quiet drink and to go home. 

No such luck. “Can I sit here? I need to talk to my friend.”

The surly old man on the stool beside Fenris, the man he’d specifically chosen to sit next to because it looked like he’d turn to stone before he moved, gives Anders a smile. “Sure thing, Healer.” Kaffas.  

Anders pats the man’s shoulder. “Thanks Alfie. I’ll see you next week?” Does he know everyone in Kirkwall? As the old man shoves his way down the bar, presumably in search of a new seat, Anders leans close to Fenris, Healer’s smile gone. "You can't keep doing this; you're going to end up dead." He’s as serious as Fenris had ever seen him, voice low. He can smell the cider on his breath.

"What do you care?" Fenris retorts sharply, unwilling to bear Anders’ criticism. Anders frowns at him. 

"Walking around with a starving incubus? How long before you lose control and snare Hawke in the middle of battle?"

"Don’t you fucking dare to presume my control--" his voice is rising from irritation, but Anders is infuriatingly calm, interrupting him freely.

"Just fucking feed until you're full. I'm willing; I can take it."

Fenris scoffs. "You can't satisfy me. No one can."

"Fucking try me." That smug smile is more than enough to push him to action. 

“Fine.” Without thinking, Fenris grabs Anders by the hair, leans forward and kisses him, right there at the bar, allowing his allure to wind around the mage. Anders moans into his mouth, one hand reaching up to touch Fenris’ cheek. 

It isn't a nice kiss, soft and sweet. It is harsh and demanding; Fenris raking his teeth over Anders’ lower lip, fist clenched in his hair, already drawing on his energy hard enough that he would surely feel it. When he pulls back, Anders’ eyes are glazed, thoroughly ensnared. 

Or maybe not. “I’m not a delicate flower, Fenris.” That damnable smug grin is creeping back. “Shall we go elsewhere, instead of giving the whole Hanged Man a show?” 

With a grunt of disgust, Fenris thrusts him away, roughly untangling his hand from Anders’ hair. That smile doesn't waver; only gets bigger as Fenris shoves coin across the bar at Korf, taking a key in return. The room furthest away from Varric and Isabela’s, obviously. 

They’re barely inside before Anders is crowding him against the wall, one hand cupping his cheek to kiss him again, just as hungry. The lack of pain makes Fenris flinch despite himself. “Don’t worry,” Anders murmurs against his lips. “You’re safe, I won’t hurt you.” 

A bitter laugh claws its way up Fenris’ throat, but Anders is kissing him again, fumbling the door shut, and Fenris is abruptly tired of being gentle with him. He thinks he can handle a hungry incubus? 

Fenris shoves, throwing Anders off him and halfway across the room to land on the rickety bed. Disappointingly, the mage doesn’t even yelp in surprise, stretching his arms above his head in a weak sort of enticement. As if anyone would want his scrawny body. 

“I should have known you wouldn’t have any manners,” Anders tells him with a grin. He should have been babbling, half out of his mind with fear or need or some hellish mix of the two. He should have been reduced to a pleading, needy mess; Fenris hasn’t held back. Except somehow he isn’t. For some reason, Fenris is almost offended.

“Don’t just stand there, staring.” Anders makes an impatient gesture. “Which way do you want me?” He begins unbuckling his coat with steady hands, despite the greedy look in his eyes and the obvious erection straining against his trousers. Fenris eyes him, unconsciously licking his lips. He remembers that from the first time, how it sat heavy and delicious on his tongue.

He snarls, clears his head with a hard shake, and reaches out to grab Anders by the wrists. But at the first brush, the mage flinches away, and Fenris feels a dark sort of triumph. Fear is a response he understands. 

Anders taps his gauntlets. “These. Off.” He shudders. “I’m alright most of the time, but… not when I’m naked.” 

Reasonable. “On your back.” Fenris croaks, working at the tiny buckles at his wrists. To his private relief, Anders obeys, although not without opening his damn mouth again.

“Finally we’re getting somewhere!” He grins up at Fenris as he falls into a graceless tangle of long limbs. “What do you need?” 

"I am going to suck you until you are shaking and mewling helplessly for more," he deadpans, means it as a threat, but Anders' responding wave of arousal shows he does not heed the warning, fumbling in his eagerness as he strips off his remaining clothes.

"That sounds delightful. Let’s get started," he says , only adding to Fenris' annoyance. 

Even if Anders does prove to be a satisfying meal, Fenris doubts the incessant banter is worth it. Maybe he should have gagged the mage. It's a pleasant thought, but Fenris is confident he can come through on his promise, to reduce Anders' words to desperate pleas. Fingers bare now, he reaches out to touch, realising with surprise that he never usually sees so much of a potential meal. 

Anders is all pale skin and freckles in the lamplight, his skin warm as Fenris’ hands glide up and up those long legs, spinning his allure as he goes and watching desire devour the gold in Anders’ eyes.

His cock is already hard and ready for Fenris, but he avoids touching it just yet, letting his hands rest on either side of it, then slowly slide back down. His thumbs digging into the sensitive hollows on the back of Anders’ knees, he pulls his legs open, baring him to Fenris’ gaze, helpless and vulnerable. Anders lets out a breathy moan, arching his back restlessly. “I didn't realise you liked to play with your food,” he murmurs.

“Shut up.” Fenris snaps, finally leaning down to taste him, dragging his nails up Anders’ thighs as he does, digging in to ground himself, to remind Anders that Fenris is dangerous. It doesn't exactly work; Anders only moans appreciatively in response, but Fenris prefers it over him talking at least. 

Anders tastes the same as before, and absentmindedly Fenris thinks that if he has to feed from the same victim twice, he could do much worse than Anders. With slow careful sips he runs his tongue along his length, drawing little gasps and broken breaths from Anders. The languid pace he sets is an unusual way for him to feed, and he finds himself enjoying it despite himself, despite the fact that he's in bed with Anders, of all people, under him.

"Fuck, Fenris, yes ," Anders pants when Fenris gradually settles into a faster rhythm, taking him hard and deep every time. Pleasure flows from Anders to Fenris in a rush, bringing him back to health. Anders whimpers his name again and again. It’s something he’s never heard before and will likely never hear again, so he savours the broken pleas.

His victims are usually long gone by now, resolve broken, and he has to finish them quickly. But Anders, despite his attitude, allows Fenris to take him as he pleases, hips staying still even as he arches his back. It confuses him and excites him in equal measure, and he finds himself taking more, swallowing around Anders when he hits the back of his throat. 

It sends pleasure through his body and he moans, feeling Anders' cock twitch in his mouth. The realisation that he is enjoying Anders as more than just food hits him hard, and he dismisses it immediately. With willing prey, it's natural that his instinct is to take whatever pleasure he can for himself, in order to draw more from Anders. And Anders could not be more willing. 

"Yes– please take it, feed on me," Anders babbles almost incoherently, and Fenris almost freezes, because no one has ever said this to him before, no one could ever ask for this, want this. 

But he indulges both of them, inhaling Anders' strong scent of sex through his nose, hollowing his cheeks around him, and slowly drains Anders even more. 

It's easy to lose himself in it. Every time Anders gets close to the edge the tone of his whimpers change and he eases off, bringing him back down, until Anders’ thighs are trembling with every delicate swipe of his tongue, every brush of his lips or hint of his teeth. Anders has clawed holes in the sheet and down into the tick beneath, but he never grabs at Fenris, never pushes him to do more, never tries to take more. His restraint is marvellous to Fenris. He’s never met anyone who could give as much as Anders had - and still beg for more.

"H-Harder," Anders stutters when Fenris digs his nails to his thighs, careful with his sharpening claws. 

With a mouth full of cock he can only hum an inquisitive sound, purposefully trailing a featherlight touch across Anders' skin to tease him before pressing at it again. 

"You can go harder," Anders breathes, and Fenris wants to snap him in half. He grips him hard enough to bruise, sharp nails breaking the skin. It only serves to make Anders louder, desperate broken sounds that Fenris wants to hear more of. 

He grows bold at the obvious encouragement, sipping at Anders' energy in a steady stream, mindful not to take too much. It's been too long since he fed like this, all at once he feels healthier, knows his hair is softer, skin smoother. He could stop feeding now that his strength has returned, leaving Anders wanting. The thought tempts him for a moment, but he dismisses it. He might as well finish his meal. 

It doesn't take much, Fenris can easily tell when Anders gets close, and instead of slowing down he simply flattens his tongue on the underside of Anders' cock as he bobs his head, takes Anders deep into his throat, and pulls at his energy. 

Anders comes with an unintelligible moan, garbling Fenris’ name, head tossed back and thighs shaking under Fenris’ hands. He sucks him through his orgasm, indulging in the strong flavour and the feeling of being full . This is the most he's been able to feed on at one time in as long as he can remember, and he hates that Anders was right.

Licking his lips as he lifts his head, a content sigh escapes him. This will last a while. And at least he has managed to tire Anders out, by the looks of him, panting, eyes closed, skin shiny with sweat in the low light of the room. 

Fenris allows himself a proud smile at the quiet, before he moves to leave the bed. 

"Don't stop on my account," Anders mutters, his still hard dick twitching. 

How much exactly can he take? Part awe and part spite, Fenris reaches for his erection, still slick with his saliva. With a groan, he jerks him hard and slow, feeds on him forcefully at once just to knock the air out of him. 

Anders gasps, shuddering, but instead of contesting Fenris hears more murmured encouragement.  

"Please, yes, more," he cries, but Fenris can hear the soberness that still hasn't left him. Despite all that Fenris takes from him, he is not lost to mindlessness like Fenris' previous prey. 

"How long can you go for?" 

Fenris doesnt even realise he asks the question out loud, but Anders has the audacity to choke out a laugh, "What's wrong? Can't keep up?"

He sounds too clear-headed after what must have been an hour under an incubus' ministrations, and he's still smug. This might have been the longest Fenris has ever been able to feed, but Anders is also the most obnoxious victim he's ever had.

With no warning, Fenris bends low to take Anders' full length to his mouth again, deep and fast, razor sharp teeth only barely grazing him. The intensity he feeds with would kill any other man, but it only makes Anders groan with pleasure, rather than hurt him in any discernible way.

Even spent, he tastes just as good as before, still hard and flushed, full of life. 

Fenris feeds until he's sated, for what might be the first time in his life. Though he hates that he owes it to Anders. It takes longer than he expects, but eventually Anders' breathing stutters again as he nears a second orgasm, and despite not needing to feed at all anymore, Fenris takes just to feel Anders give it to him. 

It sends him over the edge, back arching, crying out Fenris' name in pleasure as he peaks.

"Fuck," Anders pants in the low light of the room, arm moving to cover his eyes, erection still not wavering. 

Fenris is impressed with his stamina, not that he would ever admit it to him. And despite the urge rising to thoroughly test it, he pulls back. He's had more than his fill, there is no reason to stay any longer. 

"You're welcome," Anders purrs, and Fenris scoffs, putting his gauntlets back on. Anders might have been his most satisfying meal, but he is by far the most insufferable. "You don't need to wait so long next time, just come to me."

"No," Fenris snarls, leaving the room, and Anders, behind. 

Chapter Text

It's a good week. Fenris doesn't think of Anders, he thinks of Hawke. Because Hawke has been flirting with him, giving him clear signals that he is interested, and now that he is so close to having who he wants, Anders doesn't matter. 

He feeds as much as he can in preparation to meeting Hawke, the way he did before coming to Isabela. It would be easy to go to Anders and have his fill, but he fights against the urge. A dependency on a mage is not something he should even consider. 

It's late evening when he arrives at the reclaimed Amell mansion, dressed in a clean black tunic, and Hawke greets him at the door, a wide smile on his face. Fenris wants to kiss him.

"Join me in the study?" he asks, and Fenris knows he would follow him anywhere. 

They walk up the stairs together, and Fenris is nervous. Unlike with Isabela, tonight has high stakes. Fenris desperately wants Hawke, but he lacks any experience in these matters. Sure, he could have Hawke begging for him in a moment, but a relationship… A relationship would be new, and Fenris doesn't know how to begin one. 

"What do you think?" Hawke asks him, showing off the newest addition to the mansion. It's a big room with elegant sofas, bookcases that are mostly filled, a plush rug by a lit fireplace. Fenris' eyes roam across it before ending on Hawke's bright smile.

"Impressive," he says, and Hawke's face reddens slightly, following Fenris' trail of thought. 

“Shouldn't that be my line? Isabela said a night with you was almost worth dying for."

Fenris chuckles at that. Of course Isabela talked to Hawke. How much detail did she go into though? Scanning Hawke's face doesn't give him many answers. There is no fear or worry, only curiosity and lust. 

Fenris' breath catches in his throat. He has not directed any of his allure at Hawke yet, keeping it coiled beneath his skin, so whatever desire he has for Fenris is genuine. Being under such attention is something Fenris would like to get used to. 

"Hawke," he starts, "You need to be certain. Once you–" 

"I've wanted you for so long," Hawke interrupts, reaching out to hold Fenris' hand. "I am certain." The pain of the touch is meaningless; Hawke could have stabbed him along with the confession and Fenris wouldn't even flinch. To hear him admit this so openly sets his blood rushing. 

"Hawke," he whispers, already sounding breathless. It takes all of his resolve to hold back, resist the instinct to draw him in, make him his own, but Hawke only steps closer, eyes hungry, and in an instant Fenris has his back against the wall, Hawke crowding him and leaning low. 

The kiss is inevitable and yet it still takes him by surprise. Hawke is persistent and warm against him, tongue hungrily licking at his lips, hands either side of Fenris’ shoulders, crowding him against the wall. All the months he has spent wanting, dreaming about this moment and to have it suddenly happening feel like a tide threatening to drown him. 

He intends to savour every second of this, and he starts by kissing Hawke back, with just as much enthusiasm. The air is suddenly incredibly thick between them, and Hawke makes small breathless sounds that shiver in Fenris' stomach with feelings he is not used to. 

He brushes a hand along Fenris' face, cupping his jaw, and the desire to feed from him is overwhelming. It would be so easy to take what he wants, make Hawke beg for it, but he can't . Not yet. 

"Hawke," he tries again, voice low, holding the smallest distance between their lips. "You won't be able to resist me." 

"I already can't resist you," he growls, leaning to kiss Fenris' neck. It has to be enough, because Fenris can't hold back anymore. He moans as Hawke's bites at his pulse point, tongue laving at the skin. 

There's more to the sharp pain than just the sting of Hawke's teeth, but Fenris tries to ignore it. All that matters is that Hawke wants him, and he is determined to make him feel good. 

He finally allows his allure to wrap around Hawke, tension slipping away from both of them. Hawke whimpers, hands suddenly clutching desperately at his tunic, and Fenris sighs in his ear. 

"I…" He starts, but doesn't finish. No words seem to be enough to describe how he feels. But there's something else he could do to show it.

With a gentle shove, he pushes Hawke back, taking his lips in another heated kiss. Now, he allows himself to feed on tiny sips as he leads Hawke into the centre of the room. 

Hawke whines when they part, as Fenris encourages him to sit down in an armchair. His clutching hands go to Fenris' hips, trying to sneak under the tunic, desperate to touch skin. The scrape of the fabric under his bruising pressure is just shy of painful, but Fenris doesn't react. Hawke should get to touch him as much as he wants.

He falls to his knees before Hawke, at eye level with his erection. Flushed, lips parted, eyes glazed - Hawke looks beautiful, and Fenris wants to both drag this out and have him immediately. As his hands reach to untie his trousers, Hawke spreads his legs in invitation, whimpering in eager surrender, and Fenris doesn't resist any longer, puts his mouth to Hawke's hardness through the fabric. 

Hawke groans, hand making its way to Fenris' hair, nails digging into his scalp as Fenris drags his tongue over the outline of Hawke's cock. The urge to actually have him wins out soon enough, and Fenris makes quick work of pulling Hawke's heavy erection out of his clothing. 

"Please…" Hawke whimpers, and Fenris refuses to tease him more. In a quick, practised motion he takes his entire length down to his throat. The sound Hawke makes is desperate and broken, bucking his hips, thrusting into Fenris' mouth, until Fenris' nose makes contact with skin. 

It sends a rush of pleasure throughout his body that Hawke wants him, wanted him without the allure, just because he’s Fenris. Encouraged by his reaction, he relaxes his throat, setting a slow pace, tongue pressing against Hawke's impressive cock. He moans around it, relishing the strong taste. 

"Yes, more," Hawke begs breathlessly, and Fenris pulls off with an obscenely wet pop. Drool slides down his chin, and he ignores Hawke's quiet pleas, in favour of dragging his trousers further down. 

Hawke's cock, slick and red, looks better than he expected; though not as long as Anders'. But that doesn't matter, because Fenris wants Hawke, and now that he has him he will do anything to keep him. 

He bends low, taking one of Hawke's balls in his mouth to suck and lick in a way that he has not done in a long time. Not since… No. He shoves that thought away. He’s here with Hawke. He wants Hawke.

There's a brush of a hand against his ear that almost makes him flinch, another on his shoulder, as Hawke grasps at anything to hold on through the pleasure. Fenris is fully aware of the effect he has and between his allure, Hawke's own desire, and the tricks he picked up in Tevinter, this will be over all too soon. 

Since Danarius, he has never bothered to put this much effort into pleasing his victim. The memories, alongside the sharp pain from the markings everywhere Hawke touches him, is distracting, and despite how much he cares for Hawke, his own cock is only barely hard in his leggings. 

He takes a few more gentle sips of Hawke's energy, and with a kiss to the sensitive skin he licks up Hawke's erection before taking him in his mouth again.

"Fenris, please," Hawke whispers in between moans, and Fenris sucks him in earnest. It's difficult to resist pulling on him the way he did with Anders, but he doesn't dare take more than is safe. Another swirl of his tongue, a deeper thrust, his fingers trailing along Hawke’s inner thigh, and soon Hawke’s breathing is coming out in quick harsh bursts, his hips bucking frantically, thrusting his cock deeper and deeper into Fenris’ throat. Fenris rides the pace that Hawke sets, lost in passion, thighs shaking under Fenris’ gentle touch. It seems that Hawke loves everything he tries, but Fenris can’t be certain. He will cherish the time it takes to learn what every gasp and moan mean later, but for tonight, he simply wants to give and take everything he can.

When Hawke spills in his mouth, with a groan, Fenris doesn’t hold back feeding on him, taking the energy as if he’s starving, even though he is far from it. Hawke tastes bitter, salty, human, but it’s Hawke - there’s no one Fenris would rather have.

He pulls off, licking Hawke’s erection through the shudders of his aftershocks, until Hawke is shaking. The grip Hawke has on his shoulder loosens, and Fenris puts some distance between them so he can take the sight of him in, needing to know if it’s nearly as good as he imagined on lonely nights.

Hawke’s eyes are wide, face flushed, lips parted in a silent gasp, and it would be the picture of bliss if not for the shiver that runs through his entire body, while he is clearly trying to stay still. It takes a second longer for Fenris to sober from his own elation, to see that Hawke’s eyes are filled with fear, and his own blood runs cold as he understands. 

Thoughts racing, Fenris holds his breath as he tries to pinpoint what he did wrong. Did he feed too much? Push too far? The urge to apologise rises along the rush in his ears. 

Hawke swallows, loudly, wide eyes fixed on Fenris' mouth. “Wh– what,” he stammers, chest heaving. “What was that?” The words his Fenris like a hammer. Hawke recoils from him, trying to merge with the armchair to get additional space between them.

It hurts in a way Fenris has never experienced before, and he can’t seem to breathe. He rises, takes a step back, but Hawke still doesn’t relax. Every bone and muscle in Fenris’ body prepares him for an outburst of anger from Hawke. Whatever it is that Fenris messed up, the anticipation of punishment falls on him in a familiar habit, and he relaxes his shoulders to brace for it. He’s been so careful, Hawke seemed willing, eager, and asked for– “Did I hurt you?” 

Hawke’s hand grabs the armchair, knuckles going white. Fenris’ eyes are fixed on it, expecting a fist to swing at him, expecting Hawke to respond with a harsh voice and bitter insults. Fenris is a monster, after all, he was naive to believe Hawke would see anything else in him.

“You could, couldn’t you?” Hawke’s voice is rough, his legs are still trembling, and he slowly pulls his now soft cock back into his smalls. “How dangerous are you?” 

Very , Fenris thinks, but doesn’t dare say it. He would never hurt Hawke. “Not to you.”

“Not yet, you mean,” he says, and Fenris’ chest constricts in a sharp clench. It would be better if Hawke was angry, but his eyes are still full of fear. He truly believes that Fenris would harm him. “You- you should go.”

A slow exhale, a clench of his jaw, and Fenris leaves the only man he’s ever wanted for himself behind. Rage would have been easier. 

Chapter Text

Something has happened, and Anders is worried. The last two weeks, something has been… off. Different. Wrong. Both Fenris and Hawke have been acting strangely. Hawke swings wildly between ignoring Fenris and giving him sheepish, regretful looks. And Fenris… Fenris has withdrawn into himself, refusing to engage even with Varric’s cajoling remarks.

He still fights with them, still blazing blue across the battlefield, but it’s like he’s not there, turned inwards like a wound to the lungs. Neither of them will say anything, but the puppy eyes Fenris used to direct to Hawke’s oblivious back are gone. Anders tried to talk to them both, get to the bottom of what’s going on, but Hawke was dismissive and Fenris nearly violent in his refusal.

Anders can do nothing except watch as Fenris grows more and more gaunt, cheeks hollow and fingers curved into claws. Watch and worry. 

———

Fenris isn’t sure how to feel. 

On the one hand, he’s an incubus, destined to be forever alone, because one too-greedy slip could kill any partner he might have chosen. On the other hand… he sees how the fruit-seller’s wife smiles at her husband, how two of the dock workers brush past each other at work, momentary touches meant to reassure, even how Isabela’s stance relaxes when she looks at Merrill… 

He wants that kind of connection for himself. Dreams of it, sometimes, of waking up beside someone and smiling. Someone who doesn’t fear him, who reaches for him in their sleep. Someone he trusts enough to sleep beside. 

It’s a foolish dream, he knows that, but it doesn’t remove the pain of Hawke’s rejection. A week ago he wouldn't have even entertained the idea of being in a relationship. It was an impossible dream. He's wanted Hawke for longer than he'd care to admit, but now that he had a taste he's not sure how he can carry on and pretend it doesn't hurt. 

And he was so stupid. Too caught up in the thrill of Hawke wanting him to check whether he really wanted an incubus, or just the elf he thought Fenris was. He should have waited, should have stopped, should have made sure…

Should have, should have. It’s never ending. It’s his own fault, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. He takes another swallow of wine, trying to wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. It never helps.

He allows himself a week to stay in the mansion and wallow in misery, but not more. Heartbreak is not going to do him in. The world doesn't stop because he's been rejected. And whatever he feels doesn't matter– he needs to feed. 

He forgoes his usual armour and heads out at dusk. There was a group of sleazy mercenaries he'd been following last week, so he goes to the docks to find their makeshift base. When he arrives and finds the trail has gone cold, he's disappointed but not surprised. He should've focused on finding a source of food sooner, and not let himself get distracted by Hawke. 

A short visit to a local tavern also leaves him empty handed, and he's forced to consider his options. He can go to The Hanged Man, but he's unlikely to find suitable prey there. There are always bandits along the Wounded Coast, but he would have to wait until dawn to venture out of the city. It's been a long time since he visited a brothel, and whores make for uncomplicated feeding, though hardly satisfying. 

If he wants a truly satisfying meal there is only one person who could provide it. 

No. Even if Anders is willing, Fenris refuses to go to him. Again . Just thinking back to him has Fenris' mouth watering, while simultaneously making him want to never speak to him again. Imagining his smug expression is enough to deter him. No, he won't go to the mage. 

The Rose it is. 

He makes his way through busy streets and dark alleys, scans the area twice to make sure no one who would recognize him sees him walk in. It's a familiar routine, though he tries not to do it too often. 

There are many available whores tonight, walking among the patrons, and a tall human catches his eye. He's muscular, but leaner than Hawke, light brown hair with colour on his cheeks. He looks healthy, and that is the most important thing. Unlike his usual victims, he does not mean any harm to the workers at the brothels he visits. He slides a few coins at the Madam, and gestures at the man, making eye contact and holding his gaze. 

A moment passes and they both begin walking at the same time, toward each other, and then the man leads Fenris to one of the rooms.

“What can I do for you, Serah?” the man asks as soon as the door closes, a seductive smile on his face as he reaches his hand to begin undoing Fenris’ tunic. With sharp reflexes, Fenris stops him, grasping his hand with just a little more force than necessary, and focusing his gaze into his eyes. His allure wraps around the man before his next inhale, pupils blown wide when he’s ensnared. 

Without blood magic involved, anyone is easy prey. Anyone except Anders. Not the time to think about him, he chastises himself and pulls the whore towards him. 

“On your back, on the bed.” His voice is clinical, there is no need for any pretences. This is not real. There’s no hesitation, his prey follows his command, hand trailing over Fenris’ forearm, trying to drag him down with him as he falls to the bed. Fenris removes the whore’s loose pants easily, and gives the hard, flushed red cock an immediate tug, just to feel it.

"Please, yes, yes ,” the whore mumbles, hands trying to reach any part of Fenris he can touch. Fenris swats him away at every attempt. 

Bending low, Fenris takes him into his mouth, hands on the man’s thighs to stop him from thrusting upward and changing the pace. He doesn't want to think about Anders, but he can't help observing the differences. How much easier it was to feed on him, how simple the whole situation was. How still he stayed despite begging for anything Fenris would take from him. And if it can keep his mind off of Hawke maybe it can be enough. 

Remembering how pleasant it was to feed with abandon almost distracts him. But he can't allow himself any indulgence– he refuses to hurt this man without cause. Fenris holds back with every sip he takes, and when the man spills deep in his throat Fenris barely feels satisfied, but lets him go. 

The man is sprawled on the bed, lips parted in a silent gasp, barely conscious. Fenris will have to find another victim soon; there is nothing more this man can offer him. 

He makes sure to leave a tip on the nightstand, money he won’t have to share.

————

He can’t return to the Rose the next night. It would draw too much attention for one of Serah Hawke’s companions to be a regular customer, and Fenris knows better than anyone how fast gossip spreads in a whorehouse. Danarius had sent him to the best one in Minrathous to ‘learn the trade’ and it did nothing but convince Fenris that whores were the best-dressed and best-informed people in the city. 

Luckily, the Red Lantern district is lousy with brothels masquerading as gambling dens or ‘gentlemen’s clubs’, and Fenris has enough coin saved to pay for his vices. He chooses another male, an elf this time, with skin the colour of the mahogany bed frame in his mansion. 

A dwarf the next night, with vibrant red hair and a filthy laugh.

Two humans, another elf, another human… 

He can only take small sips from these people, afraid to exhaust them and raise suspicion, and Fenris is constantly exhausted. 

He starts feeding multiple times a night, often going straight from one brothel to the next… but he’s running out of discreet places to go. When a whore he’s never seen before greets him enthusiastically by name, he knows he’s pushing his luck. He heads into Lowtown, seeking out the streetwalkers and widow women whose virtue is negotiable. 

He steers clear of the alienage, unwilling to risk Merrill seeing him, and haunts the factory district instead; brief, forgettable liaisons in the shadows of the slag heaps barely enough to keep him alive. He should hunt, find someone deserving and drain them dry, if only to finally have a proper meal, but Hawke won’t look at him during card nights and isn’t inviting him on jobs, and Fenris just doesn’t have the energy to hunt properly.

Next time, Anders whispers in his head. Don’t wait so long.  

The mage would feed him, no doubt about that. But everything in Fenris rebels at the idea. Anders is the only person he’s ever met who offered to let him feed from them; insisted on it, even. But besides the pleasure he receives from the act, Fenris cannot figure out what the man gets from it. Perhaps it’s a trick to get control of an incubus; get him dependent on the plentiful energy and then ask for a favour. And who knows what kind of magic grants his seemingly boundless energy in the first place? 

No. No, he’d rather be dead than a slave to another mage, no matter how tempting the thought of a proper meal may be, Anders is not an option. 

———

He’s down on the docks when it happens. The roughest part of Kirkwall he dares to visit; Darktown is too dangerous to make himself vulnerable, and it’s Anders’ undisputed territory. The people who live there are almost fanatically devoted to the only person who gives a shit about them; each and every one willing to kill on his behalf. Fenris witnessed one of the many young cutpurses down there stab an ‘undercover’ Templar in the thigh with a broken bottle for asking too many questions about ‘the healer’. Darktown has far too many eyes and ears for his liking; he’ll be staying firmly out of the mage’s territory. 

But the docks often have something to offer him when he’s desperate, like he is now. There’s a woman leaning against a stack of crates, around a corner, that Fenris has not met before, but knows by her demeanour and flimsy outfit that she would take his coin. She smiles at Fenris, noticing his attention. “Something to warm the cockles of your heart?” the woman asks with just the right amount of suggestion in her tone. Eager to feed and be done with it, he crowds her, ensnaring her instantly, slipping a few coins into the pocket hanging from her corset while dragging her to a dark alley. 

In the shadows, it's easy to take her hands and pin them above her head, press her against the wall and kiss her senseless. As hungry and tired as he is, Fenris doesn't dare to get on his knees now to eat her out; it’s not worth the risk of taking too much and killing her. This will be easier, and just as effective for what he needs. 

The woman gasps against his lips, and Fenris doesn't waste time feeding on her. She tastes of smoke and cheap perfume, but she’s warm and alive and moaning into his mouth, arching up to press her breasts to his chest as his spare hand slides down her body to slip under her skirt. 

He is far from gentle, but at the first touch to her thigh she shivers. The allure of an incubus is irresistible, and she whines into his kiss as he wraps it around her. She’s wet and yielding for his fingers, and were she sober she might wonder why he is paying to pleasure her. They kiss deep and hungry, because there is no other way for Fenris to kiss, and the energy he draws from her is just enough to keep him on his feet for a few more days. 

It doesn’t take long for her to shake under him, and he stops feeding from her entirely in anticipation. In her addled state, she tries to free herself from his grip, likely to touch him as much as she could. This isn’t what he’s here for, however, so he keeps her wrists pinned to the wall, careful with his claws. He doesn’t want to hurt her. When she finally clenches around him, he kisses her again, pulling at her as she comes. 

His markings hum before he even feels the magic heat spreading through his arm, and in a rush flames burst along his arm from his fingers to his shoulder. On instinct, Fenris reacts by curling his other fist and slamming into her face. The impact throws her back against the wall, knocking her unconscious, and she falls to the ground. 

He steps back, slapping at his arm to kill the flames. His lyrium flares bright now, blood rushing in his ears at the realisation that his victim is a mage and has attacked him. 

With the pain fresh all along his arm, he wants to finish her off, reach into her chest and pull her heart out, but did she truly attack him? No, she was still dazed, not carrying a staff, she must not have intended to cast at all. It happens sometimes, when a mage is lost to passion. As his heartbeat evens out, he bends low, to see just how injured she is, much he has drawn from her. She’s still breathing, but he can’t know for certain that she is not at risk. His own arm is scorched all the way to his shoulder, and it throbs in pain. 

“Kaffas,” he mutters to himself. This is not at all something he planned for, would have never tried to feed on a mage if he knew. He has no potions on him, and as his thoughts race he reaches the only conclusion he can– there is only one place he could go at this time of night for help, for himself and for an apostate. 

It takes little effort to ignore the pain, take the limp mage into his arms, and hurry down into the dark to Anders’ clinic. The lantern is out, unsurprising at this hour, and with his hands full and arm aching he kicks at the door until he hears Anders approaching. 

“This better be— Fenris, what’s wrong?” 

Anders looks too alert to have been woken up from sleep, but he is not wearing his coat, and his eyes dart between Fenris and the apostate he’s carrying.

“You need to check her,” he says as he pushes past Anders, laying her down on the nearest cot. It’s an instant relief on his arm to not carry the weight, though it is still red and angry. 

“What did you do?” Anders asks him, already spreading his magic over the woman as he inspects her. His voice is harsh, but his expression softens when he sees Fenris’ arm. 

“I…” Fenris isn’t sure how to begin; how much he should divulge, as what he does or not is none of Anders’ business, but if there is anyone he can be honest with, it is Anders. “I was hunting. I did not realise she was a mage, she cast unconsciously and I reacted poorly.” 

“Thank you for bringing her here.” 

Fenris scoffs. The way Anders looks at him, pleased and proud that he protected an apostate, means nothing to him. But his eyes don’t waver, trailing over his injured arm, and then to his face. It must be obvious to him that Fenris has not fed enough, hasn’t for weeksdays. He expects Anders to offer himself again, but instead he walks into his space, hands hovering over his arm to heal him. 

The magic washes over Fenris and he can’t fight the feeling of comfort that spreads through him, closing his eyes to it, even as Anders caresses the skin, thumb brushing against his neck. The fact that Anders feels familiar enough to touch him like this is almost more surprising than the fact that Fenris finds himself leaning into it. 

When his arm is fully healed and Anders pulls away, Fenris looks at him, noticing the light flush on his face. Fenris recognizes the look, but he knows that despite his state he did not let any of his allure out. For Anders to react that way without it means things Fenris isn’t interested in examining at the moment.

"Mage," he starts, voice quiet as he tries to decide if he wants Anders to hear him. "Does your offer still stand?"

Chapter Text

Despite inviting Anders over, despite him agreeing to come to the mansion the next night, Fenris is still surprised when he shows up. 

The ease with which Anders walks into his home is perplexing. He takes off his coat as he enters Fenris' bedroom, looking around curiously, as if he is not offering his own life on a plate.

Fenris doesn't intend to harm him, and after their last encounter at the Hanged Man he wonders if he is even capable of it if he tried, but the risk is still tangible. Anders however, is anything but wary. 

“All you had to do was ask, you know. I’m happy to help. Why weren’t you feeding properly?”

"That is no concern of yours," Fenris retorts, shoving the memories of his brief night with Hawke to a far corner of his mind. Anders only shrugs in response, draping his coat over an empty chair. 

"How are you resisting my allure?" Fenris demands, expecting Anders to deflect the way he did before, or worse, admit to some form of cursed magic that offers him protection. Anders shrugs one shoulder.

"I've spent time with a succubus before; picked up a few tricks." 

It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and Fenris can only blink at him.

"Who ?"

Anders casually leans both hands on the backrest of the chair, unbothered by Fenris' curiosity. 

"A fellow Grey Warden, Velanna. You don't feel quite the same, but I suppose long exposure to her was enough to make me resistant." Fenris has about a thousand questions, but Anders licks his lips, asking "How do you want me?" and Fenris decides not to dwell on it when he's this hungry. 

"Naked, on the bed." He intends for it to be a cold demand, despite his allure holding Anders' gaze, but he can tell by the sharp inhale that Anders enjoys it. Fenris shouldn't care, but he saves the information in the back of his head regardless. At the very least it would serve for an easier meal if he knows which buttons to push. Not that Anders could be an easier meal… 

He undresses as commanded, comfortably, leaving his clothes on the table and making his way to the bed when done. 

This time, he's less obnoxious, staying quiet short of his slightly heavier breathing as he lays down on his back. Fenris doesn't waste much time undressing and following him. 

He is not sure what exactly led them here, but now that Anders is naked in his bed he knows there is nothing else he wants. Anders is flushed, breathing heavily, already hard and slick - if it's due to Fenris' allure or just the promise of sex, it doesn't matter. It's difficult for Fenris to keep his hands to himself, with the way Anders responds to the touch, heat radiating from him in waves, and the way his markings don't hurt at the contact. 

He trails a path along Anders' chest, down his abdomen, and his breath hitches when Fenris digs his nails into his thigh. 

Anders shudders, gasps, knuckles going white where he's grabbing the sheets, but he doesn't fight back, isn't frozen with fear but rather anticipation. The trust makes Fenris' chest tighten.

As far as he knows, Fenris has never been able to indulge in feeding like this, the way he can with Anders. He's overwhelmed by how much he can have, following his previous experience with him, and he intends to take his time and savour tonight. A memory of fighting back his nature, forcing himself to only take tiny sips from Hawke flits across his mind, but he savagely crushes that train of thought. Hawke has no place here. Not tonight.

He bends low, flattening his tongue against the base of Anders' cock and dragging it upward until he can taste the precum in the tip. Anders bites his lip to stifle a moan, but it doesn't matter, Fenris is already drowning in his arousal; he can't hide it from him. 

With a gentle breath right on the sensitive head, Fenris pulls back, bites at Anders' thigh, sucking a mark into the flesh. Anders squirms under the attention, no longer trying to hide his breathy moans. 

From the corner of his eye he can see Anders' cock twitching, and his arousal almost sends Fenris into a frenzy. His mouth waters, and he leaves a trail of his saliva on Anders' thigh when he moves back. 

Focusing his attention on Anders' cock again, Fenris takes all of him into his mouth, until he hits the back of his throat causing Anders to groan.

"Fuck–" 

Fenris only hums contentedly, swallowing around him and stroking his tongue along the hardness. Before he can settle into a rhythm, he pulls back, when Anders is slick enough for him. 

He’s planned, this time. Planned and prepared himself. He places a hand on Anders' chest, for balance and control, and moves to straddle him. It's been too long since he fed like this, and it feels decadent to enjoy it. But Anders is willing, he reminds himself as he sinks down slowly, and watching Anders' face there is no doubt of that. 

Anders releases a shuddering breath, hands pulling at the sheets, head thrown back in pleasure as Fenris adjusts to his size.

The rush of feeling full is overwhelming, Anders' arousal making his head spin. He means to draw it out, wants to tease Anders, to break him. An experimental clench of his muscles is rewarded with a broken moan from Anders, and Fenris forgets his plan entirely, raising his hips slowly until only the tip of Anders' cock is inside of him. It draws a whine from Anders, and he already looks well-fucked, hair messy and eyes half lidded. 

Fenris licks his lips, pulling a moan from Anders just by the force of his allure, before he slams his hips all the way down, gasping at the stretch. 

"Maker , Fenris," he breathes, voice rough. 

Without a pause, he lifts himself up again, inch by inch, pressing against Anders' chest, and hovers when Anders' cock is almost entirely exposed. 

He waits for Anders' reaction, a shudder that is almost enough to pull him out completely, before he flattens his thighs and bottoms out in a rush. 

There's suddenly not enough air in his lungs, all he breathes in is Anders' arousal.   

Rising again, slowly, he runs his hand over Anders' torso, sharp nails leaving angry red marks in their wake. Anders arches his back, pressing closer to Fenris rather than away. This time when Fenris slams down, he digs his nails into Anders' hips, and starts riding him with a steady rhythm. 

Anders' reactions urge him on, but he knows now that they have the entire night ahead of them. Fenris draws on his energy until the urgency to feed fades, watching with dark eyes as Anders' freckled skin turns red where he scratched him. 

It looks good, but Fenris could make it look better. 

He gives in to the desire as soon as it crosses his mind, leans low over Anders to suck at his collar bone. Anders moans, loud, twisting his head to bare his neck to Fenris' mouth. The show of trust is not lost on him, curling his stomach and only making him want to take more. 

Without stopping his thrusts he marks Anders' neck, indulging in the feeling of his pulse on his tongue. As he travels higher, losing himself in the sensations, razor sharp teeth connect with skin and Anders groans, loud to his ears. 

It takes too much effort, but he pulls back, hovering over Anders to gauge his expression. He looks wrecked , and when Fenris licks his lips in appreciation he tastes blood. Before he can worry about it Anders rises to meet him in a hungry kiss, both of them moaning into it.

Anders teases him, tongue swiping at his fangs, and Fenris sucks his lower lip, dragging his teeth along it and drawing more blood. It's intoxicating to draw on Anders' life, taste his blood, feel Anders enjoying it and know that it's not simply Fenris' allure. This can't be real. 

They pull apart and he is met with the sight of Anders, blissful, hair messy, lips red, and this time it's him that stutters, rhythm breaking.

Anders must misread his face, eyes sobering briefly.

"Fenris, it's okay– You can take anything," he swallows as Fenris focuses on riding him again, and amends, “Anything I can heal."

It is surely not possible that Anders understands what he's offering to an incubus, but it sends a rush through Fenris he's never experienced before. Hawke certainly did not understand, but Fenris knows that Anders won’t regret this. He grips at Anders' hips hard enough to bruise, claws breaking the skin, and moves his thighs to get better balance. 

Anders watches him, blood slowly dripping from his throat where Fenris bit him, and he can't help himself, baring his teeth in a wide smile, licking Anders' blood off his lips. What a terrifying sight he must make, but instead of fear he’s swept away by another wave of desperate need from Anders. 

All of his focus is set on the sharp snap of his hips, fucking himself on Anders’ cock, feeding on him. He indulges, head thrown back, listening to Anders' pleasure, losing himself in it. 

He takes and takes, and Anders gives it willingly, wave after wave of arousal flowing without end.

It can't possibly be real, Fenris tells himself again, and he slows down the harsh pace he set. Anders doesn't rise to meet him, doesn't even reach at him with his hands, giving Fenris full control. He should be terrified, or half dead, but instead he looks at Fenris with hungry eyes. The fact that Anders is a mage, an abomination lying under him, should keep him on edge, but all he feels is hunger.
"More ,” Anders murmurs, “I can take it." His thighs are shaking under Fenris despite the brave words. 

"Can you?" Fenris challenges, sharp nails dragging against a hard nipple, making Anders gasp. Mine .

"Y-yes ," he moans, and as Fenris tugs and pinches his other nipple, his hips buck upwards. Pleasure spikes through him, unanticipated but welcome warmth, and he digs his nails in on each side of Anders' waist, pulling at his life energy in a slow current. He's not sure how Anders still has anything to offer, but he only responds with broken moans as Fenris takes. 

Steadily, he draws more and more, feeling Anders shudder under him, eyes fluttering closed as he pants for breath. 

"What if I want everything ?" Fenris asks, not relenting his draw for a moment. 

“Take it, take-… it’s yours, I’m yours, please , Fenris!” Words that should have come tumbling from Hawke’s lips, like he’d dreamed of, but that somehow sound perfect coming from Anders. Anders who knows. Anders who understands.

Fenris maintains his pull, feeding greedily from Anders as he peaks, moaning, thrusting into Fenris and stilling inside as he comes. It's a delicious feeling, one Fenris hasn’t had in a long time, and he indulges, clenching around his cock, nails digging into his skin. 

He knows better now than to stop, so keeping his eyes on Anders, slows his pace but drinks in  every whimper and broken breath Anders offers him. Anders' release spills down to his thighs, warm and slick, and Fenris only briefly regrets not getting to taste it. 

Anders chokes on every inhale, lips still bloody, a flush spread across his skin. His erection hasn't flagged, and if he is over-sensitive it's not enough for him to ask Fenris to stop or slow down. 

The little noises he makes are delicious, and Fenris draws on them as they gradually change. When the stuttered breaths transform into panting, when Anders starts muttering half formed curses again, baring his marked neck in invitation - that's when Fenris stops moving, all at once.

He's so incredibly full , Anders' cock still slick with his release inside him, his constant arousal encouraging him to keep taking.

"Fuck," Anders groans at the sudden lack of friction, but doesn't beg him to move, doesn't thrust up to him. It gives Fenris a rush to have this kind of control. What would make Anders break, he wonders. 

Slowly, without severing the pull, he trails a hand over Anders' chest, every scratch and fresh bruise Fenris marked him with. He lifts his hips and drags back down, setting an easy pace. Sharp nails drag on a nipple, teasing. He aims to be maddening, wants Anders to know nothing else but need. As Anders' breath hitches, biting his lip to stifle a whine, Fenris knows he won. 

"What are you doing to me?" The words are still more coherent than he's ever heard from his prey, but Anders' voice is low and rough. 

Fenris wraps a hand around his throat, thumb at his jaw without any pressure. 

"Whatever I want," he says darkly, every word accentuated with a slow roll of his hips, and it's enough for him to feel Anders' pulse jump at his fingers. "You begged for it," he reminds him.

Anders moans, loud and unrestrained, and Fenris bends low to lick sweat and blood from his neck. "I will have you however I like, anywhere I choose, and you'll only beg for more." He whispers the words against his lips, steadily feeds off of Anders' rush of arousal. 

He would beg for more. For anything Fenris could want of him. The thought makes him feel light headed, dizzy with want. How could he have known this is what willing prey would feel like? A prey that not only offers himself but enjoys every bruise and scratch Fenris gives him. 

He kisses Anders, harshly, holding him in place as he drives his tongue deep, while Anders simply takes it. It's sloppy, wet and hot, and it takes him a moment to recognize his own arousal from it alongside Anders’. He wants more. 

Heat spreads through Fenris' body, his own breath harsh now, hips picking up speed until he has to lean back, grabbing Anders' waist for purchase. It’s far too easy to drown in the rhythm, to have the entire world reduced to the snap of his hips, to the little sounds Anders makes and the smell of sex around them.  

He alternates between going hard and deep and slowing down, kissing Anders with just as much hunger, licking at his jaw and neck, tasting the sweat on his skin and recognising it as uniquely Anders . 

His stamina is impressive, and it takes a long time before he shows any signs of getting close to the edge a second time. 

"Fenris, please," he begs in a broken moan, hand hovering over Fenris' thigh, as if he's afraid to touch and break the spell. 

He hasn't asked for anything so far. Fenris slows down the rhythm of his hips, until Anders can catch a breath. 

"What do you want?" he asks Anders, voice sultry and winded. 

"Let me fuck you," he asks, eyes dark and hooded, and Fenris almost wants to let him. But not yet. 

He takes hold of Anders hand, brings it to his lips, the languid snap of his hips not wavering as he pulls three of Anders' fingers into his mouth. 

For a moment Anders doesn't breathe, as if it's his mouth that's full, but Fenris clenches around him, picking up the pace, tongue gliding along Anders' fingers urging him to move.

Anders whimpers, starts fucking Fenris' mouth in the same rhythm Fenris sets with his hips, and Fenris loses himself to the feeling of being full, being fucked and sated and still getting more. 

"Please, Fenris, let me–" 

He growls when Anders pulls his hand away, slowly lowering it towards Fenris' untouched, hard cock.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, and Anders nods frantically, biting his lip. 

"Fuck my hand," he says breathlessly, and Fenris finds himself complying despite himself, bringing Anders’ hand to wrap around his cock as he starts matching his thrusts. 

He expects pain, discomfort from the markings, but Anders' touch is smooth and warm, still wet with his own saliva and a deep moan rises from his throat, pleasure spreading through his body. 

Anders' thighs shake underneath him, his breath sharp as if he is barely holding on. The sensations are overwhelming, Fenris tries to focus on the pleasure he receives from Anders, the life energy that he offers. But it's also a rush to have his own arousal, steadily rising in him. 

"Fuck, I'm–" Anders chokes, grip tightening on Fenris' cock. "Fenris, come with me ."

He wants to chide Anders, tell him that it doesn't work like that, he doesn’t come, but Anders moves his own hips, meeting Fenris' thrusts, and hitting some magic place inside him, and his protests are overtaken by the shuddering gasp that escapes instead. Anders must have somehow understood, because he quickly finds a rhythm, finding it again, and again, and again…

Fenris is leaning over him, hands to either side of Anders’ head, shuddering, whining, back arching as he reaches for something he barely understands, tantalisingly out of reach. Anders’ face is filled with greedy awe, his spare hand on Fenris’ hip, helping him to meet his thrusts at the perfect angle, thumb stroking against his skin soothingly even as he pushes Fenris higher. It’s dizzying and terrifying and so fucking good –

“Can’t-” Anders chokes out. “Can't hold back much longer. Fen, Fenris please! Come for me.” His grip on Fenris’ cock tightens in some magical, amazing way, his thumb rubbing the underside, and pleasure overflows him. 

Fenris throws his head back with a shocked gasp as the tension that’s been building inside him unwinds all at once. It rolls through him in waves, irresistible as a riptide, and he fucks himself on Anders’ cock, almost insensible to the man beneath him.

Dimly, he feels Anders thrust up into him as he spills inside him a second time, and Fenris misses feeding on it, too overwhelmed by the last echoes of pleasure jangling down his spine. Anders’ stomach is striped with white lines now. Fenris runs a shaky finger over one, strangely fascinated. He did that. He marked the mage the way others have marked him, their scents hopelessly tangled. Anders’ stomach jumps at the light touch, a little laugh escaping him.

“Maker, Fenris. That was…” 

“Yes.” 

A hand smooths down his spine, and, heedless of the mess, Fenris lets himself sag, resting his weight against Anders’ chest, feeling his arms come up around him. He lets out a shuddering sigh, his whole body relaxing. Perfect. 

For him to even get aroused while feeding is unusual - even with Hawke, he couldn’t focus on more than the need to please him, the effort to ignore the pain of his markings, to separate the memories from before he became free. The closest he has come to feeling like this has been with Isabela, and even then, it was nothing like this. This bliss that washes over him is new and unique, and he can’t understand how Anders of all people has been the one to do this to him.

It’s the scent of blood that rouses him from his pleasant half-dreaming state. Anders is still bleeding sluggishly from his throat, where Fenris bit him earlier. He remembers his possessive greed in that moment and can’t bring himself to regret it; Anders’ remembered expression of blissful surrender, bloody and panting with desire, washing away any guilt he may have felt.

Still… “You should heal yourself.” He lifts his head off Anders’ chest with a monumental effort. Finally, the mage looks tired; dark rings around his eyes. Anders lets out a sleepy rumble of discontent at being disturbed, but his fingertips glow blue, flailing blindly for the small injuries, like he can barely feel them. 

Done, he wraps his arms around Fenris again and rolls them onto their sides, his own face towards the fire. 

In the better light, Fenris looks closer, and feels a sudden stab of panic. 

“Mage? Anders?” Kaffas, what has he done? 

“‘M alright,” his voice is thready, more raspy than it should be. Anders looks very much not alright; his skin, already pale, has become sickly, tinged with unhealthy green and fever-pink. His cheeks have sunken in, looking so suddenly hollow it’s as if he’s been starving himself for months. His lips are as pale as the rest of him, drawn back over teeth that suddenly seem much sharper than a human’s should be. 

Worst of all are his eyes, still brilliant gold in the dim light, but sunken into his skull, surrounded by a web of black veins that creep down onto his cheeks and up towards his hairline. He looks like a… like…

“You look like a darkspawn,” he blurts, voice shaking. Has he done something wrong? Not one of his other victims has ever looked like this. Even the ones he kills just look like ordinary corpses. 

Those almost-invisible lips tilt up in a half smile. “I am one.” 

That stops Fenris cold. “Wh- what?!”

Anders stretches luxuriously, rolling away from him a little, still apparently unconcerned, watching Fenris out of one golden eye, stark against the black. “That’s all Wardens are; darkspawn who can resist. It’s fine, Fenris; you haven’t hurt me, and I’ll be back to my usual handsome self after a rest.” 

Despite himself, his heart starts to calm. Anders isn’t concerned, and he’s the healer. He should know, shouldn’t he? “But-”

“Fenris.” Suddenly, Anders is upright, kneeling on the bed in front of him. Even the way he moves is wrong. Fenris flinches back, away from those eyes. “I’m fine. You feed on my life; my mortality. Lucky for me, I have other things keeping me breathing.” He grins, and his teeth are definitely sharper than they should be. 

“My body just needs to find a balance again after that thorough draining you gave me. Now, will you please stop panicking and come back to bed so I can sleep?” He throws himself back down onto the bed, snuggling into the pillows as no darkspawn would ever do. 

Against his better judgement, Fenris obeys, relaxing back into the bed beside Anders, careful not to touch. Anders hums in contentment and turns to face him, tucking one arm beneath the pillow and closing his eyes. 

“You were expecting this.” Fenris accuses him, his emotions a complicated tangle in his chest. 

Anders smiles sleepily, without opening his eyes. “Course. Told you ‘bout Velanna.” Fenris falls silent, thoughts churning. It’s a long time before he can fall asleep. 

Chapter Text

Anders thought they were past it. Of all things, Anders didn’t expect an incubus to play hard to get. But it’s been a week and Fenris has been his usual prickly self, gradually looking more and more worn out, while refusing any of Anders' advances. 

They’re walking back from the coast, after a tiresome overnight job with Hawke and Varric, and it has been painfully obvious throughout that Fenris is starving. Again. Anders is able and willing, maybe a little more willing than he cares to admit, but Fenris would rather spend their walk back to Kirkwall arguing. 

Fenris is once again stating the evils of magic and he’s once again rolling his eyes when Hawke turns to them and snaps, “Will you two shut up already?” 

Chastised, they’re silent until they arrive in town shortly after dark. Hawke and Varric decide to continue business in the Hanged Man and Anders insists on escorting Fenris back to his mansion. The moment they get out of Hawke's sight the brave facade wears off, and Anders realises Fenris is even worse off than he thought. 

"You can leave," Fenris tells him unconvincingly, breaking the silence, right before leaning on a wall for balance. 

"Now, why doesn't that strike me as a good idea?" 

He gets close enough to touch, to pull Fenris to him, but hesitates. 

"Is this a fetish of yours? Feeding starving incubi like we’re Darktown orphans?”

Venom bubbles right under the surface, and though he tries to stifle it the words leap out of his mouth too quickly to stop. “And you only like helpless victims, is that it?”

Fenris stumbles back as if struck. “That’s not- I…”

“What is it, then?” Anders tries to swallow back the anger, find some patience. 

“You… she… You cared for her!” Fenris bursts out incoherently. “You cared enough that you can resist me now!”

"Velanna fed on me, of course she did," he answers the question Fenris didn't quite ask. "Is that what this is about?" 

"You stayed with her. Even after… Why would I feed on a mage that cared for another?" Fenris all but snarls , and it might have had the intended effect if he wasn't wobbling on his feet as soon as he steps away from the wall. 

Because it feels good, Anders wants to answer. Because for him, his night at Fenris' mansion was the most intense sex he’s ever had, and by the look and sound of it, the experience wasn't much different for Fenris. 

But more importantly, "Because she’s gone and you’re not. Because I'm a Grey Warden, and I can outlast you." 

Unsurprisingly, Fenris' response is a dismissive scoff. Right before he stumbles. 

Stubborn bastard elf. "You’ll kill anyone else in your state . Are you willing to risk that?" 

"I can control myself, and I don't need your help." 

The words would have instilled him with confidence in Fenris if he wasn't barely conscious right now. His breathing is shallow, eyes falling closed, and Anders is aching to help him. 

"Fenris," he starts, gently, hand reaching to his jaw. His eyes flutter open, and Anders wonders if he can even tell how much of his allure is directed at him before he even makes skin contact, for all of his claim he can control it. "I'm offering help," he tries again. 

Fenris doesn't fight him, but he doesn't concede either. As much as Anders wants to keep pushing, this is not the place for it. 

"Come on," he urges. He loops an arm around Fenris' waist, pulling him close and leading him out of the alley. 

They barely make it out and Anders is already light headed. All of his blood is rushing south. He can't smell anything other than Fenris, can't hear anything but his quiet panting as they walk. His body is warm, his allure wrapped around Anders like a vice, possessing him. And Anders can intimately make the comparison and know it to be true. 

Fenris is going to kill him. 

"Mage," Fenris whispers, voice low. Anders is sure he means it as a threat, but with his voice it only causes Anders' already painfully hard erection to twitch in his smalls. 

The street isn't dark enough, and Anders can spot a reflection of light on metal around a corner. Guards. He tugs on Fenris, leading them down a different path. He's breathing harder than Fenris now, and he almost stumbles as they walk. 

"How are you not affected?" 

Anders wants to scream. Instead he tilts his head until his lips rest against Fenris' ear. 

"I am. All I can think of is fucking you right here." He doesn't mean to confess anything, but before regret sets in, Fenris growls, some part of him clearly interested, and Anders almost forgets why he shouldn't just pin Fenris against the wall and give him what he needs.

"No," Fenris says, the word almost feels like a splash of cold water. He tries to push against Anders, but he immediately loses his balance. 

"I won't," Anders promises, pulls Fenris back against him and leans close again. "I won't take anything. But you can." 

How did he end up here, seducing an incubus? 

Fenris moans, arms shoving until suddenly Anders is thrust with his back against a wall, Fenris thigh between his legs. It takes all of his willpower not to start grinding against him. They're so close, Fenris' lips are parted, and Anders so desperately wants to taste him. 

"You don't know what you're offering."

"You know I do," he says breathlessly. "You know how much you can take." 

Fenris' hand moves to Anders’ throat, forcing his gaze away from his lips directly to his green eyes and suddenly he can't fucking breathe. Not affected , he thinks of Fenris' words. There's not an inch in his body that isn't begging to have Fenris.

"You can take and take and I'll give you more," he tells him, and he means it. “I’ll give you everything .”

"No," Fenris snarls, pushing away from him completely, and Anders only barely holds back a whine.

"Fuck," he takes a shakey breath, closes his eyes for a second, tries and fails to clear his head. What was he trying to do? Right. "We need to get you home." 

He steps forward, expects Fenris to resist, but instead he easily falls into Anders' grasp. Together, they continue walking slowly, sticking to the shadows. 

Only this time Fenris reaches to hold his waist as they move, and despite the lack of skin contact, it punches the air out of his lungs. Fenris might be saying he's not interested, but he is clearly starving, hands clenching at Anders' coat. He presses closer than before, angling his head so his hot breath falls directly at Anders' neck. 

"Can you hold back until we get off the streets?"

"No," Fenris almost smirks, leaving Anders to wonder if he's enjoying this. Bastard really does like playing with his food . Another step and Anders feels teeth at the base of his throat, a gentle bite that is definitely Fenris messing with him. 

He chokes, wanting to push Fenris away but his body disobeys him, pulling him closer instead. "Fuck you," he swears breathily, and Fenris only hums, licking at his skin. 

They're close, just a street away now, but it might as well be across the sea. He stumbles, leans on the nearest wall for support, and Fenris only uses the movement to mouth at his neck. 

It's too much, and the fact that Fenris isn't even fucking feeding from him, just getting him more riled up, threatens his tattered self control. His cock is straining against the constricting fabrics, and though he knows nothing would help other than getting naked he still reaches to adjust it through his clothing. He groans at the contact, even if it's nowhere near enough. 

He has to get Fenris home. "I’m trying to help you, you bastard." He tries to push Fenris off his neck, and this time succeeds, but again it'd be easier to fuck him than it is to look into his face. 

Fenris makes a show of it, licking his lips slowly, moving around until his hands are on each side of Anders, crowding him against the wall. Fenris hasn't been able to make him feel quite like prey yet, but not for lack of trying. 

"We're almost there. Then you can play as much as you want–" 

"No," Fenris whispers directly to his ear, and Anders' knees are at risk of bucking under him. If Fenris notices his full body shudder, he doesn't comment on it. 

Just a little bit longer. He can make it. Anders swallows thickly, places both palms against Fenris' chest armour, and pushes. It worries him how easily Fenris falls backward, but at least he stays on his feet. 

"Fuck," he breathes, again, and hurriedly leads Fenris down the street. They have to make it to the mansion soon. 

Just focus on the steps . 

One foot in front of the other, Anders determinedly keeps his eyes on his boots, not lingering on the feeling of Fenris' body heat pressing into him, his grip on Anders' coat, the sharp teeth worrying his throat, the allure that is practically drowning him. One step and the next, and eventually, somehow, they make it. 

He practically shoves Fenris into the mansion, closing the door behind them and leaning against it. 

Now he just needs to get Fenris to feed on him so he doesn't die. 

“Fenris,” he starts, watching him struggle to keep steady now that Anders is no longer holding him. “Let me help you, please.” 

Slowly, giving him enough time to pull away if he really doesn't want this, Anders leans down and presses their lips together.

A dam breaks and Fenris is done playing. 

A deep, feral snarl rips its way from his throat, and Anders finds himself pinned to the door by his shoulders, Fenris’ claws audibly tearing through his coat and into muscle. He can’t bring himself to care; Fenris’ mouth is on his, hot and needy and demanding, and he can give into it, can finally allow himself to sink into the allure that Fenris has wound around his throat, curls of pleasure and lust rolling down his spine. 

Sharp teeth rake over his lower lip, soft lips and hot tongue pressing into him, and Anders is drowning in the best way, willingly sinking into the feeling, dark and red and pulsing, of Fenris finally feeding from him.

It's a unique kind of pleasure, a sense of bliss to feel Fenris reach into his very life essence and pull directly from it. Anders doesn't doubt that anyone would willingly die, feeling like this. All he wants is more.  

He whines when Fenris pulls away, hands scrabbling against his back to pull him closer. 

Fenris is panting too; he can feel his breath fluttering. “Be very certain, Anders.” He shudders at the rasp of his name in that voice, clearer now he’s fed, even a little. “I will not be gentle.” 

“Fenris, please!” Anders gasps when Fenris licks his ear, too-sharp claws still holding him to the door. He pushes forward slightly, only to be roughly pressed back, and he whimpers in enthusiastic surrender. 

“You want this?” It’s a slow, seductive rumble, rolling down his spine to his cock. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard, and Fenris has barely touched him. “You want me to take what I need?”

“Y- yes!” 

Fenris hums contemplatively, ignoring Anders’ attempts to pull him closer. “Shall I make it hard and fast? Drain you dry so quickly your legs give out?” He kicks Anders’ feet apart, letting him slide down the wall a little, until they are eye to eye. “Or shall I make it slow, keeping you on the edge for hours, until you’re too lost to do anything but beg for me?” 

“Yes, Fenris, anything! P– please .” His voice breaks. Anders is already there, body pleading for more. Fenris’ words feel as if they’re dripping down his spine, like gentle fingers leaving fire in their wake. He wants to touch himself, but that would mean he wouldn’t be touching Fenris, and that is just not an option. 

“I like the way you beg, mage.” Fenris licks up the side of his throat, lingering on his pulse point. “Perhaps I’ll have you tonight; bend you over a table and fuck you nice and slow.” Anders whimpers, fingers scrabbling at Fenris’ armour, back arching. 

Fenris growls into his ear, draws him into a biting kiss. Anders can taste blood on his lips. “It will take longer that way, but I won’t stop. I’ll keep fucking you even as you come… again… and again…”

“Fenris!” He can't stop it, can’t ease away from the edge. Anders comes untouched, spilling into his smalls, shuddering in Fenris’ grasp. Fenris watches with dark, intent eyes, leaning forward in time to sip the last drops of pleasure from Anders’ willing mouth. He sags into his hold, Fenris’ grip on his shoulders the only thing keeping him upright.

“Do you still wish to ‘help’?” 

The pleasant haze of release clouds his mind, and his reply comes out as an unintelligible murmur of approval. Of course he still wishes to help, Fenris just made him come simply from telling him what he could do to him. His cock twitches helplessly at the thought of Fenris acting on any of his filthy promises. He licks his lips and the taste of blood encourages him to push forward, trying to capture Fenris in a kiss. But as he does, Fenris leans backward, and steps away from him.

“Anders, I need you to answer me.” There’s a little more distance between them now, and Fenris frowns at him. Anders feels his head clear a little; Fenris is pulling back his allure. He meets Fenris’ eyes in the half-light, still dark with hunger and need. “Are you certain?” 

Sober, he's still hard and eager to continue, can't lie to himself and say this is a sacrifice for Fenris' sake. "Yes, I'm certain," he says with a stuttered exhale, an almost annoyed puff of air. "Can I fuck you already?"

Fenris smirks, fangs flashing. "No." 

He lets go of Anders completely, taking a step back. “Strip.” The order is brusque, but his eyes are scorching, drinking in every detail as Anders scrambles to comply. His shirt hits the floor almost the same moment as Fenris’ gauntlets, and he peels his sticky smalls down his legs just as the breastplate is removed. 

Naked, Anders spreads his arms out to his sides, tossing his hair proudly at the look in Fenris’ eyes. Meant to be sarcastic and failing, a breathy, “now what, Ser?” falls from his lips. 

“Turn around,” Fenris orders, and his voice alone is enough to make Anders weak again. Before he can even begin to turn Fenris’ hands are on him, shoving him to face the door. With anyone else, Anders might be affronted at the rough treatment and wary at the position, the vulnerability in it, but he relaxes into the touch, leaning his head back when Fenris’ hand travels up his neck. There’s no pressure, but when Fenris traces his jaw, Anders parts his lips willingly. He takes Fenris’ index and middle fingers into his mouth, sucking them until he feels Fenris’ warmth against his back.

Fenris can play hard to get as often as he wants, but Anders knows now that Fenris enjoys feeding on him. Enjoys him. An uncommon sense of pride washes over him, and he licks at Fenris' fingers even as he pulls them away from his mouth. 

And then… he just stands there, pressed up against Anders’ back, still fully dressed while Anders is naked, only his armour lying discarded in the tangle of Anders’ clothes. “Well?” Anders demands recklessly, tossing his head back to glance over his shoulder. 

Fenris’ rough laugh in his ear, equally rough hands pushing him forward half a step, close enough to the closed door that he has to bring his hands up to brace himself. One hand on his hip, pulling them back, positioning him just so, Fenris' knee forces his legs to part wider, his hand moving up to push between his shoulder blades, forcing his face closer to the door. Anders allows this manoeuvring, groans as slick fingers tease his entrance.

“Who are you with, Anders? Who is touching you right now?”

“You are, or you should be.” Anders throws his hips back further, trying to get more than that teasing touch. “Move, you bastard!” Fenris growls in his ear and takes a firm hold of his hip, keeping him still, his taunting touch still maddeningly light. Anders whines in the back of his throat, pleading, and Fenris only repeats the question.

“Who is touching you, Anders?” 

“You!” Desperate for the promise implicit in that voice, in the allure strong enough to drown in, hot and cold and aching, Anders breaks down and begs. “Fenris you are , please!”

He’s rewarded immediately when Fenris presses one finger inside him, gently at first, the other hand firm on his hip, keeping him still. “More,” Anders gasps, heart racing. “More, please, you know I can take it!”

“More?” Fenris purrs in his ear, one finger pumping shallowly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, please!” Anders is panting now, head pressed against the door; he can feel Fenris’ arousal pressed up against him and it's all he can think about. He hasn’t been fucked properly in years. “Fen…” he trails off, moaning, as Fenris sinks a second finger into him, roughly this time, the allure winding tighter until Anders can almost taste it, vanilla and dark spices.

Those fingers press and find that perfect place inside him, and Anders sees stars. “Do you think of her , to resist me?” The words are nonsensical. It’s all he can do to stay on his feet. 

“Fen-”

“I touch you. I feed from you.” Fenris snarls, his breath hot on the back of Anders’ neck. He releases his hip and brings his hand to Anders’ cock, pumping hard in counter rhythm to his fingers. “Mine.”

“Fenris!” It’s too much, too overwhelming, too bright and hot and crimson and delicious. Anders is breathless, lightheaded as he comes for a second time, painting Fenris’ fist and his front door with white. He almost falls; would have, if the weight of Fenris’ body hadn’t held him mostly upright. When the haze fades, Fenris is pressing hot kisses against the knobs of his spine, tongue exploring each dip and curve, fingers still buried inside him, and he brings his free hand to Anders’ mouth. 

He opens his lips immediately, humming at the taste of himself on Fenris’ skin, unable to do more and still attempting to steady himself. As the fog clears, his brows come together. He lets Fenris’ fingers drop from his mouth.

“You didn’t feed.”

Using his grip on the back of Anders’ neck, Fenris pulls him away from the door, removing his fingers as he does. His voice is deep and dark as sin. “I’m not done with you yet, mage.” 

Maker , Fenris is going to kill him. His cock refuses to soften even slightly, despite coming twice in such short succession , and Fenris manhandling him to sit in an armchair does nothing to help. 

His breath is still harsh, and though the fabric of the chair feels cool, his skin is still on fire. Fenris undresses in front of him in a hurry, and Anders aches to touch him already. His hands clench on the armrests, the sight of Fenris, naked, hungry, and stalking him in slow steps enough to make him shiver. Fenris' allure is almost tangible, surrounding him and pinning him to the chair. Not that he would rather be anywhere else. 

Anders is about to indulge, allow himself to sink into Fenris' seduction and lose himself in it, when Fenris smirks at him as if he can read his thoughts, falling to his knees in front of him. 

There's an audible gasp that Anders cannot possibly hold back, as Fenris wraps his mouth on his erection. 

"Fuck," he whispers, having to close his eyes to maintain some semblance of control. Fenris' tongue laves on the underside of his cock as he goes deeper, until Anders can feel himself at the back of Fenris' throat. " Fuck. " 

The fact that Fenris only barely feeds on him while sucking him makes his mind reel. But a moment later Fenris pulls off, rising to climb onto Anders' lap, and he understands that Fenris was truly just getting started. 

The armchair is wide enough for Fenris thighs to frame his, and their eyes meet as Fenris lowers himself onto Anders' cock, slowly. 

Fenris' hand reaches for his hair, pulling at it and keeping his gaze fixed on him, as if Anders could possibly look away. Anders is about to let go, allow himself to fall willingly into the grip Fenris' allure has on him, when his voice cuts through. 

" Submit to me, " Fenris demands as his hips flatten, taking Anders fully inside him, and there's nothing left in Anders that doesn't want to submit. 

He melts into it willingly, blood rushing at the thought that Fenris wants him too. The haze of an Incubus call washes over him, getting rid of his inhibitions. All he can think of is Fenris, and how badly he needs to touch. 

His arms wrap around Fenris' back, sliding up and down as he thrusts into him, though it is Fenris setting the maddening pace. 

"Please, please," he begs, not even knowing what for until Fenris' teeth are on his neck, pain melting into pleasure, and he knows this is what he needs. All he can do is moan, asking for more, feeling nothing but bliss as Fenris rides him, marking his skin with his teeth and tongue.

There's a dim nagging at the back of his head, which he recognizes to be Justice, a small worried pang at how dangerous the situation is, the overwhelming need, how vulnerable he’s made himself as he never was before, but under Fenris' allure there's no room for concern. He needs to give Fenris everything. 

Finally, he feels Fenris take from him– feed off his life, and as Justice's concern rises so does his pleasure. The moment Fenris pulls away from his neck Anders crashes their lips together, tasting his own blood on Fenris' tongue. 

It's a filthy wet kiss, both of them hungry and desperate, and Anders loses himself in it, the rise and fall of Fenris as he rides him, the ebb and flow of him feeding. They could stay like this for hours and Anders would still want more. Other than the faded worry from Justice his entire body and mind is focused solely on pleasure, on Fenris . 

The air is knocked out of him when Fenris pulls away from his face, adjusting his grip on the chair and Anders' hip to change the angle. He can't handle not having his mouth on him for a moment, so he leans until it's him kissing Fenris' neck, tasting his sweat, licking up the lyrium lines on his throat.

It tingles on his tongue like a lightning strike, singing down his spine like he’s a tuning fork and Fenris his song. It tastes cool, like magic and energy, like the fade, like home . Anders sinks back into a warm cloud, lightheaded, leaving space for him. The worry Justice felt for Anders' wellbeing is overridden by the intoxicating feeling that washes over him as his tongue connects with the lyrium. 

It takes a moment before he notices Fenris has stilled his movement, his hands resting on Justice's shoulder. "Anders?" he asks with a cautious voice, hesitation clear in his eyes even to a spirit. 

" He is enjoying this ," Justice says, because it is the truth. He did not understand why, but the feeling of Fenris' lyrium veins touching his shoulders, his thighs, makes him understand. His body wants to move, instincts not his own forcing him to thrust up into the hot-tight-slick of Fenris’ body, groaning in pleasure at the unfamiliar sensation. There is a warmth in his body that resonates with the need to taste more of the elf's markings. 

Although he did not notice Fenris' allure winding down, he feels it now as it wraps tight around him again, a light pressure on his fade-cracked skin. It gives him the same haze that Anders must have felt, and he finds himself reaching to touch. “Mine,” Fenris murmurs against his lips, a revelation and a resolution, and kisses him.

To kiss Fenris when he can guide their lips together, have his hands travel across the lyrium lines on his back - it’s overwhelming. His pleasure and Anders’ become one - Fenris begins moving his hips again, and suddenly he understands why the blood does not matter, why the danger is not important. Fenris’ teeth drag on his lip, and the moan coming from his throat, part human and part spirit, need and want and pleasure-pain, makes him pull away.

" I… you are a demon !" Justice snarls, still unable to control hands that want to cling and hold.

“Do you think so?” Fenris’ voice is a delicious rumble in his ear, counterpoint to the singing lyrium. “What, then, does that make you ? Desiring me as much as you do? I can taste your need; different from his.”

Justice opens his mouth to contest it - to fight back against the accusation, but Fenris quickens the pace of his hips, flares his markings, and the only thing that comes out is a broken whimper as Justice gives into the bliss.

It's Anders in the back of their mind, soothing and encouraging, that makes it easy to trust themselves to Fenris. The world narrows down to the warmth in Anders' – in their – body, to the lyrium song, and Fenris' allure wrapped around them. Justice tries to recall the active part Anders took in this engagement, and the movement comes more naturally than he expects, until Fenris is gasping into his mouth, lyrium light faltering as his grip tightens on Justice’s shoulder. Everything feels like a rush then, a chase after something unidentifiable, and Justice is completely swept up in it, lost to the rhythm, the push and pull and the heat and the song. 

Guided by his, and Anders', desire, Justice finds a rhythm that has Fenris shaking on top of him. His body tightens in a familiar-unfamiliar way, building and growing and winding tighter and tighter and he’s reaching without reaching, yearning, grasping…

Fenris bites him again, fangs digging deep into the meat of his shoulder, and Justice is lost.

He doesn't fully understand what has happened until they both still, panting, and his hand is slick. Awareness comes gradually, the harsh breathing, the gentle hum of the lyrium song now that Fenris is no longer glowing. As uncertainty and doubt slowly enter his mind, Anders takes over and blinks as the post-climax bliss washes over him. He looks up at Fenris, eyes wide. He never… Justice never… 

Fenris doesn't acknowledge the fact that Justice has receded, but when he begins untangling from the chair Anders instinctively stops him, winding his arms around his neck and pulling Fenris to him. 

"We are done." If Fenris intends to be harsh, he fails, his voice rough from sex and pleasure. "We should bathe." 

He's not wrong, but there is a more pressing issue in Anders' mind. He wraps his arms around Fenris gently. "Soon, just– Settle down," he tries as Fenris adjusts his position on Anders' lap, guiding his head to rest on his shoulder.

It takes another moment for him to relax, but once Anders starts trailing his hand up and down his back, Fenris' breath slows, tension visibly leaving him as he nuzzles at Anders' neck. Justice sparks behind Anders’ closed eyelids, Spirit and mage almost purring with contentment. Perfect. 

"You should heal," Fenris mutters, almost inaudible, and Anders calls the magic as easily as breathing air, healing the wounds on his neck and shoulders, but not the bruises on his hips. 

"About Velanna," he starts tentatively, and continues rubbing Fenris' back gently when he tenses. "I wasn’t hers . I don’t belong to anyone. I do this because I want to.”

He can only hope Fenris doesn't argue further.

Chapter Text

The situation with the mage has settled into a routine, and he’s found a kind of balance. They get a private room in the Hanged Man after the weekly game often enough for Fenris to feed until he’s sated. He doesn’t rely on the mage, of course, still hunting during the week. But he can’t deny enjoying the nights they do share. However, outside of those nights, outside of that room, they remain as antagonistic as always, though with perhaps a little less bite than before.

Hawke has asked Fenris on a job again, and Fenris still feels guilty enough to not ask any questions, too relieved that Hawke came to risk him leaving. It’s a reaction he scolds himself for, however, when he finds himself physically and metaphorically knee-deep in the mage underground. This is unwise in every way.

When you’re Tranquil, you’ll do anything I say. It echoes in his mind, drowning him in memories of magisters who professed to enjoy ‘breaking’ new slaves the most. ‘I’d rather be dead than Tranquil,’ the mage has said on many occasions, and for the first time Fenris wonders how many people the mage has known who were subjected to that fate. What use is a mage with no magic?

It isn’t a surprise when Justice emerges, raging blue lightning and visceral pain Fenris feels, emanating from him like a cloud.

“They will die! I will have every last templar for these abuses!” Justice’s voice thunders in the underground tunnel, and Fenris’ lyrium hums in response. It’s a sharp contrast to the last time Fenris had seen Justice take over, but he is not unfamiliar with anger, and part of him sympathises with Justice’ rage. Welcomes it, even; able to punish those who would abuse people weaker than themselves.

When he turns on the apostate, however…

“Anders, that girl is a mage,” Hawke calls, afraid to approach, and Justice hears him but does not listen.

“She is theirs. I can feel their hold on her.”

“Please, messer…” The sight of the girl on her knees, Anders’ arm raised in preparation to strike - it scares him, sets his heart racing. A part of him sees a magister, wants to tear his heart out from his chest. But he knows better, knows Justice better now.

Mind made up, he flashes past Hawke and Isabela, hand reaching to the feathered pauldron of Anders’ coat. “Justice. No.”  He channels his allure to the spirit, flares his markings just enough to fully draw his attention. He sees the sudden greed in Justice’s eyes, the desire he discovered only weeks ago, entirely different to Anders’ humanity but just as delicious. Sees Justice falter, rationality returning, and flee.

It’s an instant shift. With a gasp, Justice dissipates, and Anders staggers back and away from Fenris, shaking his head, eyes wide with horror. 

“Maker, no. I almost… If you weren’t here…” His voice is desperate, afraid, and he doesn’t meet Fenris’ eyes. “I need to get out of here.” 

He’s gone before Fenris can say a word. Not that he knows what he’d say.

  —————

Unsurprisingly, Anders is a mess when Fenris finds him in his clinic. 

“Have you come to gloat?" For a moment, they are back to the first year they met, Anders' fists clenched beside him, belligerent , aggressive, and Fenris wonders again if he should have let Hawke come here instead. He doesn't respond; just watches as anger is replaced by resignation  in Anders’ eyes. "No, I’m sorry. I should be thanking you. You were the only thing that kept me from murdering that poor girl.” He buries his head in his hands, clutching at his hair. Justice crackles across his knuckles, clearly as agitated as his mage. 

“Yes, as you have done for others.” The memory of Anders looming over him, forcing his attention to stop him from murdering that innocent drunk in the Hanged Man comes to mind. “You did it for me.” He says the words but he can see that they are not enough, that Anders is too caught up in his own fear and pain and misery to really listen.

“No, you were right all along. Justice and I... We're just a monster, same as any abomination.”

"Being a monster should not condemn you any more than it does me."

Anders looks at him then, lips parted in a silent gasp as if the comparison did not occur to him. Fenris forgoes being subtle about it, touching a mostly faded bite mark Anders left unhealed on his throat. "At least you can control your desires.”

"No, that's not–" Anders stumbles over his words, clearly trying to draw a distinction. But is there one? Fenris was quick enough to call Anders an abomination before. Now, it feels as dishonest as pretending he himself is not a monster. 

If Anders notices Fenris' new found sympathy he doesn't comment on it, simply sighs, broken and despondent, the anger draining away to reveal the fear beneath. “How can I fight for the freedom of mages, when I am the example of the worst that freedom brings?" 

Do not , Fenris wants to say, but can't. It would be as pointless as asking Fenris to willingly enslave himself. "You are not the worst," he says with a dry voice, and for a second time he watches Anders flinch, as he realises who he is speaking to. Fenris knows the worst that freedom of mages can bring, intimately.  

There is a distinct pleasure associated with rendering the mage quiet, even under the circumstances. They spend long moments in silence before Anders exhales shakily, back to avoiding eye contact.

“Did Hawke find anything on Ser Alrik?”

“He did,” Fenris recalls. “Ser Alrik’s suggestion received no support.”

If seeing Anders’ face lights up makes him feel relieved, he thinks nothing of it.

“That is… not what I expected. Perhaps there’s still hope.” He seems to be considering something for a moment, possibly gauging his spirit’s reaction. "Thank you, again. For stopping Justice."

Fenris nods, and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He should leave. It's hard to admit why he even came in the first place.

"Do you need to feed? It was a tough battle." Anders asks, with a peculiar intensity that Fenris has never seen before. It’s… eager in a way that leaves him slightly unsettled, and though Fenris would like to feed, he hesitates. It’s not necessary; if he waits a few days longer for their usual appointment in the Hanged Man it would be enough. 

But Fenris hesitates for a second too long, and Anders’ eyebrows furrow, betraying his disappointment at Fenris’ reticence. Whatever comfort Anders needs now is not something Fenris could – or should – offer at all, but he can’t help recalling every time Anders offers physical affection when they’re done fucking. Fenris has never asked for it, but it seems to come naturally to Anders to give it. If his suggestion was brought on from the need of closeness, Fenris has to admit he does not mind the prospect.

“Are you certain that is a good idea?” he asks, though he knows Anders would not back down. His attention is focused on Fenris like a cat stalking a bird, and it’s almost enough to make him back away. He’s not used to being prey.

“Yes,” Anders says quickly, one hand already going to unbuckle his coat, while the other goes to grip the back of Fenris' neck. “I want this.”

Fenris doesn’t wait longer, and when Anders leans down to kiss him his allure is already flowing freely. There's no need for it, with Anders, he cannot truly ensnare him even if he tried, but Anders likes it, and Fenris enjoys his reaction to it. The way his breath catches when Fenris bites at his lower lip, the way his body gravitates toward Fenris until they are flush together, how he allows himself to be pushed backwards until he hits the desk.

Before taking off his gauntlets, Fenris grabs hold of Anders’ hair, tearing out his tie. Anders only gasps into his mouth, hips grinding against him to show his obvious arousal. They don’t stop kissing each other while undressing, and Fenris feeds off him in small sips every time he thinks his attention might be slipping. He wants Anders right here with him, wants to hold every corner of his mind, if only for the time they are together.

With the last of his clothes on the floor, Fenris takes in the sight of Anders, cock already hard and flushed. Slowly, with intent, he walks to him and pushes him back until he’s forced to sit on his desk chair. Anders spreads his leg just a little, in what might not be a conscious intent, and looks up at him with his pupils blown wide. Clearly enjoying being on display. Fenris understands, and plans to take advantage of it. He reaches for Anders’ hand and brings it to his lips, mouthing at the wrist, feeling Anders’ pulse under his tongue. His skin tastes of sweat, herbs and the faint feeling of magic. A reminder of Anders’ true power, as he recalls Justice’s display of force earlier. But for all the danger, he looks at Anders, lips parted, eyes dark; there is no threat here. Not to Fenris. 

He licks a path up his hand slowly, noticing as Anders inhales sharply, and then mutters, invoking the Maker when Fenris takes his index finger into his mouth. Without breaking eye contact, his tongue trails the digit from base to tip, and darts out to bring Anders' middle finger into his mouth. Drool spreads to his palm as Fenris sucks on his fingers, feeding just a little at Anders' strong arousal. It's still not enough to matter to him, but it's enough to wring breathy broken sounds from Anders. 

Eventually he takes his ring and little finger as well, until his lips are stretched obscenely over them. 

Fenris holds his gaze throughout, enjoying the way Anders is practically shaking with need already at every swipe of tongue or drag of his teeth, his other hand grabbing the chair with a bruising grip.  

A few more moments and he releases Anders’ hand, licking his own lips. “Touch yourself,” he orders, and Anders scrambles to comply, wrapping his wet hand around himself and moaning as he thrusts into it, slowly. 

Fenris meant to simply have Anders slick himself and then ride him, but the look of ecstasy on his face is mesmerising, and knowing that Anders would appreciate it he decides to draw the moment out, make him come like that. 

Stepping closer, he trails his hand on Anders' collar bone, neck, and finally grabs hold of his hair. 

Anders stops his movement, and as soon as he lets go of his erection Fenris pulls at his hair, causing him to groan. 

"I did not tell you to stop."  

His hand is back where Fenris wants it before he even finishes his sentence, the other still clenched on the wooden chair. 

Only easing his grip on Anders' hair a little, he uses it to angle his head back. When Anders exposed his neck, willingly, Fenris doesn't resist his desire and leans down to lick and mouth at the skin. He works it enough to leave an angry mark at the pulse point, and moves away from it to sink his teeth until he draws blood. 

"Maker, Fenris, I won't– I can't last," he shudders under him, and Fenris licks his path up to bite at his earlobe gently. 

"Then don't," he breathes to Anders' ear, watching as the pace he set quickens, as he arches his back, as he moans. Fenris’ free hand begins travelling across the expanse of Anders’ chest, trailing lazily over the old scar tissue. “I want to watch you fall apart,” he adds, eyes on his throat as he swallows. Anders turns his head, seeking, and Fenris indulges them both with a kiss, plundering Anders’ open mouth as he pants. 

“That’s it,” Fenris murmurs, hungry eyes torn between Anders’ hand on his cock and watching his face. “Come for me. I want to see it.” He’s still holding back. Fenris can feel it, see it on his face. 

He wraps a hand around Anders’, squeezing his fist tighter around his cock, pressing his thumb against the underside. “Mine.” It’s a breath, fluttering against Anders’ lips. “Give me what is mine, Anders.” 

“Yes– Please –” Anders shakes under him, and Fenris interrupts the broken plea, licking into his mouth slowly, feeding from him and scraping his nails against his scalp. It’s enough to finally push Anders over the edge, and he bucks up wildly once, twice, stilling as he spills into their joined hands. Fenris doesn’t stop feeding from him until Anders is whimpering into his lips, shoulders sagging.

Without hesitation, Fenris lifts Anders’ hand away from his still twitching cock, and takes his fingers into his mouth once more, indulging in the saltiness. It's a taste he now recognises as Anders , and he enjoys it more than he should.

Before he's done, he flings one leg over Anders' lap and grabs the back of the chair for support as he straddles him. As he lowers himself onto Anders, he feeds on the painful, over-sensitive spike of pleasure, and they moan together, though Fenris' is muffled by the fingers still in his mouth. 

His intention was to work Anders up, but he finds himself just as eager, both to feed on Anders' pleasure freely and to chase his own. He doesn't waste time, falling into a comfortable rhythm, planting his feet on the ground for purchase. 

The moment he pulls away from Anders' hand - now tasting only of himself - it mirrors the other on either side of Fenris' hips. Anders doesn't try to direct him, simply holds on as if he can not bear not to. But despite being surrounded by Fenris’ allure, he has not given into it yet.

It sends a rush through Fenris that he is still not used to, the effect he has on Anders even when he's sober. Without realising it, he picks up speed on the rise and fall of his hips, mouth at Anders' neck, sucking the skin until it darkens.

The chair creaks loudly, but doesn't break. 

"Ahh, Fenris– Fuck," Anders chokes, breath loud in his ear, lips almost brushing against it, while Fenris is biting his neck at the pulse point.

Anders is buried deep inside him, cock twitching as Fenris changes the pace to something unhurried, thighs shaking with the effort. They've been going at it long enough for Fenris to be full, not just with Anders but of Anders. His hunger has never been satisfied the way it does when he's with him. 

"Can you give me more?" He asks, regardless, into Anders' skin, hand tangled in his hair, nails scraping his scalp.

Anders moans, deep and dark, eyes closed and head falling back into Fenris' hand, baring his neck even more. " Yes – Take whatever you need," he breathes. He has yet to refuse anything Fenris asked of him. 

Fenris lifts his hips only to slam back down, taking Anders' lips into a bruising kiss, swallowing his moans. He keeps the pace intentionally slow, indulges in the fact that despite Anders' hands grasping his hips, he has full control of when they're done. 

"Fuck," Anders whispers into their kiss, spreading his legs enough to go even deeper. Fenris takes full advantage of it and sinks low, until Anders breaks the kiss arching his back. "Fuck," he moans, and Fenris bares his teeth in a feral smile as he goes even harder. 

The wood under them complains with a loud crack. 

Before he can react, Anders' arms wrap around his thighs as he stands, holding him close. As he carries him he moves his hips slowly, shallowly thrusting into Fenris with desperate need. 

It's a short distance to Anders' private area, but they don't make it that far. Fenris tightens his legs around Anders, pulling on his hair at a slightly deeper roll of his hips, and in an instant he is slammed against a wall. Anders rocks into him suddenly with unexpected force, groaning into his ear, and Fenris doesn't mind the shift. 

He gasps and closes his eyes, knowing that if Anders continues like this he will come. His nails scratch at Anders' back of their own accord, as he feeds from him, pleasure almost a tangible taste on his tongue. 

Anders' rhythm falters for a moment, and he stills, and Fenris only barely bites his lip before asking him why. 

Remembering his original plan it seems, Anders carries him through to his room, and where Fenris expects to be tossed into the bed he isn't - Anders turns them and sits down, in a perfect mirror to how they were positioned on the chair. 

"Just a little harder to break," he explains, out of breath, hair sticking to his skin with sweat. 

"Are you certain?" Fenris smirks at him, adjusting his own legs on the bed as he begins riding Anders again. Whatever reply Anders would have made dies on a stuttered moan, before he takes Fenris' face in his hands to kiss him. 

"Nngh, Fen," he whimpers when Fenris feeds from him in a rush, and as their foreheads meet Fenris notices how flushed his face is, eyes dazed, pupils blown wide.

By any measure, Fenris should no longer be hungry, but he wants to push Anders until he breaks just to see how long it takes. Until the events of the day do not matter, and his entire world is Fenris.

“Give in to me,” he commands, and his cock twitches between them as Anders obeys, sinking willingly into his allure. 

" Please, " Anders begs, the same way his prey often does and yet entirely different.

He wraps a hand around Anders' throat, applies pressure on his fingertips until Anders' pulse and shallow breaths are the only thing he can hear. 

There is something intoxicating about feeding on more energy than he needs, and he is addicted to the way Anders' energy feels now, warm, alive, and offered willingly. 

"More," he asks, clenching his muscles around Anders' erection, and Anders gives, moving his hands to grab at the sheets for purchase, thrusting upward in a slow but deep pace, the way he knows Fenris likes. 

They both get lost in it, but Fenris' gaze is fixed on Anders' face, eyes closed and lips parted. Fenris drinks every broken sound of pleasure he makes, but it's not enough. 

“Look at me.” He commands, watching Anders’ glazed eyes open and focus on his face. Never slowing his pace, he brings a hand up to wrap around his own cock, moaning as the sensation curls up his spine. 

Anders’ eyes began to slide shut again. “No. Look at me.” His voice is breathy instead of firm but it has the desired effect. The way Anders watches him is overwhelming; dark and hungry without being covetous, wanting without needing to control. His eyes are black with desire, the gold almost swallowed by his pupils, and they flicker between Fenris’ face and his hand on his cock. It’s intoxicating, being watched like that, and it only pushes him higher.

Anders’ knuckles are white where he’s gripping the blankets. “Fen- I can’t…” he’s shaking, still rocking up into him but the pace is erratic now, he’s clearly fighting back his release. He tips his head back, moaning, but quickly drops his chin when Fenris growls in disapproval, meeting his eyes, wild and desperate. “Want to see you,” he pants. “Want you to feed from me when I come- take everything, Fenris!” 

It's enough that Fenris can't hold back any longer. He draws from Anders in a rush, admiring the bliss that washes over his face. 

"Fenris–" Anders moans, louder than before, and with a quick flick of his wrist Fenris comes, back arching, spilling between them and onto Anders’ stomach. Breathless, he slumps forward into Anders, who lets them collapse gently back onto the bed, chuckling when Fenris twitches and sucks in a gasp at the changing angle. His hands smooth along Fenris’ spine, gentling him through the aftershocks, but Fenris can feel that he still hasn’t come. 

With a hand on Anders' shoulder, Fenris leans his weight to the side to flip them over, and Anders follows him easily. His arms hold him up on either side of Fenris's hand, and his hips move shallowly, as if on their own accord. 

Anders’ hungry gaze watches greedily, absorbing every detail, and Fenris caresses Anders' face as he begins feeding from him once again. 

"Come for me," he orders, leaning up to kiss him, and Anders picks up the pace, clutching at Fenris' waist as he takes control of chasing his own release. Anders thrusts into Fenris again and again, moaning when Fenris bites at his lip, his rhythm stuttering. When he comes, Fenris can feel the pulse of Anders’ cock inside of him and he pulls deeply, taking in as much of Anders’ desperate ecstasy as he can.

Anders collapses forward onto Fenris’ chest, softening and slipping from him. He feels sated, energetic, ready to run for miles. He settles for stroking the hair on Anders’ head, untangling the blonde strands. 

They don’t speak for a long time, but eventually Anders sighs sleepily. “Thank you, Fenris. For saving that girl and- for stopping me.” His breath evens out as Fenris cards his fingers through the silken strands.

Fenris’ mind wanders as he lays there with Anders. A mage, again. He sighs aloud. How does he always end up with a mage?

And this mage in particular. He thinks back to that moment in the tunnels, his emotions churning. He’d sworn to himself that if Anders lost himself to his demon, he wouldn’t hesitate. He’d prevent him from hurting anyone, as quickly and mercifully as possible. But when Justice emerged, roaring his anger and pain, Fenris had… done nothing.

No, not nothing. He’d joined in, the crackle of blue singing through his lyrium. He hadn’t been horrified, or afraid, or angry; all he’d felt in that moment was… 

He licks his lips, running his fingers through Anders’ hair again… Desire. He’d seen the two of them and wanted to crush them against the rock wall and feed, hear them moaning in discordant harmony. His hand shakes. 

What is wrong with him? 

Chapter Text

The anger doesn't leave him when he makes it back to the mansion. He's pacing in his bedroom, hands still covered in Hadriana's blood, itching for something more to break. He drinks some, smashes bottles at the wall, tears his armour off of him, but nothing relieves him. 

The bitch is dead. She’s dead and he’s alive, so why doesn’t he feel any better? After everything she’d put him through, she deserved to die. Even after holding her beating heart in his hand he itches to kill her again, drag it out, torment her as she had tormented him. Is that it? He regrets killing her too slowly? He doesn’t feel regret, he just feels… tired . 

It doesn't help when Anders shows up. 

He’d half-expected Hawke, but it makes sense that Anders would come to him. Fenris hasn't fed from him for a week, and after the fight today he knows he should feed.

Anders walks into his bedroom like he belongs there, and Fenris snarls at him as soon as he passes the threshold. 

"You shouldn't have come here." 

"Because you'd rather… what? Stand there and sulk instead of feed?" Anders calmly places his staff against the wall, already moving to unbuckle his coat, and it only makes Fenris angrier. Part of it is Anders' arrogance at assuming Fenris would want him. And the other is that Fenris does want. To watch him squirm, flushed, desperate for Fenris, giving up his control willingly. 

"This will not be pleasant for you," he warns, careful not to spread his allure until Anders has a chance to smarten up and leave. 

"You can't give me anything I can't take," Anders taunts, and Fenris is determined to prove him wrong this time. 

He flares his markings to close the distance between them, slams Anders against the wall and takes him in a bruising kiss. 

Anders responds to him eagerly, hands going to undo his shirt. It only serves to frustrate him, so he grabs both of Anders' wrists, pinning him to the wall with one hand. The smell of Anders' arousal is already making him lightheaded, evidence of it hard and grinding against his thigh. 

They kiss for long minutes. Fenris is harsh; rough, teeth scraping against Anders’ tongue to taste his blood, hands holding him against the wall. He has a tight grip on Anders’ coat and he isn’t letting go, demanding submission from the man - the mage - who dared to walk into an incubus’ lair and make himself prey. 

And submission is what he gets. Anders has suddenly turns soft and sweet against him, moaning as Fenris’ tongue invades his mouth. Giving, always fucking giving, even while Fenris takes small sips from his kisses, even when he roughly tears at his clothes. 

But - as always - it’s his mouth that’s his true weapon. “Wish you’d left some of that evil bitch for me,” he whispers into Fenris’ ear, receiving a snarl in reply. “ I’d have drawn it out for you.”  

Fenris shakes his head and bites at Anders’ throat, leaving a livid mark behind, too high to be hidden by a shirt collar. Anders moans, words tapering off, hands twisting in Fenris’ grip. The idea of his Anders anywhere near that snake makes his blood boil, and all he can do to chase it away is press himself closer, close enough to feel Anders’ heart thundering in his chest, grinding their cocks together, and listen to him whimper in submission.

There is barely any space left between them, and yet Anders wraps one leg around Fenris’ waist to bring them closer still . Fenris yanks at his collar, pulling him away from the wall before slamming him back, hard. Anders’ head hits with a thunk.  

“Going to punish me for their sins?” Anders whispers, fucking amused. “I bet that’s what you’ve always wanted; a mage of your very own to fuck and hurt and…” he moans raggedly as Fenris bites at his collar bone, snarling. “I’m a mage too, after all. You want to feel my magic, Fenris?” 

Fenris shudders with pleasure and fear as Anders glows blue, healing the bump on his head. When he kisses him, his lips crackle with magic, spreading down the markings to make Fenris’ skin tingle. Fenris growls, shaking him sharply to stop it. He turns, pulling Anders with him, sweeping him off his feet and to the floor, controlling his descent with the hand still twisted in his clothes.

Anders, damn him, just clutches Fenris’ shoulders, grinning in something like triumph. “Are you really about to fuck an abomination, Fenris? A mage and a spirit; how positively Tevinter of you.” 

“Don’t you dare talk about what you do not understand,” Fenris snarls, tearing at the lacings to his shirt, the urge to feel Anders’ skin almost overwhelming. 

Anders’ cheek fractures into blue spiderwebs, one eye glowing. “We understand just fine.” It’s Anders’ voice, but Justice echoes in the corners. Something in Fenris shivers in response, and, out of patience, he simply rips the shirt into two halves, dropping the tatters onto the floor. The blue cracks are spreading down Anders’ chest, and Fenris follows one with his tongue. A hand rests gently on the back of his head, urging him to feed, and he does, gasping as the wave of emotion hits him, storming through his body and leaving him reeling from the huge surge of energy. 

“Are we enough for you?” Anders-Justice ask, back arching to keep touching him. “Can an abomination keep you satisfied?” 

The urge to shake him again is strong, but instead he reaches down to Anders’ pants, hand pressing on the visible outline of his cock until he groans, and Fenris swallows the noise with his lips.

He tries to focus on the kiss, the glide of their tongues against each other, but he can’t help the memories that haunt him, fresh in his mind. This kiss like so many others, the body beneath him arching and wanting like every other- 

“Hey, hey, Fenris,” Anders’ voice as he pulls back a little, lips still brushing Fenris’ as gentle as his tone suddenly is. “Where did you go?”

“I saw her and…” Fenris shudders, fist clenching over Anders’ heart. “Everything I was- am…”

“She’s gone, Fenris. She’s dead. You killed her.” Anders licks a tear from his cheek, tongue startling soft. He lowers his voice to an intimate whisper. “I watched the light fade from her eyes after you ripped out her heart… and it was glorious.” His eyes crackle with blue; Justice peers through them, and they see only him. 

“Monstrous,” Fenris gasps, out of breath, out of patience, nearly out of his mind. He must be.

“Perhaps.” Anders agrees, gripping his hips. “But I have never wanted you more.” He lets out a laugh that has Fenris clenching in anticipation as he divests Anders of his trousers and smalls. “There you were; powerful, free, drenched in blood and angry as I’ve ever seen you… and all I wanted-” he lets out a low groan when Fenris licks at the tip of his erection. “… all I wanted was to fall to my knees and worship you.”

“I don’t want to be worshipped.” I want to be feared. 

“You deserve it,” Anders gasps as Fenris sucks on the head of his cock. “You should be worshipped as a god, as ancient Tevinter did with Urthemiel.” 

Fighting the way his chest constricts at the words, he swallows Anders down in a rush, feeding from him without restraint, hoping to choke the words out of his mouth. A shuddering whine, and he pulls back to see his face. Anders means it, in that moment.

“Mage.” Fenris manages, through the hurricane in his mind. “Shut up.” 

“Is silence really what you want, Fenris? You won your justice against all odds. You should be exaltant.” Anders shakes his head, still crackling with magic, teeth bared in a manic wolf’s snarl. “You would Silence us? We revel in it with you.” 

Fenris is shaking; head, hands, lips: too many emotions to feel swirling inside him, and Anders’ words are making it worse. “Justice? What justice was there in that cave?” His voice is shaking too.

Anders laughs, sharp and bright as a blade. “We brought it with us. We were its weapon today!”

“I…” he doesn’t know what to say, how to feel in the face of Anders’ darkbright, visceral glee. He shakes his head, leaning down again to press his lips to Anders’ pulse point. “Stop.”

“Is that really what you want, Fenris?” he asks again, with a human voice, more serious this time. As if he truly thinks Fenris would like him to be nothing more than captive prey, silent and passive. Concern cuts through while he moves between his legs again, hands resting on his thighs, realising that Anders asks because he would be willing to stay quiet if Fenris did want him to. ”You are not—”

Fenris digs his nails down into Anders' skin, and focuses his attention on Anders' cock, taking it into his mouth in another effortless motion.

Anders cries out, words finally, blissfully silent; replaced by panting and deep moans. Fenris hollows his cheeks in reward and Anders groans long and loud. He stops sipping, taking big gulps of energy from him instead. He takes until he’s dizzy from the rush of life and pleasure. His cock strains against the confines of his leggings and he thrusts against Anders’ leg, searching for any kind of friction. Moaning around the cock in his mouth breaks Anders’ resolve and he comes suddenly, head thrown back and hands fisted at his sides, down Fenris’ hungry throat. 

He licks and suckles at Anders’ still-hard cock, humming his delight in the trembling of his legs caused by overstimulation. But Anders never pushes him away. No matter how much he takes. 

He rips at his shirt and slithers out of his leggings, climbing up Anders’ body to straddle his hips. He needs this, needs to take more, take everything he’s been offered. Positioning Anders at his entrance brings the mage’s voice back to him. 

“Maker, Fenris…” 

Suddenly the memories are too much, too overwhelming, too terrifying. He needs . He slams himself down on Anders’ cock and the stretch burns in the best way. 

“Show me,” Hands fumbling down Anders’ body to grip his waist, Fenris pulls on his energy, taking more than he usually would, hard and fast enough to kill a strong man, but Anders only tosses his head back and moans. He leans forward to brush their lips together. “Show me the monster that lives under your skin, Anders. Let me see the creature I’m fucking.” 

Anders laughs, sharp and brittle. “Do you want the mage, the demon or the darkspawn, Fenris?”

Anything. Everything. Fenris’ hunger is almost a living thing inside him, snarling its need for Anders’ pleasure, Anders’ power, Anders, Anders, Anders.  

“I want it all,” he hisses, claws digging grooves into the floorboards either side of Anders’ head. Anders thrusts up, and Fenris shudders, throwing his head back. Anders’ blunt human teeth graze his exposed throat, and his instincts roar.  

Mind spinning with lust and hate and fear and memories and loss, he ducks down, biting hard into the muscle of Anders’ chest. Mine. It echoes in his head. Mine. Meus lux. When he sits back, hips grinding down harder at this new angle, Anders wears a perfect ring of teeth marks, right over his heart.

“ Careful,” Anders whispers, still arching up into him, eyes dazed. “You’ll become as much of a monster as me.” 

Fenris licks the blood from his lips, panting, watching black veins creep in around Anders’ eyes. “You think I’m not already?” 

Anders’ gaze sharpens, and he grins his unsettling darkspawn grin, thrusting up into Fenris as magic crackles over his skin to ignite the markings. He moans, shuddering, snarls, and continues. “I think you like the monster, Fenris.” Anders says, hissing as Fenris clenches around him. “I think you like that we’re the same.” 

Fenris shudders. The same as a mage? No. The same as the man, the monster. He runs a finger over the bite mark on Anders’ chest while he thinks of a response, smearing the blood over his pale skin. He does like that they’re the same; likes that he can do and say and be what he wants, likes that Anders isn’t afraid of him. He likes Anders, despite it all. His magic crackles through Fenris’ markings and when he opens his mouth to reply a moan slips out of his throat instead. 

“Look at you,” Anders bites out breathlessly, that rasping, monstrous tone in his voice. “Willingly taking a mage - an abomination - again,” he thrusts up into Fenris, “and again, and again…” Fenris lets out a snarl that turns into a whine, biting down on Anders’ shoulder.

“And what of you? Willingly giving your life away to something that’s no better than a demon? Wasn’t one enough for you?”

Anders lets out a wild laugh. “Never enough, no.” His hands, crackling with magic, slide up Fenris’ thighs to his hips, sending sparks up his spine. 

With a growl, Fenris pins those hands to the floor and leans over, riding him hard and fast and brutal. 

Anders leans up to kiss him. It tastes of blood and the Fade. “You’re worse than any demon, Fenris,” he whispers raggedly. “You’re the only one I’d let kill me.”

Something in those words, the tangle of implications, goes straight to Fenris’ cock. His orgasm takes him by surprise, blasting through him like lightning, and he lets out a soft whine as he spills over Anders stomach and chest. 

Anders watches with smugness in his golden eyes, surrounded by the blighted black veins, the blue almost gone now. 

When the world refocuses, he stands, earning a groan from Anders. “You can leave now,” he says. 

Anders laughs and rolls to his feet, sated and satisfied as a tomcat. “You wouldn’t be so cruel as to throw me out now , would you Fenris? The guards won’t appreciate a darkspawn strolling through Hightown.” 

Fenris frowns. He hadn’t thought of that, and Anders isn’t wrong. “You may stay, then.” 

Anders grins at him, white teeth sharper than they should be, and grabs Fenris’ hand to tug him toward the bed. “Good, now that we’ve got that settled, come to bed with me.”

He stops and Anders stops with him. How could Anders still want to be with him after how cruel he’d been to him tonight? He’s discomfited by the thought, but he covers it by curling his lip, “You are not getting into my bed covered in blood and spit and spend, Mage.” Anders’ smile falls and Fenris immediately backtracks, “Join me in the bath?” 

Anders’ answering smile is radiant and wicked both.

Chapter Text

It takes a few moments before his senses gradually clear. He feels hands on him, a stream of magic that doesn't hurt– Anders' healing; warmth washing over him, easing the tension and aches. He opens his eyes slowly, and it draws Anders' attention away from the wound in his abdomen. 

"Fenris, please , stay with me," he pleads, as if Fenris has any intention of being this helpless. 

His mouth opens, but no words form, and instead he winces at a sharp stab of pain in his back. How deadly was the rogue's attack?

He glances around them, in time to see Hawke and Isabela kill what looks to be the last of the mercenaries. Good. So he can focus on getting his strength back. Both of them can, he thinks, looking back at Anders. He doesn't seem injured but he looks exhausted, skin pale and gleaming with sweat, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted and breaths shallow. 

Fenris has to strain to control his allure, so close to him. Kaffas, he fed from Anders just a few days ago, this shouldn't be a challenge, but Anders is always enticing, the desire to ensnare him a growing battle of its own. It’s been too long since he sought out other prey, and it dawns on him suddenly that Anders has been his reliable source of energy for weeks now. When did he stop hunting? 

He doesn't realise he's staring at Anders' lips until the healing stops, and those lips are on his. His allure is only barely restrained as he kisses Anders back, his chest tightening with emotions he's not used to. 

They've never kissed like this, he's not sure what he's supposed to feel. All he knows is that it's good, and warm, Anders' hands holding his jaw as if there's anywhere else he could be. 

No , he thinks as they part, Anders' breath on his lips, there is nowhere safer . 

"Don't scare me like that again." 

With his head clearing, Fenris chuckles. "It was not my intention." He takes Anders' hands in his, pulling them away from his face. Anders' pulse races under his fingers, and he can feel desire building up. "You should know better than to kiss me here," he warns. 

"No, by all means continue, I wouldn't mind the show," Isabela smirks beside them, hand resting on her hips. 

“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” Anders scoffs as he draws his hands back, and Fenris lets him, instead glancing over at Hawke. There’s no harm in Isabela noticing them, but Hawke… Fenris finds that he prefers Hawke not be aware of his arrangement with Anders. Thankfully, he seems to still be looting corpses a bit further away. 

Hawke looks up and catches Fenris staring at him. He blushes and turns away, but can’t quite figure out if he’s blushing because Hawke caught him staring or because of how close Anders still is. The line of thought makes him uncomfortable and he quickly reaches down to ascertain the damage he sustained. Like always, Anders has left only smooth skin behind with no memory other than phantom pain. 

He reaches out to touch Anders’ arm lightly, “Thank you, Anders.” 

Anders mumbles something and turns away, but not before Fenris catches the colour staining his cheekbones. Fenris’ own cheeks heat more and he still doesn’t know what to think of it. 

He stands and dusts himself off. Finding Isabela and Hawke finished with looting and Anders standing awkwardly nearby, he says, “We should move on.” 

—

The camp they set isn't impressive, but it works. Fenris’ hunger is gnawing at him; he’s aware of what he must look like, and though all three of his companions would know - intimately - why, he still sits on the farthest log away from the campfire. Enough to be warm and to listen to the conversation, but not enough to draw attention. He doesn’t want to accidentally ensnare Hawke or Isabela. 

They talk about nothing remarkable, and he barely notices when Anders excuses himself to walk away into the dark woods. 

The fire has begun to die down when Hawke finishes packing up his gear. He doesn’t seem surprised when Isabela rises after him, lacing her arm with his, hips swaying as she tries to keep up with his steps. “You going my way, sailor?” she asks him, and he only shrugs in response. 

Fenris clenches his fists at his side, watching them walk to Hawke’s tent. Isabela of all people should not be making him jealous, but it is still hard to forget how much he wanted Hawke. It’s all suddenly too much to think of, and his impulse is to storm off in the opposite direction to clear his mind. Before he can do so however, Anders returns, sitting down right next to him in the light of the dim embers. His presence is enough to stop Fenris from leaving, not wanting to be in direct sight of Hawke’s tent, but wanting Anders to pick up on his emotions even less. 

It takes more effort than it should to relax his shoulders, to avert his eyes and focus on anything else, but Anders doesn’t make any comments, doesn’t speak at all as they sit, and soon Fenris eases into the cold night once again. Naturally, the moment he decides to get up and retire is when Anders speaks. 

“You should feed.” 

He should. And it’s not a surprise that Anders offers himself, his unspoken offer is not a surprise either, but Fenris still wants to refuse. He glances away and moves to stand up as he planned to, but Anders puts a hand on his arm, stopping him without restraining. “Fenris, we’ve talked about this. We can be quick about it, but you need more than my magic alone can give.”

Who else would he feed on? The thought of going back to Kirkwall and hunting for prey sounds unappealing compared to Anders’ warm and willing flesh. No, he doesn’t hesitate for long. He slides his arm out of Anders’ grasp and takes hold of his hand before pulling him to stand. 

“Not here,” he offers, and doesn’t miss the way Anders’ eyes light up against the embers’ glow at the words. 

They can’t wander too far, but Fenris leads them through the moonlit woods, flaring his markings just enough to help Anders’ human eyes see the path. Everything is silver shadows and rays of darkness, bleached of colour but shimmering. He is still holding Anders’ hand, and though he can’t explain why, he doesn’t let go.

“Hmph–” Anders stumbles when Fenris moves him, pushes him against a tree, out of the light, and pins the hand he was holding to the bark. There’s no reason to waste any time, if this is meant to be a quick affair then they should both treat it as such, but Fenris still indulges in a kiss instead of dropping to his knees immediately.

The kiss is not hurried at all. They both fall into a languid pace, exploring each other’s familiar tastes, slow and gentle. It feels more similar to the kiss they shared earlier in the day, when Anders was worried about him. It occurs to Fenris dimly that he might still be. That the hand Anders’ runs alongside his back, right at the edge of his breastplate, is there to make sure the injury has healed, that Fenris is safe and well. 

A wave of possessiveness rushes over him, and he brings a gauntleted hand to gently frame Anders’ face, groaning into his lips. “Anders,” he starts, but can’t bring himself to continue. I’m fine. I’m here. It all feels like too much to share.

“I know,” Anders whispers, and Fenris hates how easily he believes him, that nothing else needs to be said. Anders was the one who healed him after all. He wants to sink his teeth into Anders’ neck, taste his blood as he feeds, but instead he kisses him again, feeds from him, finally, a small sip that already has Anders melting into him.

Now that he’s had a taste, his hunger washes over him in full force, and he can’t help himself from taking more and more, slowly, briefly, with every broken breath and moan that Anders makes in turn. Fenris doesn’t believe Anders could be completely quiet even if he tried, but here in the dark of night, every small sound is overwhelming, and Fenris wants to drown in it.

They kiss long enough that Fenris' muscles relax, tension leaving his body as he falls into the familiar warmth of Anders mouth on his. Safety and warmth and need and care. 

They part for just a moment, and Fenris takes in the sight of Anders’ flushed face in the shifting shadows. He presses his hips just a bit closer, grinding at the evidence of Anders’ arousal. When he gasps at the sensation, Fenris takes his lower lip into his mouth, sucking on it until Anders moves with him. He pulls him away from the tree, down with him until Fenris is sitting on the ground and Anders straddles him. Their hands are still linked, Fenris realises, but he still doesn’t mind. Somehow in the cold night air, the warmth of Anders' skin is a comfort. This isn’t the time or place to indulge in losing any articles of clothing, no, even the gauntlets will stay as long as Anders does not complain about them. 

Fenris tightens his grip just slightly as they fall into a rhythm, grinding against each other, tongues gliding against each other - unhurried and relaxed. This is another new experience for him, Anders’ weight comfortable on top of him, the way his hips stutter at every small sip Fenris takes from him, as if he doesn’t expect it.

There’s a sudden shift after a few moments, Anders gasp turns into a whimper, morphs into a whine as he stills, and the hand that isn’t holding Fenris’ reaches into his trousers. Fenris swallows his sigh, holding on to his coat and trying to pull him closer, as Anders frees his erection and starts jerking it slowly. Anders’ pleasure is clouding his mind, sweet and warm, and he forgets about his own hardness until Anders tugs at his leggings. With a hand wrapped around the both of them, Anders begins thrusting again, and Fenris joins him, moves with him, feeding on the rush of arousal in small bursts.

This was meant to be quick, he reminds himself, but he can’t help holding back, refusing to feed when he can tell Anders is getting close, not wanting this to be over just yet. By the way Anders’ hand tightens at the base of their cocks every so often, it seems neither of them want this to be over. They don’t stop kissing, unwilling to break the connection, until it’s suddenly impossible to continue; Anders panting against his lips, eyes closed and hand picking up speed. Fenris can tell when he’s on the edge by the way his breath hitches, and he uses the moment to feed from him in a rush, pushing him to his climax, relishing the broken whine, the hot breath on his throat when Anders rests his forehead against Fenris’ shoulder. 

Despite the urge to chase his own release, Fenris stills his hips, watching as Anders catches his breath. Before he does, Anders brings his hand to his lips, eagerly licking at his own spend while holding Fenris’ gaze. Instantly, Fenris is lost in it, the strong smell of sex, the sight of Anders’ fingers disappearing into his mouth, eyes still cloudy with lust.

He doesn’t realise his hips have started rolling, slowly, absentmindedly searching for friction, until Anders’ weight shifts off of him, to kneel between his legs.

"I'm going to clean the rest of it off now," he smirks, leans down and takes Fenris’ entire erection into his mouth. 

Fenris throws his head back falling to the ground behind him, dry leaves catching in his hair. He's overwhelmed. No one has ever done this for him before. No one has ever wanted to. Rationally, Fenris knows this has to be a pleasurable act; has seen so many men die with bliss on their faces while Fenris sucked them off. But this… Anders' lips around him– Yes, he understands now exactly how easily someone would be willing to die like this. He might die himself, already dizzy from surprise and pleasure, afraid that one wrong move will make him pull away.

Anders hums, sending pleasure sparking down Fenris’ spine. With a broken exhale, he tries to resist the urge to thrust into his throat, clenching his fists. More and more new sensations overwhelm him as Anders uses his talented tongue to swirl around his cock, sucking the head, slowly guiding his entire length deeper and deeper. It feels warm, wet, and so good . Fenris never wants him to stop.

To be on the receiving end of this is throwing him off balance, but Anders' hand lightly placed on his thigh is an anchor, keeping him safe under the onslaught of emotions that threaten to drown him. 

Anders flattens his tongue on his way up, and Fenris can’t help himself, groaning and thrusting up into his mouth. There’s a bit of worry before Anders moans appreciatively, and Fenris loses himself in the pace that Anders sets. 

He squeezes the hand that holds Anders' and brings the other one to his head, the tips of the gauntlet gently scratching at Anders' scalp. He can't look away from Anders' eyes, hooded and dark and staring right back at him, the way anyone would look at an incubus, but Anders doesn't have to, isn’t ensnared by him. 

He wonders briefly if the show of trust that he shows as an incubus is obvious, if Anders understands that Fenris has never done this before. Anders may be human, so he shouldn't understand exactly what this means, but he's been with a succubus, and with Fenris. And most of all, now, with his lips stretched obscenely around Fenris' cock, Anders looks like an incubus himself.

A flash of movement. Anders' arm catches his attention, and Fenris realises that Anders is touching himself, while sucking his cock. He feels a bolt of pure lust at the knowledge, and for a moment he is hanging on the edge of orgasm just from the rush of Anders' arousal. 

He holds back as long as he can, long enough to feed from Anders and feel the vibration of his moan around his cock as he spills down his throat. His eyes close under the rush of relief as his climax takes him, but he feels the shiver of Anders' body, and he knows that he has also come, can almost taste it on his tongue.

Anders pulls off of him, licking every part he can, slowly, as Fenris twitches in his sensitivity. Reality suddenly comes crashing back, as Anders pulls away, tucking his spent cock back into his trousers. The fact he has taken just as much pleasure as he has given to Fenris is overwhelming. 

They both slowly catch their breath, but make no move to get up and head back into camp. Anders sighs. “It’s so peaceful out here. Sometimes I wish we could stay here forever.” 

We ? Fenris’ heart gives a little squeeze. He murmurs an agreement, looking up at the stars caught between the branches of their tree. Anders lies beside him, dappled black and silver in the moonlight, and a cool breeze rakes through his hair. Anders is a warm presence beside him, turned ghostly-pale, face tilted up to the sky. Their fingers brush, and then grasp. Neither say anything more.

But as they lie in comfortable silence, fingers still intertwined, Fenris is filled with an undeniable feeling of… peace.

Chapter Text

Anders doesn’t look round when the door slowly swings open on silent hinges. “I know you’re there, Bela.”

He hears her sheath her daggers. “You’re lucky I’m a patient woman, sweetheart, or you’d be wearing an extra smile.” She reaches around him and taps her fingers to his throat to illustrate her point. He chuckles, and she brushes her lips against his cheek. “What are you doing?” 

He finally straightens up, a bundle of fabric in each hand, and glances at the piles of clothes draped across the pile of pillows, blankets and rugs that make up her bed. “Trying to decide.” 

Her eyes light up. “Dressing for a certain smouldering someone?” She doesn’t wait for his answer, already tugging a whisp of silk and lace out of his hands.

“No,” she shakes her head. “That shade of red looks delicious on me, but on you it’ll make you look yellow. Let me think…”

Anders stands back, a little overwhelmed, as she dives into the piles, humming to herself. 

—

Fenris always looks forward to Wicked Grace nights at the Hanged Man. For a long time, it has been his main social event of the week, getting a chance to spend time with Hawke outside of jobs and battles. But lately, he can't ignore the fact he looks forward to them for a different reason as well. 

Almost every week, after they finish the game, Anders follows Fenris to their usual room in the Hanged Man, where Fenris feeds for as long as he wants. 

A part of him insists that this habit can come to an end any time, that he should not be so reliant on one source of food. Much less a mage. Much less an abomination. But Anders being a Grey Warden, being the first one to resist him… Possibly the only one who ever could… It makes for a good meal. No, Fenris has to admit they are good together. He will stay vigilant but there is no point in dwelling on things that have not yet happened. 

Instead he focuses on tonight. 

Varric's room is mostly full, Fenris being one of the last to arrive. It's busy as he sits down, taking his place directly in front of Anders. While everyone is busy sorting through the drinks and snacks and playfully bickering, he catches Anders' eyes. His expression is almost smug, if Fenris had to guess, and he finds himself curious.

Soon enough, the first hand is dealt, and the room falls into familiar banter. There is something different though, has to be, because his eyes keep getting drawn to Anders as they play. The way he licks his lips, the light flush on his cheeks. He hasn't been drinking anything other than water though. No, Anders is definitely up to something. 

Their eyes meet, and the corner of Anders' lips curves up, just enough for Fenris to take note. Fenris considers kicking him under the table, but instead he folds his cards, rises from his seat. 

"Privy," he says in explanation at Hawke, and intentionally does not look at Anders when he leaves. Not when everyone's attention is on him. He exits the room and makes it halfway down the hall before stopping to rest by a wall in a dark corner. This is not the first time they’ve had to do this. 

Soon enough he spots Anders leaving the room, heading towards the bar. Fenris follows him easily, and once surrounded by the noise of the ground level, he leans in close enough to whisper. "What are you hiding?" 

Anders doesn't skip a beat, smirking too close to Fenris' ear. "I've got a surprise for you." 

With a raised eyebrow, Fenris sits down at the bar stool, knees touching Anders' thighs as he takes the spot next to him. 

Anders pulls his coat and shirt to the side to reveal a hint of lace. It’s clear he’s wearing something lacy below his coat and shirt and Fenris’ imagination runs wild with possibilities; visions of Anders in different lace lingerie. His eyes widen in surprise, mouth going dry. Whatever he expected, this was not it. His hand reaches out almost without his permission, eager to touch, to expose more of the lace. 

Anders swats him playfully, finger wagging between them. "Not yet." 

A noise tears its way from Fenris' throat, almost a growl but not quite. Fine then. Two can play this game. 

When Anders reaches for his drink, Fenris leans close, tracing his fingers over Anders' knuckles, subtle, but enough for his allure to catch him. He smirks when Anders gasps, clearly not expecting it, but he recovers too quickly, smiling wide and walking away with his drink. As if he was not just teasing a hungry Incubus. 

Fenris would have to show him just what that might mean. 

He waits a few more moments at the bar so as to not draw attention, and Sebastian appears beside him right when he means to leave. 

"Oh, have you also come for a drink? Anders just returned with one." 

"I did not see him," Fenris lies, as if he is not still vividly imagining dark lace. "And I cannot stand drinking nothing but Varric's ale all night."

"I agree." Sebastian orders his own drink, and they return to the room together. Only this time when Fenris sits down, and his eyes lock with Anders', he knows exactly what Anders is hiding. And he knows what he wants to do about it. 

If he was drawn to Anders before, now it's near impossible not to steal glances at him. He wonders if Anders had planned for them to sit across from each other, so stares won't be conspicuous. Every time he swallows, pulling his shoulders back, licking his lips, every movement catches Fenris' attention. What would it have been like if they were seated next to each other instead? Fenris would have plenty of opportunities to brush their hands together, maybe lean a little too close. 

The thoughts make him feel heated, and he does not imagine Anders' skin growing flushed as well. Fenris watches him intently as he folds his cards, takes another swig of his drink, and stands up. To a snicker from Isabela, Anders removes his coat, slower than Fenris has ever seen him, placing it on the chair behind him. When he turns, his ragged white shirt rises just enough for the lace to peak from underneath. In the relatively low light of Varric's room, without knowing what to look for, Fenris doubts anyone would have noticed. 

But Fenris is hyper aware of it. 

While keeping his conversation with Sebastian, he nudges his leg against Anders' calf. He doesn't make a sound, and Fenris doesn't look at him. Slowly, he slides his leg up higher, pressing against Anders' knee, until his foot is in Anders' lap. 

It's not too difficult to school his expression, chat idly with Sebastian and glance at his cards. No one should be able to tell that his toes wiggle against Anders' crotch, under the table. Until Anders' sharp exhale.

Fenris looks at him, smugly, shifting his foot until he can feel Anders' cock hardening under the attention. Anders tries his best to cover what Fenris knows is a moan, biting his lips. His cards don't hide enough of his face, flushed, radiant. The fact they are both still in the middle of a Wicked Grace game, surrounded by friends, doesn't make Anders any less enticing. 

There's a quick pause in Sebastian's sentence, and Fenris turns to him, humming in acknowledgement as if he were entirely focused on the conversation. His toes however, do not stop rubbing at Anders' cock, over the lace, over his trousers. 

How far can he go? Would Anders come, soaking the lace, under the table? Could Fenris feed on him without anyone noticing? Would it matter if they do? He indulges in a brief fantasy, straddling Anders in his seat, feeding from him, not caring who else is in the room.

The fantasy breaks when Anders announces he is skipping this round, leaning back in his chair. His hands appear to be resting at his sides, but out of sight he takes hold of Fenris' foot. Fenris stops his movement, assuming his fun is over. 

He assumes wrong.

Instead of being held in place Anders' fingers trail over the exposed skin, thumbs rubbing into the ball of his foot. 

Fenris' entire body feels warmer in an instant, and he briefly wonders if Anders has used magic on him. But no. It is simply the situation he's in, and how easily Anders took control of it. 

This is not something Anders has done before, touching his feet, much less massaging them, and unprepared, Fenris exhales through his nose, gaze locked on Anders, who is watching him through hooded eyes. 

Fenris almost misses Isabela asking him for his bet. She looks just as smug as Anders, and he has no doubt she has caught on that something is going on. 

Hawke nudges Anders, saying something Fenris can't fully make out, and Anders laughs at it, without pausing his ministrations. It's maddening to be on the receiving end of it, but Fenris laments it when Anders pulls his hands back to participate in the next round. 

Slowly, Fenris' focus draws to the rest of their companions, but not for long. Now without his coat, Anders moves more frequently, stretching, scratching at his shoulder, every innocent movement showing off an inch of the dark material under his clothes. 

It's amazing that a piece of fabric can have him this obsessed, but Fenris can't stop imagining what it looks like, what it would feel like on Anders' skin, covered in sweat, with his back arching, desperate and moaning — 

Fenris blinks, trying to focus on his cards and even his breath. A moment longer and his imagination would have gotten the best of him, spreading his allure unintentionally. His control is better than that.

He could snare Anders alone in a crowded room if he so desired.

And what's to stop him from trying it then? A glance at Anders shows him chatting with Hawke, pulling almost absentmindedly at his shirt to reveal another glimpse of lace. It is completely intentional, directed solely at Fenris, and it would be rude to leave the gesture unanswered.  

The next time their eyes meet, inevitably, Fenris directs his allure at him, as precisely as he can manage.

"You had the right idea taking off your coat," Hawke says to Anders as they talk, and Fenris' eyes widen as he understands the implication. He has let out more allure than he intended. 

Beside him, Sebastian pulls at the collar of his clothes. "Varric needs to ventilate this room."

"My room's not to your liking prince?" Varric shoots back, unaffected.

Isabela winks at Sebastian, leaning her elbows on the table. "You can undress, but it won't make the room less hot."

Aveline jumps in with a retort asking everyone to stay clothed before Isabela gets any ideas, and over the noise of banter he locks eyes with Anders again.

While the allure had some effect on Sebastian and Hawke, Anders has definitely gotten the focus of it. His lips are parted, and his breath is coming out in shallow gasps.

Fenris finds himself mesmerised as if he is ensnared. It's Sebastian that snaps him out of the spell, bumping into him as he tries to put distance between himself and Isabela. 

She's leering at him, the colour in her cheeks very much the effect of Fenris' allure. Sebastian’s cheeks are just as flushed, and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from her cleavage as she leans towards him. “You should lose some of that pretty armour,” she purrs, barely audible. “I’m sure you’d feel so much better.”

Across the table, Anders lets out an audible snicker. “I wouldn't waste your time with him, Bels; I bet he calls out Andraste’s name in bed.” Fenris is hard-pressed to swallow his laugh, especially when he meets Anders eyes, full of mischief and inviting him to join in. 

“Keep your filthy mouth off Our Lady, apostate!”

The room explodes in a babble of voices, with Anders passionately proclaiming his right to blaspheme if he wants; his immortal soul is none of Sebastian’s business, Sebastian equally loudly defending Andraste’s honour, Varric’s raucous laughter, Merril’s twittering giggle, Hawke and Aveline trying to restore order, and Isabela taking advantage of the moment to climb into Sebastian’s lap. All Fenris can do is laugh, watching the flush on Anders’ cheeks darken by the moment. He looks delicious, and Fenris’ allure slips a little more.

Aveline is the first to succumb. She stands, downs her drink, and stammers, “I– I have to go home to Donnic, right now .” 

Sebastian is next. When he begins kissing Isabela’s breasts, Varric yells, “Oh no! Not in my room, Rivaini!” Bela laughs and stands with a sensual twist of her hips, trailing her fingers over Sebastian’s neck and up his cheek. He stands after her, grabbing her hand and pulling her from the room. Anders’ eyes are dark, watching Fenris now. Exactly what he wants.

Fenris’ allure is spreading, his precision wavering the more flustered Anders gets. He barely notices when Merrill excuses herself. When Hawke and Varric are the only ones left besides them, Anders stands. Fenris tries to keep his allure locked on him even as he leaves the room.

Hawke stands next and the look he’s giving Fenris says he’s working up to asking him to go home with him. Memories flood in of the last time and how disastrous it was. He looks away, reining in his allure. As much as he wanted Hawke, he finds this doesn’t hurt as badly as it would without Anders waiting for him down the hall. Hawke shakes his head as if clearing it and smiles as he says his goodbyes. 

Fenris stays a few more minutes, and then says, “well dwarf, I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome. I will see you next week for Wicked Grace, if not before.” 

Varric laughs, but it’s strained with an edge of need, “Good night, Broody. Shut the door behind you when you go.” 

The dark corner at the end of the hall isn't dark enough to fully hide them, but it'll have to do. Fenris can't help himself, shoving Anders against the wall, finding his mouth, tasting the alcohol on his tongue. They kiss hungrily, and Fenris shoves his hand under the fabric of Anders' shirt, needing to know what the lace feels like. 

It’s soft and delicate and warm from Anders’ skin. He presses his hand against it, against the frantic drumming of his heart, closing the gap between their bodies and sucking at Anders' neck.

"Good to know this is all it takes to make you lose control," Anders breathes out, and Fenris bites down hard to hear him moan instead, the taste of blood flooding his senses as his fangs scrape over the fragile skin. 

"I am in perfect control, mage," he replies, raising his head to lock eyes with Anders, wrapping his allure around him as he moves his hand lower. 

"Mmhmm, what was that back there, then? Sebastian just suddenly became interested in Isabela's breasts?"

"You really want to talk about Isabela and Sebastian right now?" Fenris teases, hand rubbing against his hardness, over the fabric of his trousers and the lace, and Anders melts under him, bucking his hips. 

"Fuck– No, we should–" 

He scrambles, hands reaching out to tilt Fenris' head to take him in another kiss. Though he talks about Fenris losing control, Fenris can tell Anders is desperate for him, body already shaking next to him. How long has he been wearing this? It must drive him as wild as it does Fenris. 

When Anders pushes him back, trying to direct them to their usual room, Fenris stops him. 

"Not here," he growls, leading him towards the other end of the hallway. "Come with me.”

Their routine works well, but this is not a routine night. He knows Isabela and Sebastian could be right behind one of these walls, and there are numerous things that could interrupt them tonight. He won't allow it. 

Anders’ expression flickers a little with surprise, quickly overlaid with lustful anticipation. “I’m all yours.”

—

He’s almost regained control of himself by the time he throws the door to his mansion open. Almost. Before it’s even latched closed, he’s pulling Anders towards him, leaning up for a hungry kiss, both of them already hard with anticipation and lust.

“Upstairs,” Anders gasps against his mouth, fumbling with the belt that holds his coat closed. 

“No.” Fenris can’t wait. He’s been teased by that damn scrap of fabric for too long tonight; his hands are shaking with hunger. His allure winds around Anders like a silk ribbon, ready to pull tight.

“Fenris-” Anders laughs against his mouth, still trying to pull away. As if prey could ever escape a hungry incubus. 

With a growl of need and lust and hunger and satisfaction, Fenris slams him back against the door, teeth nipping at Anders’ lip, feeding with abandon. Anders’ moan rolls through him like thunder overhead, a few sparks of lightning shimmering at his fingertips as Fenris feeds and feeds, drinking deep of everything that is good and right and Anders.  

He can feel the way Anders rolls his hips, painfully hard, must be, seeking any kind of friction, and Fenris moves his hips away. He’s certainly not ready for Anders to come just yet. He fully intends to have his revenge for the evening of torment Anders has put him through. Anders will be begging to come before Fenris is done with him. 

By the time he moves away, Anders is shuddering and whining in his arms, the black veins of his darkspawn blood showing through clearly. Perfect. He wants to take him right there, and he knows Anders would let him.

But no. He’s waited all night for this. It takes every ounce of his will, but Fenris pulls back far enough to grasp Anders’ wrist and tug him towards the stairs, activating his markings to light the way — and enjoying the two-toned groan Anders lets out. Neither says a word until they’re in Fenris’ room and Anders has thrown a fireball into the fireplace, lighting it up.

“Strip.”

His voice has gravel in it. He rests his sword against the wall and takes a seat in his favourite armchair, conveniently located beside the fire, and pushes Anders to stand on the hearth rug. He wants as much light as possible for this. 

Anders doesn’t bother protesting; just gives him a grin that shows far too many sharp teeth and reaches for the belt that was giving him trouble earlier. Fenris holds up a hand. “Slowly.”

Anders does as ordered, leaning down, long arms stretched as he unties his boots. It feels like there is nothing in the room but him, nothing else to focus on other than his long fingers as they loosen the lacing. When both are done, Anders slips them off one at a time, gently tossing them aside, smiling at Fenris. 

The way he rises back to standing is just as slow and tantalising, his lips curved in a smug smile. He knows exactly what effect he has on Fenris. It has to be obvious how painfully tight his leggings are right now, he's only barely resisting the urge to touch himself while Anders continues undressing, making a show of unbuckling the belts and rolling his shoulders to shrug his coat onto the floor.

"Is this how you want me?" Anders asks him, arching his back as he stretches, reaching up to untie his hair.

"Yes," Fenris answers more breathlessly than he intends.

Those fingers that he wants to have in his mouth begin unravelling the lacing of his shirt next. The fabric loosens until it's all the way open, falling to expose one shoulder, showing black silk and pale flesh that Fenris desperately wants to bite and mark. 

Anders trails his fingers down his chest, inch by inch, gasping when he intentionally drags his nails over the lace covering his nipples. Despite being the one to demand he goes slow, Fenris isn't sure he can wait much longer. His skin feels impossibly hot, not due to the flames. Desire runs through him like a lightning strike. 

“I used to do this on stage at the Pearl.” He arches his back, hips twisting to a rhythm only he can hear. Anders hand continues lower, passing over a taut stomach to his waistband, running his fingers along the seam. There's more laces for him to loosen, and he keeps the same pace as before, dragging out the show for Fenris.  

“There were lights, and costumes and music, and the whole room watched me… and after I danced I’d choose the most beautiful person and take them upstairs…”

When done, he lets the fabric fall to the floor, finally revealing his full lingerie set. Anders is wearing stockings that cling to his long, shapely legs. There’s a garter belt attached to the stockings and framing the lace panties that barely contain his hard cock. The top that Anders has been teasing him with all night is black lace that hugs the lines of his chest. 

It's dark and beautiful on him, Fenris' mouth waters with the urge to feed from him, to touch him. His legs spread of their own accord, allure flowing from him steadily as their eyes meet. 

The flames give the pale skin a golden hue, but Fenris focuses on the dark eyes, the way Anders looks hungry despite being a meal. 

He stalks toward Fenris, a sway in his step,  licking his lips. The black veins threaded through his body are striking against the pale skin and dark lace. Fenris swallows past the lump in his throat; suddenly, he’s the one who feels like prey.

As he walks, Anders steps on the toe of one sock with the other foot and the wool slides easily over the stockings. He does the same with the other foot and by the time he climbs into Fenris' lap the only things he has left is his open shirt, his stockings, and scraps of lace. 

“ I’d have chosen you, Fenris.” Anders arches his back as Fenris runs his hands up his thighs, spread wide to bracket his own. “Every night, I’d have chosen you, and everyone in Denerim would have known I belong to you.”

Fenris takes the threadbare material of Anders' shirt in both hands and shreds of cloth fall to the floor.

He expects Anders to yelp, but instead he grinds his hips down, hands holding the back of Fenris' neck as he sighs appreciatively. The lace top, now that he can see it clearly, is clinging to Anders' skin, and Fenris runs his hands along it. 

They both lean into each other, and Fenris feeds off of him in small sips as they kiss. Anders’ hands find their way into Fenris’ hair, holding tight, and when he pulls on it, forcing Fenris to where he wants him, it sends a bolt of pleasure-pain shuddering down his spine. He bites at Anders’ lip in small punishment, feeling the plushness give way to his fangs, lapping at the tiny wounds to taste the blood beneath. 

Andes pulls away to moan, rolling his hips, mouth bloody, and Fenris’ hands clench, tight enough to leave bruises. Anders’ ribcage will be painted with his fingerprints tomorrow, mapping everything Fenris touched. Marked. 

He rubs Anders' nipples through the lace, biting his jaw and sucking marks down his throat, feeling the vibration of his moans under his tongue. It's intoxicating, the pleasure that comes off of Anders in waves, Fenris feels like he could drown in it. 

His mouth works lower and lower as his hands explore the soft lace, kissing Anders' collar bone, biting a nipple through the top and indulging in the groan it draws out. 

"Fuck," Anders breathes out, squirming on his lap. Fenris sneaks his hands under the lace to press against Anders' skin, keeping him still as he sucks his nipple, feeding off of every sharp inhale he hears above him. 

The lace is in the way, he realises, and tears the top with his claws.

"Hey!" Anders protests, though Fenris can feel his arousal only grows.

"I will buy so much more lace for me to rip off your body, mage."

Before Anders responds, before Fenris can dwell on what the words suggest, he grabs Anders' thighs and lifts him, standing up and walking a few short steps. Anders holds on to him, protests turning to  groans when Fenris slams him against a wall and kisses him hungrily .

Suddenly desperate to taste him, feeling Anders’ need building to an inferno as he grinds against Fenris’ hip, he takes a step back, drawing Anders away from the wall to stand directly in front of the fireplace. He wants the light for this, needs it, needs to be able to see in perfect detail the contrast of black lace and pale flesh. Slowly, holding Anders’ dark gaze, he sinks to the floor, running reverent hands up those long, slender legs, inhaling the scent of Anders’ arousal. His mouth waters. 

Above him, Anders sighs again, eyes dark and hooded. Fenris wants to hear him scream. With a flat tongue he traces Anders' erection from the base, exhaling hot air over the head. His own hardness is aching in his leggings, but he is determined to draw this at least a little longer. 

He runs his tongue over the lace again, higher and higher until he reaches the skin of Anders' hips, biting it. Sharp teeth connect, breaking the skin, and Anders hips thrust forward as he moans. Fenris doesn't stop until he hears Anders whimpering, and he pulls back to admire the pale skin littered in bloody marks and bruises. 

Anders looks strained, knuckles white where he's holding on to the mantlepiece. He would need it for support, as Fenris is only now getting started, licking his lips leaning in to mouth at his erection again. This time he doesn't tease as much, sucking him through the lace, tasting the salt and sweat, until saliva starts dripping to the floor. 

When Anders is shaking with need, Fenris can tell he's close. His hips move erratically, trying to push into Fenris' mouth, but Fenris refuses to remove the panties. He pulls back, and watches Anders - flushed, eyes closed, biting his lip.

"Look at me," he commends, and when Anders' eyes snap open to meet him, Fenris focuses his allure at him. 

"Submit," he demands, watching Anders' eyes glaze over as he obeys, pressing a clawed finger along his cock as he pulls at his arousal, feeding hard and fast until Anders shouts his name, spilling into the lace. It’s beautiful. 

Anders sags against the mantle, barely held up by his shaking arms, breath stuttering as he pants. He looks wrecked already; his eyes wide and shimmering golden against the black veins tracing his temples. Perfect. Fenris finally reaches up to peel the ruined panties down his legs, letting Anders’ cock — still hard; flushed pink at the tip — spring free. He leans forward and sucks it into his mouth in one smooth movement, taking him to the root and ignoring the broken moan Anders lets out as he cleans the come off his cock with an eager tongue. 

Slowly, he pulls back, letting Anders’ cock slip past his lips, revelling in how unsteady his mage is. When his knees begin to buckle, Fenris takes pity on him, rising to his own not-so-steady feet and sweeping Anders up into his arms to carry him to the bed. 

“Am I a damsel, now?” Anders asks him breathlessly, flinging his arms around Fenris’ neck. 

Fenris rumbles in amusement, setting him down to admire him. “A damsel wouldn’t look so sinful in my bed.” 

“A whore, then?” Anders bats his eyelashes as Fenris pulls his shirt over his head — too distracted to concern himself with the lacings. 

“Hmm.” He traces a meandering line up the inside of Anders’ thigh, enjoying the gasp. “What is your fee?”

Anders captures his wrist. “Another kiss?” 

That, Fenris is happy to give him, leaning over with one knee on the mattress to press their lips together. This kiss is altogether different from the others they’ve shared tonight. It’s soft, slow like spring rain, lips and tongues exploring, hands gentle but firm as they pull one another closer. It’s more than merely lust, although that frantic need is still there, beneath the surface, like thunder on the horizon. 

Anders’ hands are in his hair, keeping him where he wants him, but Fenris doesn’t feel trapped. He feels wanted, and he allows himself to indulge in it, brushing his thumbs over Anders’ cheeks until he can put both palms on the pillow to either side of his head and turn his full attention to kissing him breathless. 

Slowly, the fire builds between them; flames made of desire and need bubbling up from beneath the sweetness of their kiss and whipping themselves into an inferno. When Anders’ touches go from holding to clutching, Fenris breaks away and licks a path down his throat, teeth scraping the long, pale length of it just to hear him moan.

Which Anders obligingly does, much louder and more desperate than he ever does at the Hanged Man. 

"You moan like a whore too," Fenris remarks, wondering if it's obvious that he likes it. Anders lets out a breathless laugh that turns into a high pitched whine when Fenris bites at his neck again. 

"You want to do something about that?" Anders teases, and Fenris locks eyes with him. There's a spark in his gaze that tells Fenris he can push this as far as he wants, and Anders will enjoy every second. 

With a sharp inhale Fenris caresses Anders' jaw, pinching a nipple with his other hand. His fingers press past Anders' parted lips as he moans, and Fenris' hips stutter when Anders takes them eagerly. Despite being busy with sucking and licking at Fenris' fingers, he is still obscenely loud.

"Mage," he groans, pulling his fingers out and rising from the bed. 

"Maybe you need to put something else in my mouth," Anders rasps, sounding slightly more put together now that Fenris is no longer touching him. That’s fine; he won’t be for long. 

"I intend to," Fenris says as he walks across the room, returning to the bed with the lacy underwear. The way Anders' sunken eyes widen, his smile wide and inviting, confirms his eagerness. Smirking, Fenris slips the come-soaked scrap of lace into his mouth, making sure to run the pads of his fingers over Anders’ tongue and lips. “Let’s see how you sound now.” 

Anders moans when Fenris licks at one of his nipples, arching against him when he delicately scrapes a fang against it, but it’s muffled now; much quieter than before. And Fenris adores the picture he makes, splayed out beneath him, naked but for the stockings covering his long legs and scraps of shredded lace that neither has bothered to remove. They somehow add to the sensual obscenity, accenting his black veins and hugging his form the way ragged clouds veil the moon.

He flicks his tongue over Anders’ nipple again. “Perfect.” And it is. He is. 

Anders is breathing unsteadily through the makeshift gag as he reaches for Fenris, pulling him closer to straddle his hips, need visible in every movement. He doesn’t sit up or change positions, but his hands run down Fenris’ spine, tracing the tree of lyrium there, caressing every muscle. Fenris chuckles in surprise when he squeezes his ass, but lets out a shuddering breath - barely holding in a moan - when Anders uses a single finger to tease at his entrance. 

His markings flicker, but before he can question it a slick finger is pressing inside of him. Soft, but eager, Anders pumps the finger inside him steadily before adding a second. Fenris shudders, pressing down on the digits, meeting Anders' movement. When he adds a third finger and presses against his prostate, Fenris does moan, matching the noise Anders makes behind his gag. Anders does it again and again until Fenris is squirming, panting, as he grinds on Anders hand. 

“Fuck me,” he growls, and Anders' eyes almost close, a whine muffled by lace sounding through the room. He pulls his fingers out, moves his hand to grip at Fenris' hips as he leads him into place. 

Fenris has no need for guidance, but he places both hands on Anders' torso, claws carelessly marking the skin. They align together, and Fenris sinks down on his cock in one sharp motion, relishing in the dimmed shout coming from Anders' throat. 

There's no preamble, Fenris starts fast, the energy that's been building up in him all night finally has direction. He needs to see Anders unmade under him, knowing that it's his name Anders is crying out.

“This is your punishment,” he says, voice low, already breathless. “For teasing me all evening — that lace, yes, and the way you look at me-” he breaks off to gasp as Anders arches his back, changing the angle and sending a bolt of pleasure through Fenris. “Justice… I know you can hear me. Don’t let him come until I do.” 

A crackle of blue lances through Anders’ eyes, spilling down over his sternum to his hips. Both of them- no, all three of them moan, perfectly in tune, and Fenris feels the acknowledgment of his order — and his right to give it. Smiling wickedly down at his captured prey, he begins to move. 

He rides him hard, but never allows either of them to come; always pausing when Anders’ whimpers take on a higher pitch, or when the blue shimmers brighter as Justice holds him in an iron grip of control, or when he feels the knot of his own pleasure tighten, low in his belly. He rides him until his thighs are shaking with fatigue, and Anders is a beautiful mess beneath him, pale skin shimmering with sweat and decorated with flourishes of bruises and bite marks, laced through by the black veins that are his darkspawn blood.

Fenris feels just as taken apart. He’s panting, his hair slicked back from his forehead, and there are lines and crescents of red on his skin where Anders has marked him in return. 

He can feel that, this time, Anders and Justice won’t be able to hold back. There’s some indefinable feeling in the air. Perhaps it’s the way Anders is arching under him, whimpering into his gag, or the way he can feel his release looming over them both, like a tidal wave. He reaches down to touch his cock.

“Are you ready?” He arches his back as Anders’ hands close on his hips, clinging tightly enough that he can feel bruises form. It only draws him further under, drowning in the pleasure they’re spinning between them. Justice answers with a muffled roar, and his magic sparks from his fingertips, dancing over Fenris’ lower back to meet the lyrium that coils down the column of his spine. 

Fenris is too lost in sensation to even cry out, his whole body going rigid, brands flaring wildly as he comes. He forces his eyes open to watch as his come paints Anders’ lips and the panties in his mouth. Anders’ eyes widen and turn blue to match the fissures in his skin as they grow brighter and intertwined shouts are heard behind his lace gag when he follows him down, emptying himself into Fenris’ eager body. 

As soon as feeling returns to Fenris’ body, he’s moving again, keening through the aftershocks. He rides Anders’ still hard cock, shuddering as he feels come leak out of his hole and down his thighs. Justice is gone and Anders is whining in a steady stream. When Fenris leans forward and removes the makeshift gag he licks his lips and starts to babble nonsense. 

“You taste amazing, I’m so glad I decided to d– do this,” Anders pauses, panting. “Oh Fenris. Fen, please… please .”

“What do you need, Anders?” Fenris asks, the prospect of providing Anders with what he needs sparking a warmth in him he refuses to examine. 

Anders cries out again, unintelligible as Fenris starts to rock his hips faster. 

“What was that, mage?” Fenris teases. 

Anders groans and with a surprising amount of strength, flips them over and slows the pace enough for them to recover a bit. “I just need you, Fenris, just you.”

Fenris growls and marks Anders’ back with his claws, the possessiveness of it, of knowing he can have him to himself over and over has him hardening again. Anders snakes an arm between their bodies and grasps his cock in his hand. 

Anders thrusts into him slowly, kissing along Fenris’ chest and neck and ear and seemingly anywhere he can reach, mumbling praise under his breath. He can only catch words every so often; “you’re so beautiful, Fenris,” he follows it with more kissing and lost words, then he drifts into hearing range again, “you’re strong and powerful.” All the while his hand works Fenris’ cock in the same steady rhythm his hips move in. 

Fenris thrills in the feeling of being surrounded, safe, protected, full . He feels the familiar fire start to burn in his belly and he rocks up to Anders, meeting him as his hips speed. He breathes deeply through his nose, inhaling the scent of sex and sweat, with a hint of the herbal shampoo Anders uses. He buries his hands in Anders’ hair dragging him up for a kiss as they move together. 

How did he end up here, letting a darkspawn, a mage, an abomination fuck into him? Anders may be all of these things but he is also so much more, and Fenris wants every part of it. He craves every thrust of his hips, every swipe of his tongue against his, the hand so skillfully wrapped around his cock. Fenris feeds from him in between their open mouthed gasps, and Anders tastes as delicious as he does every night. 

He flares his markings and Anders’ hips stutter. His shout intertwines with Justice’s and he thrusts once, twice, three times, and stills, spilling into Fenris again but never stopping the movement of his hand on Fenris’ cock. Fenris’ back arches when he comes a second time, muscles clenching around Anders as they share a groan. 

Anders thrusts gently into him before pulling out and rolling to the side, yawning. 

Fenris stretches, sated and full for the moment. He stands, stumbling to the washroom for a damp cloth. He cleans himself and returns, finding Anders snoring into his pillow. The sight drags a different kind of warmth through him, and he chuckles, wiping Anders’ stomach and cock clean, gently rolling the stockings down his legs and off, dropped carelessly on the floor. 

With the rag tossed in the direction of the washroom, he climbs back into bed, pulling the blankets up over both of them. Anders scoots closer and tucks Fenris into his side, mumbling into his hair, “g’night, Fen.” 

Fenris smiles and kisses the marked skin of Anders’ chest before replying, “good night, mage.” 

Chapter Text

Fenris has gotten too comfortable with the mage. Rationally, he recognises it, but it's not enough to make him stop. Their… arrangement has become more of a game now, and Fenris is enjoying it more and more. 

He was expecting Anders at the Hanged Man last night, and was disappointed to learn he was still on the way back to Kirkwall with Hawke. 

By now, Anders knows to seek him out when it's been too long since Fenris fed. It could give him the luxury of waiting in the mansion for his prey to come to him. But Fenris would never allow himself to become so complacent. 

It's his boredom, combined with the gnawing edge of hunger, still small and manageable, that brings him to Anders' clinic late in the afternoon, uninvited. 

“Fenris,” Anders greets him, confusion briefly showing on his face. He's treating an elf woman for a broken arm, wrapping a brace around it. “I'm going to be busy for a while.” 

The warning is not necessary, Fenris can plainly see the clinic is full, but he nods regardless, setting his sword aside and leaning next to it. 

Fenris teases him as much as he's able for the rest of the day; simply following him with his eyes seems to be enough to make Anders lose focus on his work. He makes eye contact and licks his lips. He runs his fingers through his hair. When Anders responds, eyes flickering over Fenris’ body where he’s lounging on top of some old barrels in the corner, Fenris smirks and ups the ante. 

He lets out his allure, gently, slowly. He doesn’t want to catch the whole clinic, after all; he has a specific prey he’s stalking, without moving a muscle. A skill Danarius beat into him, for use in crowded ballrooms and theatres, taken as his own this time. He twines it around Anders’ distracted form, like a hand around the throat, watches him breathe it in like smoke. 

And Anders turns to look at him, eyes dark in the light of the setting sun. Fenris feels a shiver of anticipation dance across his skin at the look in those eyes, and he smiles. 

And when the final patient is gone, and Anders closes the door after him, the mood shifts. Fenris unbuckles his gauntlets, setting them on the table. Anders walks towards him as he takes off his coat, eager. 

“You’re enjoying being a distraction, aren't you?” he smirks, setting the coat on the table and taking off his shirt. 

“I got bored waiting for you,” Fenris shrugs, continuing to undress. 

“Oh, I'll make it worth the wait.” 

Anders kisses him, passionately, pressing against him, sudden scalding skin against skin in the chill of the clinic. His hands trail on his sides, small sparks of magic falling from his fingertips, making Fenris moan into his lips.

It feels good . Fenris has to admit to himself that while he was trying to tease Anders all day, he himself was not left unaffected. The anticipation has been building up for hours, and now finally, with Anders' lips on him, able to touch and savour, it tastes so much sweeter. 

They kiss while devesting each other of their clothes, until they’re both naked , hips rolling against each other lazily. There’s no rush tonight. Fenris isn’t ravenous, they aren’t tucked away in a dark alley. He can take his time. 

It’s sudden when Anders flips him around, hand on his upper back, pushing him to lean over the desk. Fenris goes with it willingly, heat spreading through his body. He trusts Anders implicitly, eager to have him. 

Anders trails his index finger over his spine, slowly, bringing a shiver from Fenris as he drags lower and lower until reaching his ass. 

“How much longer could you wait?” 

“Do not test me, mage.” His threat isn't as impactful, voice breaking as Anders summons grease to slick his hole. He hears Anders chuckle above him, fingers teasing his rim before pushing in gently.

There's no need to be slow, and Anders doesn't waste more time before fucking Fenris expertly. His fingers find Fenris' prostate, drawing a gasp from his lips, breathy little moans that Fenris' doesn't hold back on. 

“You drove me wild today,” Anders confesses, almost panting as he pulls away, aligning his cock. “All I could think of was getting to finally fuck you.” 

“And yet you're only talking about it.” 

Of all days, Anders was taking his sweet time to slick himself slowly, as if either of them needed it. No, he has to be doing it intentionally.  

When he finally thrusts in, it’s slow, shuddering. It feels like minutes before he’s fully seated, hips pressed against Fenris’ ass, his hands tight on Fenris’ hips, keeping him from pushing back and taking him all at once. He pauses then, in a way he hasn’t before, one hand coming up to stroke up Fenris’ spine, comb gently through his hair. Fenris is panting with want beneath him, unused now to having his pleasure dangled just out of his reach. Anders doesn’t move, doesn’t allow Fenris to move, until he sees him relax, settling his forehead onto the smooth wood of the desk. He finally pulls back, still torturously slow, making sure Fenris can feel every inch, dragging a whine from his throat, before sinking back in. He sets a languid pace, pausing for a moment every time he bottoms out. It's maddening, and Fenris spreads his allure, like wings, to try to urge him on. 

”Fuck me, mage. Or I’ll…” he trails off into a moan. 

Anders laughs, leaning forward so his chest is pressed against Fenris’ spine. “You’ll do what? Lie there and take it?” He presses a kiss to Fenris’ ear and slowly stands upright again, not increasing the speed of his thrusts whatsoever. He thinks he might go mad with wanting. No one teases an incubus like this. He’s hard as iron, but it doesn’t seem that Anders is going to take pity on him anytime soon.

Fenris tightens around him, allure slipping out of him with every broken breath and Anders still resists. Instead of giving him what he wants, Anders slows even more, giving Fenris’ ass a firm, open-handed slap for his efforts. It’s not hard enough to truly hurt; just enough to sting, but Fenris groans, feeling the strike rock through him, his cock dripping more precum onto the clinic floor. 

He hears Anders chuckle darkly. “Oh you liked that. And look how pretty you are with my handprint on your ass.” Fenris shudders with anticipation.

He isn’t disappointed. The second lands just as hard, on his other cheek. He writhes helplessly, impaled on Anders’ cock, the pleasure making the sting all the sweeter. “More.” He’s never heard his voice sound like that before. He sounds… he sounds like one of his victims. 

Another chuckle. Anders pointedly gives him a few more languid thrusts before replying, clearly enjoying Fenris’ torment. “Don’t worry; I intend to make you come… without touching your cock.” Another slap, on the place where ass becomes thigh. Fenris moans, broken. 

“In fact,” Anders speeds up a little at last, spanking him again, “I think I’ll finish you, but you can watch while I come on the floor. What do you think?” 

“No,” Fenris writhes, pushing back as best he can, despite the iron grip on his hip, wanting to take and keep and have all of Anders that he can. “No, please, mage - Anders - come in me.” Another strike, and he clenches around Anders, already feeling heat coil in his pelvis. 

Somehow, Anders can feel it too. “Oh I don’t think so.” He pushes Fenris back down, pinning him flat, hot palm to Fenris’ lower back, and picks up the pace, free hand caressing the hot, stinging skin. 

Fenris claws at the surface of the desk, leaving score marks, whining in the back of his throat. He hadn’t believed that he could come like this; he never has before, but Anders is about to prove him wrong. 

“Come for me, Fenris.” Anders orders, with a final, hard slap to the already-red skin, and all the heat and the tension and wanting that’s been building since he first walked into the clinic unravels in an instant, taking his reason with it. 

When his vision returns, he’s still bent over the desk, resting his sweaty forehead on the cool wood. Anders is still buried inside him, holding still to allow Fenris to recover, one hand smoothing down his spine in a soothing gesture. He’s talking, because of course he is. 

“You were perfect, Fenris. Absolutely beautiful. I’m so lucky that you’re here with me.” Something in his chest flutters at that, but there’s something else pressing on his mind.

Anders hasn’t come, and all of Fenris cries out that this is wrong and he needs to fix it. He shifts his hips, legs trembling, hoping to encourage Anders to take his own pleasure, but shudders with sensitivity. Even the fine hairs on Anders’ thighs feel rough against his abused skin. 

Slowly, carefully, Anders pulls out, earning another whine from Fenris, feeling the emptiness as loss. Anders strokes down his spine again. “It’s alright, you don’t have to do anything. You can just watch.” 

His markings tingle slightly as Anders casts a grease spell to ease his stroking. He turns to face him and is struck by the way Anders looks… he looks beautiful ; strong and healthy and virile. Anders’ stomach muscles twitch and Fenris falls to his knees, looking up at him through his lashes. 

Fenris can tell, from his breathing, the expression on his face, that Anders is close now. His eyes are closed, mouth slightly open as he gasps. He’s still feeling weak and unsteady from his own orgasm, but Fenris wants.  

He must have made some noise, because Anders opens his eyes, smiling, his hand still moving. “Open your mouth.” Eagerly, Fenris obeys, leaning forward, clinging to the edge of the much-abused desk for balance. Anders’ head falls back, and he lets out a long groan, hands stilling at last, and he empties into Fenris’ open mouth, greedily accepting every drop. 

Anders’ knees buckle in the aftershocks, and he collapses forwards, bowing over Fenris. He can feel his heavy breaths, tickling coolness down his spine, and he shudders, not quite cold but something infinitely more fluttery. A broad palm, long warm fingers, smooths over his shoulder and down his back. His ear twitches as he registers that Anders is still talking, murmuring endearments and praise. “You were amazing, Fenris. You did so well, you’re so beautiful and good…” 

Fenris stops listening, just basking in the afterglow, the last, golden hints of the sunset pooling on the ground at their feet. He feels wonderful, warm and languid like he’s floating in a pool of water. Anders’ hands are surer now; he’s urging Fenris to rise, to stand, lean on me sweetheart, there you go, perfect, thank you, thank you…

Somehow, they’re both standing now. Anders’ arms are warm where they’re wrapped around him, and Fenris’ face is scrunched, because Anders is kissing him, soft butterfly kisses over his cheeks and chin and forehead, gentle fingers smoothing his hair back. 

It’s so strange. He’s still not used to gentleness. 

Time passes, but somehow no time at all, and he’s being pressed carefully down to lie on the nest of blankets and old mattresses that make up Anders’ bed. His skin tingles from the cool water and soft rag that Anders used to clean him; gentle touches and whispered praise still feeling like something from a dream. 

Anders slips in behind him, strong arms pulling him close. Lips pressed to the crown of his head. “Perfect…”

It’s only much, much later that Fenris realises that he didn’t even try to feed that evening. 

Chapter Text

It’s not a special day when Anders asks. No one’s birthday, no brushes with death, no celebration. It’s just an ordinary day, a card night. Perhaps that’s why he’s so surprised. Perhaps that’s why he forgets to hide what he is. 

The Hanged Man is busier than usual tonight, and Varric's room is bustling with dwarves and humans Fenris has never met before. Their group unintentionally spreads through the crowd, and he makes his way from Varric’s room downstairs, away from all the unfamiliar people and their chaotic mix of energy and noise and the press of bodies. It’s not a surprise when Anders corners him by the bar.

“Can I come up to the mansion? I had thought…” He leans in close, lips brushing the sensitive tip of Fenris’ ear. “I thought that you might like to fuck me tonight.”

The noise of the surrounding chatter drowns out in an instant, Anders' breath hot on his skin. All of his senses are overwhelmed by his desire, the image of Anders speared on his cock and writhing under him, for him . 

Yes , he thinks. He would like that. 

Fenris doesn’t bother waiting even a few minutes: he gets up immediately, predatory gaze fixed on Anders’ back. He shoulders someone aside when they step into his path, barely noticing their existence. At the door, Anders glances back. Fenris is only a few feet away, close enough to clearly see him bite his lip, eyes dark. He slips out the door, and Fenris follows like a storm cloud, dark and heavy with intent. 

Neither of them notice Hawke watching them leave with a deep frown on his face. 

————

The chilly air is not enough to calm him, to make him forget where he's heading, why or with whom. But Fenris has been kept well fed, and his desire, while overwhelming, is not uncontrollable. 

His steps are measured, if hurried, and yet the path to his mansion has never been this far. Anticipation curls low in his stomach as he enters the main hall, Anders right alongside him. 

Now that they’re here, somehow, Fenris doesn’t know how to proceed. It makes no sense; they’ve… been together many times before, he knows Anders now, in a way that he’s never been allowed to learn before, in a way he knows no one else. He knows how to seduce him, what makes him whine with need, but right at this moment he feels as awkward as a new whore.

Anders turns to him with a sheepish smile. “I brought… I thought you’d like…” At least Fenris isn’t the only one feeling like this. Giving up on words entirely, Anders digs through his pack, fishing out a tiny scrap of frothy white lace and silk ribbons. Fenris swears he can feel his pupils dilate.

“Yes, Maker, yes. You…”

He cuts himself off, pulling Anders into a kiss, his allure swirling around them. He tries to be gentle, but when he finds himself pushed against the wall, Anders pressing their bodies together, and there’s a gasp and urgent hands and Anders’ tongue, he bites down on Anders’ lip, tasting blood and making a sound that’s almost a growl. 

Anders pulls back. “I’ll go change, shall I?” Fenris nods, half-hypnotised by the bright berry of blood on his lip. It shimmers and falls when Anders grins, running towards his chin. “Go poke up the fire, sweetheart. I won’t be long.” 

A deep breath, and Fenris focuses on his task. His bedroom isn't as cold as the main hall, but he stirs the fire regardless. He places his sword in its stand, taking off his armour with practised ease. If it weren't second nature to him by now, he'd surely be too distracted by his rising blood pressure.

Right now, Anders is probably naked. Skin pale in the shadows of the mansion, paler lace sliding to cover and conceal. He wants to watch. Knows he can’t. He strips to the waist, suddenly feeling too hot despite the slight chill in the room.

By the time the door opens, Fenris is driven by his lust, lyrium flaring to cross the distance and silence Anders' surprised gasp with his lips. 

They both pour their pent-up desire into the kiss, and Fenris melts into it, hands running down Anders' body, feeling the lace on his warm skin. He desperately wants more, but he wants to savour the moment as well. They draw apart together, Anders' hands resting lightly on Fenris' chest, and Fenris licking his lips as he takes in the sight in front of him. 

The outfit compliments Anders beautifully, highlighting every area Fenris wants to mark and taste. A lace choker low around his neck, a bralette clinging to his chest, high waist panties straining against his cock, and thigh high stockings that frame his muscular legs.

All in perfect, pristine white. He looks flawless, and Fenris wants to acknowledge the thought and preparation Anders has given to this, just as much as he wants to ravage him. “Beautiful…” it’s all he can manage to say, his tongue thick in his mouth. 

Anders’ smile is warm and wicked, both. “Excited?”

Fenris smirks back. “Hungry.” And he tackles a laughing Anders to the bed, throwing him gently down and climbing atop him to press their skin together. Anders’ hands are in his hair as Fenris licks down his throat, feeling the vibrations of his laugh as they fade into a moan. 

He trails a path down Anders' body, claws gentle on the lace but scratching the skin between enough to mark it, to make Anders gasp and whimper. Holding Anders' hips hard enough to bruise he lifts his head to look at him again. 

His cheeks have some colour to them now, eyes dark but still present despite the allure, lower lip still broken where Fenris bit it. 

“Do you know what you're offering, mage?” He teases, voice low and full of threat. 

“I've been fucked before, Fenris,” he chuckles, lips curling up. 

“Not by me,” Fenris states, watching the anticipation on Anders' face, as his eyelids drop, lips parted. “I will break you in half,” he whispers, digging his fingers into Anders' flesh. “I want to split you open and drink down your moans as I make you come on my cock.”

“ Fuck –” Anders chokes, head thrown back. “Have me, take me, please!” He wraps his legs around Fenris’ waist, arching up against him, grinding his lace-covered cock against the matching hardness in the rough fabric of his leggings. Fenris groans against his throat at the friction, barely resisting the urge to press back. 

In a way, Fenris gives Anders what he asks for, sliding his pointer, middle and ring fingers over Anders' lips. Eagerly, they're accepted, and Anders gives up begging in favour of sucking the digits thoroughly. 

Anders’ mouth is warm, wet, downright sinful with the way his tongue swirls, and Fenris needs more of it, more of him. 

He lifts Anders' thigh over to his shoulder, leaning down to lick a nipple through the lace. He takes control of the digits in Anders' mouth, setting his own pace and making Anders take it, almost folded in half under him. 

The urge to just take, indulge and pound into him is strong, but Fenris wrestles himself back under control. As beautiful and desirable and… durable as he is, Anders is still no incubus, and Fenris has no desire to hurt him. He wants to see Anders crying out with pleasure, not pain. He reaches out with his free hand to tug at the delicate lace that covers his chest. 

His claw catches on it, and tears through it easily. Anders yelps, as much as he can with his mouth occupied and Fenris’ fingers brush the back of his throat. He gags and Fenris tries to remove his fingers, but Anders sucks them back into his mouth, keeping them there. “Greedy,” Fenris groans, considers abandoning his plan, imagining that same talented tongue wrapped around his cock, but he leans down instead, placing an open mouthed wet kiss over Anders' heart. While his fingers resume their steady rhythm- he slowly, deliberately, sinks his teeth into the flesh, and the familiar taste of Anders' blood hits his tongue. Anders’ moans are just as delicious, and Fenris pulls back, feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the perfect marks his teeth have left, rapidly spilling scarlet over his chest.

Fenris' free hand continues exploring, running a claw gently along the underside of his cock, and rolling his balls between his fingers. He slides Anders’ panties to the side to expose his hole, kissing along the thigh over his shoulder. 

Fenris pulls his fingers free from Anders’ mouth with an obscene pop and puts two digits to his hole. “I think I’ll wait until you’re begging for my cock to put it in you.” He teases the rim, circling it slowly, and barely dipping a finger inside. 

“You’re a–” Anders cuts off when Fenris slides both fingers inside him.

He stills, giving Anders a second to adjust, covering it with a smirk, “I’m a what , mage?” 

Anders gasps when Fenris’ fingers brush his prostate. “A real bastard.”  

He grins and starts to pump his fingers leisurely, barely brushing the bundle of nerves inside with every stroke. “You have no idea.” 

Anders grins back, “Then show me.” 

With a sinful smile and a show of his fangs, Fenris pulls back until he's able to tilt his head to lick at Anders' thigh. His fingers continue thrusting in and out, and as Anders shudders under him, he manoeuvres to lean even lower, letting his tongue trace over the lace covering Anders' erection. 

He feels the warmth of his desire flicker as he licks along the base until he tastes the saltiness at the tip, and indulges finally - feeding on the whimpers Anders makes, the tremble in his thigh, the twitch of his cock confined in lace.

“Fen–Fenris, please –” Anders pants, hips trying to rock back against Fenris to gain speed. But he can't find the purchase, and Fenris refuses to increase the pace. He leans back again, pulling both fingers out entirely to tease his rim. 

When he pushes them back in he adds his ring finger, slowly dragging them deeper with every thrust. 

“ Yes!” Anders gasps, enthusiastically, out of breath when Fenris hits his prostate again, and again. His fingers go slow but hard, stretching Anders more and more with every thrust. He still feels impossibly tight and hot, and Fenris himself is out of breath with it. 

He tilts his head against Anders' thigh, tongue sliding against the flesh in an open mouthed kiss. Sucking a mark into the skin isn't enough, he wants to claim Anders in every way possible, in every way that matters. His fangs sink deep, breaking the skin as he feeds on Anders' life force. 

Anders writhes under him, whimpering, cock twitching as he comes hard, spilling into the lace. Fenris could swear that Anders’ blood runs hotter, just for that moment, and he can’t stop himself from biting harder, feeling those strong legs tighten around him, watching Anders’ cock pulsing through the fabric. The smell of come fills the air, and the incubus that Fenris is relishes it. His prey is helpless to resist him. He keeps thrusting his fingers, massaging Anders’ prostate until he’s shaking with overstimulation and come has stopped leaking from his still-hard cock. Anders whines, and Fenris stills his fingers, pulling away from the bite to look at him.

There's fresh blood staining the stocking, trickling down Anders' thigh. A darker spot by his heart from the previous bite. His panties are darker at the tip, wet from his release. Dark veins from tainted blood are beginning to show across his pale skin, drawing more attention to the white lingerie. The sight is making Fenris lightheaded, and he cannot look away from the man beneath him, admiring his harsh breathing and blissed out face.  

“I thought you wanted to break me?” Anders says sheepishly, stretching his neck.

“Is this not the way?” Fenris whispers, pulling his fingers out, laying Anders' leg down on the bed softly, climbing over him until their lips are an inch apart. “Become undone for me, Anders.” 

The emotion is plain in his eyes, and Fenris doesn't need to ask what it means. He doesn't want to know. All he needs is to have this moment, to have Anders completely for himself. 

The distance closes, and Fenris kisses him, slowly, gently, with all the admiration he can't put to words. Anders' hands tangle through his hair, pulling him close. He moans quietly every time Fenris takes a sip, at every slide of tongues, gasping as if Fenris is offering life instead of feeding on it. 

“I think you know pain, and it does not break you.”  He kisses his jaw briefly. “But I wonder if you can resist softness?” 

“Fenris,” Anders breathes, eyes fluttering closed as Fenris continues to trace kisses down his neck, his chest, lower and lower still. The path leads him to his goal, and he closes his lips over Anders' still hard cock, the lace clinging to it, dripping with come. 

He hears Anders sigh, and takes another moment to appreciate how wrecked he looks. A delicious meal that Fenris will take great pleasure devouring. Gently, Fenris pulls the panties off, discarding them to the side before returning to lick at his cock, now with nothing in the way. 

The taste of Anders' spend drives his hunger, so despite not needing to feed more, he indulges, taking more and more until Anders is writhing under him. 

But this is not how he intends to get his fill. No, he made a promise that he will keep. 

“Maker, Fenris –” Anders cries.

He stops, looking up to find Anders staring at him, eyes a thin golden ring around pupils dilated with need and full of desire and something else that makes Fenris’ stomach flutter. “Yes, mage?” 

“Please, Fenris… please fuck me.” 

Fenris kisses the tip of his cock and moves away to stand, removes his leggings and climbs back onto the bed. Anders spreads his legs further apart and with a deep groan he kneels between them. “I have no desire to hurt you mage, cast your grease spell.” 

“I never thought I’d hear you ask for a casual use of magic,” Anders laughs, but casts the spell. Fenris’ markings flicker with warmth and Anders reaches forward, stroking Fenris’ cock and covering it with oil. 

“I’ve always said magic has its uses.” He puts a hand to Anders’ hip and one to his cock.

They both hold their breath as Fenris aligns himself, pushing in carefully. He watches Anders below him through half lidded eyes, looking monstrous and reverent. As if this act of passion had anything holy to it, as if they were not both tainted and shunned. But they both have their own divine light, Fenris remembers, and activates the markings to paint the room in the dim lyrium glow. 

Anders gasps at it, sighing, matching cracks of blue joining the dark veins as Justice seeks home. His eyes flicker with the spirit, but Anders remains in control, hand tangling in Fenris' hair, pulling him down until their lips meet. 

They never kissed like this before. Fenris has never had a kiss like this before, not from the memories he has, and never in his life he suspects. This wasn't like the kiss they shared when Fenris was injured, or the strange, silver moments in the woods. There is no magic to it, but sparks shoot down Fenris' spine with every brush of their lips, his insides burn with every slide of their tongues. 

When their hips connect, Fenris as deep as he can get, his hands are shaking. Anders feels… incomparable to anything he ever had before. Not his first bite of apple pie, Hadriana’s heart in his palm, a monster’s death to his hunger. 

He brings a hand to gently wrap around Anders' neck, thumb caressing his skin as he pulls back just enough to share his breath with him as he begins moving. 

“ Fenris ,” Anders moans his name, quietly, like a prayer, and Fenris tugs at his lip with his fangs, overcome by the urge to claim and mark and own. 

“Anders,” he growls, testing his leverage from this angle, fucking into Anders deep and hard. “I need–” he struggles to get the words out, but Anders’ lips curve in a genuine smile. 

“I know.” His voice is still hushed, soft. He holds Fenris' gaze, as his eyes glaze over under the allure. “ I'm yours .” 

Fenris' chest tightens with the show of trust, the submission that is so willingly offered to him. He kisses Anders, desperate, full of emotion. His thrusts grow faster, and Anders' legs wrap around him, heels digging into his back, urging him to go deep every time. 

“Please, fuck me, take everything–” Anders moans against his lips, breathless, mindless, likely feeling nothing but Fenris' allure. All of his world, focused on Fenris on top of him, inside his body, inside his mind, taking everything to make room for their pleasure. It is an overpowering tidal wave of desire, to just have more and more. 

What part of Anders was there that he wouldn't give Fenris if he wanted?

This moment is so different from every other time Anders submitted to him. He doesn't tease, doesn't add any sharpness to the act. No play at submission just to get what he wants. No, he is simply giving everything unconditionally. 

“Mine,” Fenris groans, biting low on his neck, as he pounds into Anders. 

“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, more, everything ,” he chokes as Fenris' teeth dig deeper, breaking the skin. “Everything about you is made for me. And I…I am made for you. I can take everything you can give and still offer you more.” Anders trails off into a moan, legs faltering as Fenris cants his hips slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts to hit that perfect place inside him. “How many… how many others can say that?” Anders keens, trailing off again. 

They’re both panting, Fenris licking every mark he sucks and bites into Anders' skin, anywhere he can reach without breaking his pace. The room is filled with the sounds of skin against skin, and Anders whining, whimpering in pleasure, as Fenris fucks him hard, feeds off of him. 

Anders' moans are delicious, and the accompanying sweet nothings he murmurs set Fenris' nerves on fire. He could find his release just listening to Anders babble like this, drunk on Fenris.

Between the “please”, “yes!” and “more”, Anders keens, nails scratching at Fenris' back, arching his back. He’s close; Fenris can feel it building, winding him tighter and tighter. It’s going to be glorious. “I need you, I trust you, I l–”

Anders says more, but it's lost in the commotion as the door bursts open, ricocheting so hard off the wall that the wood cracks. There’s a complicated moment, between the door being shoved open and Fenris’ feet landing on the floor, which involves someone glowing blue, a tangle of limbs, and Fenris’ instincts rising up inside him like the monster he is.

“Let him go!”

He sees the weapons first, and then their eyes. Wide and horrified and afraid. It’s like his nightmares have come to life to menace him. He can feel blood and saliva drip from his lips and he snarls at the intruders. They will not hurt his mage. He’s between Anders and the door, and he can hear his mage scrambling, rolling the other way to land on the far side of the bed, gaining distance to throw a spell. Fenris wants to mourn the loss of that gorgeous, hedonistic man lying beneath him, pliant and pale in white lace. But he can’t. He’s too furious, too enraged.  

“Mine!” He spits, voice almost unrecognisable, animalistic, throwing out a wave of his power. They stumble, mouths falling open. Yes, yes… come to me, let me rip your throat out: how dare you… He’s almost lost to the incubus, spitting blood at these intruders to his den, a threat to his mage! 

“Fenris.”

It’s Anders’ voice, a tiny piece of calm in the storm that is Fenris’ mind. He snarls again, taking a step forward, keeping the intruders away, stopping them from getting any closer to the bed. Mine, his instincts scream, over and over. Mine! My bed, my home, my mage! You will not touch them!

“Fenris!” Anders’ touch on the nape of his neck. He’d know it anywhere. His fingers are cool. Fenris turns his head just enough that he can look at Anders out of the corner of his eye, scowling fiercely at how close he is. Too close to the intruders. Anders grabs his wrist hard enough to hurt, and Fenris realises that he’s been trying to get his attention. “It’s Hawke and Sebastian. You don’t want to kill them.” Anders says carefully, reaching up to caress Fenris’ cheek. His eyes are gentle, unafraid and soft. 

He turns to look. Anders is right. It’s them. He growls, unable to reconcile his thoughts with his instincts. “Give me your weapons.” They can’t harm Anders without weapons. Or at least not as easily. 

Daggers are thrust towards them, hilt first. A short sword. A bow. He hands them back to Anders, keeping his eyes on the invaders, blocking them with his body. He steadies his breathing, grappling for calm deliberation rather than the burning rage that urges him to destroy those who would invade his nest and take his mage. No. Calm.  

With the weapons out of reach, he waves Anders back again, feels him settle into a battle stance, familiar magic washing over both of them. Only then does Fenris pull back on his allure, ripping it away and watching the lust drain from their eyes, quickly replaced by fear and disgust. They stumble back, and something inside Fenris purrs its satisfaction. Yes, let them fear, let them know how easily he can take their will, tear them to pieces while they thank him…

“Fenris, how can you do this to him?” Sebastian confronts him first, disappointment and horror plain on his face. 

“I knew you were desperate, but killing Anders?” Hawke looks horrified too. 

It takes a second for Fenris to realise what they must look like. They’re both still mostly naked, Anders looks like half a corpse, and his blood is drying on Fenris' lips. It's a murder scene. Behind him, Anders lets out an uneasy bark of laughter.

“Hawke, I’m fine.” 

“I wouldn’t kill him!” He would never. How could Hawke even think that?

Sebastian isn’t listening. “Come on, Anders, I’ll get you out of here.” He takes a step forward. He’s reaching past Fenris to Anders, trying to grab his arm. Fenris’ blood boils, and he shoves Sebastian back savagely. Anders doesn’t move.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t understand - you don't know what you're saying,” Hawke counters, eyes frantically going from Anders to Fenris in fear. 

It hurts Fenris more than he cares to admit, that Hawke is this afraid of him still? That he truly only sees him as a monster, a rabid dog. 

Anders tosses his hair back, arms folded across his naked chest. The bite Fenris left over his heart is livid in comparison to his pale skin, still slowly oozing blood. Fenris can smell it, and it’s driving him wild. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I’m not leaving with you.”

He can see it in Hawke’s face. He’s spent so long learning his every expression, the tiny things no one else would ever notice… except, perhaps, Anders. Hawke will try to grab Anders and run, expecting Fenris to give up or at the very least not fight back. No. Mine.  

“You are not taking him.” His voice is icy cold, filled with dark promise. Both Hawke and Sebastian take a cautious half step back.

“Can I… talk to him?” Hawke asks Fenris carefully. “Without you in the room?”

“He’s not going anywhere, Hawke!” 

“Fenris.” Anders is looking at him, ignoring Sebastian’s twittering and Hawke’s disapproval. “I’m staying right here, I promise.” He pretends he doesn’t hear Hawke’s scoff. “Why don’t you go out into the hall with Sebastian? I won’t leave this room.” 

He hesitates for long moments, caught between logic and instinct, Anders’ cool head and his own fear and anger and the look on Hawke’s face. 

“Fine.” He can barely fit the word through his gritted teeth. He shoves Sebastian backwards, towards the door, stopping in front of Hawke. “You will not take a single step.” Fenris leans forward, forcing Hawke to look into his face and see how serious he is. His features are probably monstrous in their beauty. Hawke stares, half-entranced. “Know your place here, Hawke.”

Hawke’s shakey nod is immensely satisfying. Fenris stalks out into the hall, pulling the door mostly closed with a final look at Anders. He wraps his long coat around his naked shoulders, looking calmly back. Fenris takes a deep breath, inclining his head, and turns his back to the door, glaring at a shrinking Sebastian. Fenris still has Anders’ blood on his lips. 

Hawke’s voice is as uncertain as his nod, but he still says it. “Anders, please. I can get you out of here.” Fenris’ fists clench, claws digging into his palms. It’s so hard not to storm back in, place himself between them. 

“I’m fine right where I am.” Anders is using his stubborn tone, the one that means he’s going to do as he wants, no matter how many hours of arguing the others might do. Hawke either doesn’t hear it or doesn’t want to. 

“Anders, you have to come with me! You don’t understand- he’s an incubus! He’ll kill you!”

“He hasn’t yet.” Anders’ calm response drops into the room like a stone in water, sending ripples of shock to splash against Hawke. In front of Fenris, Sebastian freezes in surprise, eyes wide, hand creeping to his chest. Fenris suppresses the sudden urge to grin.

“Yet?! How long has this been going on?!” Hawke sounds incredulous, his voice creeping up towards a shout. 

“Months. I’ve been… helping him out whenever he needs it.”

“… why?!”

“Hawke. He needs it, and I can help. Healer, remember?”

Fenris frowns at that. It sounds far too clinical, like Fenris is just another patient and Anders just his Healer. But then he remembers the way Anders looked at him, the emotion in his eyes just minutes ago. Anders just lied to Hawke. There is far more between them than predator and willing prey, than patient and healer. 

He decides he doesn’t mind the lie after all. This thing belongs to them, not Hawke. And certainly not Sebastian, self-flagellating voyeur that he is. He glares as the man shifts in place, taking a half step closer to the door at Fenris’ back. No. 

“You should go.” Anders’ cold voice breaks the shocked silence.

“He’s a monster, Anders.” Hawke’s voice is almost too quiet to hear. Anders lets out a short, bitter sounding laugh.

“Have you even looked at me since you stormed in here? Fenris and I are the same. We can be monstrous together.”

There seems to be nothing more to say. Hawke slowly turns and leaves the room. When the door opens, he looks shocked, pale as a ghost, unsure what to do with his hands, his eyes. He steps around Fenris carefully, as if he were some feral creature that might snap at any moment. Smart man, Hawke. Fenris follows them through the mansion in silence, his allure pulsing in his skin with his heartbeat. He wants to punish them. Wants to hold them by the throat until they realise just what they’ve done, show them the monster they believe he is.

But he fights his instincts. Anders is safe, waiting for him. And Hawke is… Not his enemy. 

Fenris desperately wants him to see beyond his fear, but he can't spare the time to worry about it now. Not when every inch of him is urging him to go back to Anders' side. 

Hawke stops at the door; turns to Fenris. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it when he looks into his face. Sebastian pulls Hawke away, and he goes without a fight. Fenris listens to their steps ringing off the buildings of Hightown in the dark. A tangle of echoes are their voices, half-raised in incredulous shouts, but nothing he can make out.

Fenris closes the door with a resonant thud.  

He breaks a vase, shoulder-high and decorative. It shatters around his fist with a satisfying, expensive crash. Shards scatter across the tile. Fenris picks up the largest and hurls it against a wall, seething, needing to release the anger and fear and frustration Hawke stirred within him. No one gets between an incubus and his prey, enters his den uninvited; threatens his mage!

He’s panting, fangs bared, hands clenched into fists. He stalks naked  around the entrance hall, unable to move away until he can assure himself that they aren’t coming back, that Anders is safe upstairs.

It’s almost half an hour before he’s calm enough to return to his room.

Anders is curled in the centre of Fenris’ bed. He’s removed the remnants of his outfit; washed the blood away. The bite over his heart is still stark red against his skin. He hasn’t healed it. Fenris slips into bed behind him, wrapping one arm around Anders’ waist.

“I will never forgive Hawke for this.”

Fenris presses a kiss against the side of Anders’ neck. “I’m sorry.” And he is.

Anders snorts a little laugh. “I’m sorrier that you couldn’t see his face when he realised we’ve been together for months. I’m surprised his eyes didn’t pop straight out of his head.”

Fenris lets a warm chuckle roll up his throat. He has no doubt it was amusing. “I’ll make it up to you, Anders.”

Anders rolls over to face him. There’s only inches between them, and they’re tangled up together. “We’ll just have to get him back.” There’s a spark of mischief in his eyes. Fenris arches a brow. They just might have to.

Chapter Text

The chantry is eerily quiet. Murmurs of banter between chantry sisters and quiet prayers echo through, but no words are discernible. At least, not from this dark corner, on the upper balcony, where Fenris leans against a support column. 

“I can't stand this place.” Anders keeps shifting his weight, twitching. Fenris is agitated enough, having to wait for Hawke and Sebastian to meet them there. After where they left off, he is filled with guilt and anger, a turmoil of emotions he tries not to dwell on. Only a little guilt though. He didn’t hurt them the way he wanted to…

And Anders' nervous tics are not helping. 

“Mage,” he says quietly, drawing his attention. As soon as their eyes meet, he smiles coyly, directing his allure like a veil to wrap around Anders. 

Whatever invisible weight he is carrying dissipates, and his shoulders sag as he closes the distance between them, an answering smile tremulous on his lips. 

This is risky, surely, but if they are careful… It is a quiet day. 

Anders doesn't bother glancing around to ensure the corridor is empty, lowering his head with confidence to capture Fenris' lips in a kiss. 

He tastes like herbs, a hint of magic that is uniquely Anders. Fenris can almost feel Justice just under his skin, but that might prove to be an even riskier game than what he has in mind. 

His hands reach for Anders, grabbing his coat, framing his jaw, pulling him closer. Anders doesn't need the encouragement, sighing quietly against his mouth as he presses Fenris against the stone. 

Every time Fenris is with Anders he feels something new. They've been doing this for months, and he still finds new sensations, new ways to fall apart, to play with Anders, to chase pleasure. He will never be able to forgive Hawke for ruining their previous night.

But he also has no doubt that there are more nights ahead where Anders could surprise him still. It's a dangerous thought, but he can't deny it. 

Now, as they kiss, he appreciates the languid feel of it, pressed against each other like lovers with nothing but time. Fenris barely feeds on him - has no reason to, out of fun.  

And since when is Anders fun for him? 

“Maker,” Anders sighs, kissing Fenris' jaw. His hips press forward, his hardening cock pressed against Fenris’ hip, making his desire obvious, and Fenris feels a whisper of Anders' electricity on his skin. 

Fenris wonders how much of this is conscious, how much of it is just Anders surrendering to his desire and enjoying Fenris. Is it as natural to him as it is for Fenris to feed on him? 

“Do you think the Sisters know?” He says, as they pause when a woman’s voice grows just slightly louder underneath them. “That you're a mage, I mean. You don't hide it well.” 

“I hide it perfectly,” he starts, attempting to not sound heated. “I haven’t burst into flames even once the entire time I’ve been here.”

“Could I make you?” He whispers like a sweet threat, the tip of his gauntlet trailing down Anders' side and around his hip, heading to where he knows his cock is already hard, constrained by his clothes. 

Anders gasps, held still, forehead resting on Fenris' shoulder as his legs spread to give him easy access. 

“How about a mage ,” he lights his markings dimly, watching Anders shudder in shades of blue, “doing magic in the Chantry? Will Andraste come to life to smite us?” 

“Fenris,” Anders moans his name almost silently, and in a feverish motion returns to kissing him - hard. There are unmistakable sparks of magic on his tongue that make Fenris feel light headed with it. 

“I wouldn't let her stop us even if she did,” Anders confesses, brushing that electric tongue over Fenris' lyrium markings, down to his neck. 

He cups Anders' erection through his pants, and when Anders whines, he moves his attention to Anders’ neck instead. His fangs aren't as visible as they could be, but he digs them hard enough to break the skin. 

“Heal yourself,” he breathes into Anders’ ear, feeling the warmth of his magic instantly. He brings his mouth back to the closed wound, licking at the blood, sucking a new mark closer to the collar bone. 

The sharp inhale of Anders' breath, the shaky exhales, they take over Fenris' mind like thunder, until their location doesn't seem to matter. Fenris won't let anyone interrupt them again. 

He pulls away to admire the mark he made, a soft bruise only barely concealed by Anders' coat. “Hawke will have quite a show when he finds us here.” 

“Fuck Hawke,” Anders breathes, full of spite, cheeks flushed. 

“No,” Fenris chuckles, voice low. “Fuck me.” 

Anders' eyes widen in surprise, and Fenris watches as they darken with interest. 

This is not just risky, it's dangerous. They will be found out almost for certain. It should warn him off, but it only edges him onward. Yes. Let Hawke see what he's missing. 

Whether he means himself or Anders in that moment, Fenris neither knows nor cares.

He moves slowly to undo the lacing on Anders' pants, getting a rush of excitement when he doesn't pull away. No, he stays still, breathing hard, lips parted as Fenris slides his hand past the fabric, to wrap against his hard cock. It’s a heady power, to be allowed to choose this risk for the both of them, Anders handing his safety over to Fenris as if it’s nothing.

“This is a terrible idea,” Anders mutters as someone below them starts chanting quietly. His breathing is already choppy, despite any efforts to control it. Fenris can almost hear his heart racing, and his allure twines around them in response.

“Should we stop?” Fenris teases, knowing the answer already. It's plain on Anders' face how much he enjoys this. After his stunt in the Hanged Man, Fenris is certain the threat of being discovered here is all the more adding to his excitement. 

“Maker no, don't stop,” he gasps, leaning forward for a kiss, his hands holding on to Fenris for balance. “I’ll protect us from the flames if they come.” 

Of that Fenris also has no doubt. But no divine punishment will be sent after them. 

Why would sex be more of a desecration than murder? Is ecstacy not a more holy release than blood spilled? Fenris could draw on Anders' life for as long as he wants and only bring pleasure to them both. This quest Hawke will lead them on, whatever it may be, is more likely to lead Fenris to rip someone’s heart out of their chest. Surely, that would be less redeemable in the eyes of the Maker? 

His thoughts come to a halt when Anders bites off a moan, and he tries to cover the noise with a fake cough. 

“Can you keep quiet enough to not draw attention?” Fenris asks him, letting go of him to lower his own leggings. 

“You don't want to hear me screaming your name? Have it echo through the hall? ” Anders breathes into his ear, and Fenris has to hold his tongue. He does want it. To hear Anders scream in delirious pleasure, incoherent pleading begging for Fenris to take more. 

But this is not something they can get away with. 

“I believe we are blaspheming enough, for today.”

“Alright,” Anders agrees. “I’ll keep quiet.”

Fenris turns, holding to the rail in expectation. He feels the warmth as Anders presses against his back, his lips brushing against the tip of his ear. 

“You can't stop me from worshipping you though,” he mutters, and the warmth disappears. 

Fenris doesn't have the time to turn around, to wonder or worry before he hears Anders falling to his knees, hands on Fenris' ass. 

Anders spreads his cheeks, and brings his tongue to lave at Fenris' entrance. 

The air punches out from his chest, blood rushing low, insides curling. This too, is new. His grip on the rail tightens, a shudder passing through his body, numbness travelling across his spine to his scalp. He stares unseeing out across the rows of pews, all his focus on the feel of it, the slight scrape of stubble against his sensitive cheeks, the soft tongue lapping at the most intimate part of him. He’s panting all of a sudden, unable to catch his breath.

“Anders,” he pleads quietly, not knowing what to ask for. Anders seems to know, pressing his tongue deeper, wet, wide strokes that seem to take forever. Fenris' knees almost give, and he is grateful the rail is also made of stone. His gauntlets scrape across it, producing a small screeching sound that seems as loud as thunder in the echoing cathedral, and he relaxes his hand, gasping as Anders’ tongue does something magical. 

Every nerve in his body is alight with pleasure, and he fights the urge to push back against Anders to get more. Whether he senses that as well or not, Anders hums into him, changing his attention to long flat tongue licks over his hole, no doubt making a hot wet mess of it. 

“Nngh,” he struggles to keep quiet, glancing down to see the few Chantry Sisters idly walking by. Maybe he was overly confident in his ability to stay discreet. But he did not expect Anders to do this. His hands are still on Fenris' ass, kneading the flesh greedily as he feasts on him. 

In trying to look for anything to hold on to, he draws on Anders' life, and is instead overwhelmed by how much Anders is enjoying this. His head connects sharply with the column, the cool stone barely registering on his skin. 

He might burst to flames after all. 

If he thought he could adjust, control his response, he was very wrong. He has to cover his mouth with one hand, muffling his moans, when a tongue crackling with magic swipes once over his entrance… and then pushes in. Fenris’ world narrows to the sound of his own breathing, harsh against his palm, and the filthy, wet sounds Anders is making. He can feel the wetness of his saliva dripping down his thighs.

He nearly comes off the floor when Anders hums, tongue still buried inside him, the vibrations ripping up Fenris’ spine and back again, leaving chills in their wake. He could come from this, he realises dimly, consumed by pleasure and desire. Anders could easily make him come with just his tongue, never even touching his cock. Maker, he wants that, wants to be face down in a pillow and writhing as Anders makes him come again and again with only his mouth. 

Fenris is out of breath, barely containing his moans when Anders moves away, standing up to align his cock to Fenris' slick entrance. 

“We should do this again when you can be loud,” Anders tells him, lips against his ear, and Fenris isn't sure he could be held responsible for what would tumble out of his lips if he didn't bite his tongue. 

In lieu of a reply he pushes back, helping Anders slide into him. They both groan, as quietly as possible, as Anders thrusts the rest of the way in. He sighs for a moment, letting Fenris adjust, though he doesn't need it. His muscles are all relaxed, familiar with Anders, ready and excited for this. 

Again, he takes the lead, bold despite the fact he is getting fucked in a chantry in broad daylight , rocking forward, and back, fucking himself slowly onto Anders. They have to settle for a slow pace, on account of their location, and instead of feeling like not enough it feels like too much. Fenris is rarely this aware of Anders sliding in and out of him, feeling every single inch, every pulse and throb of his cock. 

His breath is harsh, loud to his ears, and his face heats up along the rest of his body. His own cock is twitching, confined by his leggings, and he doubts he will be able to save himself from soiling them. Anders clearly intends to ensure it, hands holding Fenris by his hips as he moves. Every gentle thrust is both a torment and delight, like a warm breath on his lips before a kiss. His body anticipates the chase of pleasure, the overwhelming sensations of sex with Anders, the way he feels, tastes, sounds– but nothing more is granted to him now. He is held on the same drag of Anders’ hips as they meet, the occasional gasp and sharp breath, the faint sparks of magic. 

“Anders,” he chokes, voice hoarse despite how slowly they’re fucking. His cock is hard enough to hurt, but he refuses to move his hands from the railing. 

“Mmm,” Anders moans quietly, not speeding up in the slightest. “This is… different .” 

Fenris can’t help his broken chuckle. Different is an apt word. Fenris is very accustomed to playing with his prey. Playing with Anders was an entirely new experience for him. And what they’re doing now is… completely unfamiliar. 

Without changing their pace, Anders calmly moves his hand forward, brushing against the outline of Fenris’ cock. 

It’s a delicate tease, feeling the warmth and pressure of his grip, with no skin to skin contact. For long moments, Fenris breathes heavily under Anders’ attention, convinced that he will keep him in this sweet torment. 

He has to fight back a whine when Anders lets go, eventually. His jaw snaps, clenching as he tries to gather some sense of composure. All his efforts are for naught when Anders’ clever hand slips under his leggings, sliding them lower to free his hard cock. With nothing to separate them now, Anders wraps his hand around him, matching the shallow movement to the slow rocking of his hips. 

That’s when he sees them. On the other side of the Chantry, Hawke and Sebastian walk side by side, focused on a conversation. Fenris doesn’t make any indication at noticing them, and Anders’ hand does not falter.

“Isn’t this a divine sight?” Anders whispers in his ear, voice rough. Fenris shivers, hips stuttering, while his eyes follow Hawke and Sebastian’s steps. “Come undone for me, Fenris,” Anders asks of him, magic trailing from his fingertips, brushing the head of Fenris’ cock, and what can he do other than fulfil Anders’ wish? 

He throws his head back in an almost silent moan, thighs shaking as he comes in Anders’ fist. 

“Fuck,” Anders groans, fucking into him quietly, burying his cock as deep as he can. His lips are soft on Fenris’ ear, a contrast to the deadly grip he has on his hip. 

Before Fenris’ mind can clear, Anders offers him his own release to taste, hand lingering in front of his face. Fenris can hear Hawke and Sebastian more clearly now, know they are just about to turn the corner to meet them. He doesn’t hesitate, tongue reaching out to lick and suck at Anders’ hand, cleaning it like it was covered in honey. 

Anders shakes behind him, a moan that he doesn’t quite hold back turning into a cough as soon as Hawke and Sebastian appear. 

Fenris’ eyes lock with Hawke, and he flares his markings, knowing that it will be enough to tip Anders over the edge. It does – He can feel it when Anders twitches inside him, frantically pulling out in time to come, spilling on the floor. His forehead leans on Fenris’ back, briefly, before he notices their company.   

Undisturbed, Fenris slowly lifts his leggings back into place. Hawke’s lips are set in a straight line, while Sebastian’s face darkens, either in anger or embarrassment, maybe both. 

“Maker’s Blood–” Sebastian stammers, reaching out to grab at Anders’ coat, his other hand curled for a punch. Anger then. 

“Are you really going to commit violence in the Maker’s house?” Anders smirks, smug when it works, Hawke’s hand on Sebastian’s shoulder a gentle request for him to back off.

“Pull your trousers up,” Hawke tells him, and Anders shrugs, fixing his own clothes. Calmly, Hawke steps away, and they all follow him, with some uncomfortable air around them. "Am I to expect this to happen every day now? Or can you keep it to closed quarters?"

"Can you stay out them?" Fenris shoots back, not holding back the bite from the words.

"Alright, you've made your point." 

“His point?!” Sebastian explodes, almost incoherent. “You’re just going to-” he chokes on thin air when a Sister glances up at their group. Fenris can feel Anders’ amusement radiating off him. When he chances a glance at his face, Anders has his lower lip clamped between his teeth, face red with suppressed laughter. 

“Not here.” Hawke snaps, clearly not wanting to risk the gauntlet of gossip hounds, and Sebastian rears back as if slapped. He takes a deep breath, regaining some of his composure, although his face is still flushed, little red flags of anger rising high on his cheekbones.

They all walk in a tense silence as they exit the Chantry. Fenris glances at Anders, but restrains himself from anything more. There’s no reason to keep pushing at Hawke. 

“Can I trust you two to behave when we go to the Deep Roads?” Hawke asks them somewhat sternly, but Fenris knows he’s already resigned to take them either way. Aveline won’t leave the guard and Anders is most suitable for the job.

Still, they both nod. 

“Alright. Let’s get through today then. With our clothes on.”