Chapter Text
“I’d rather blow Fenris.”
Fenris hadn’t even heard what it was that Anders would rather blow him than do, but the idea stuck in his head.
For the rest of their weekly Wicked Grace game, he was utterly distracted. A waitress by their table spilled an entire tray of mugs, causing an uproar that had everyone jumping out of their seats, and Fenris remained staring at the grain of the table, his fingers clenched onto his knees. It was like he'd dunked his head underwater, only able to hear his own heartbeat, vision blurring around him.
Those words echoed in his mind, the suggestion one he'd never before considered, but tempting all the same. When even Merrill started doing better than him, he’d feigned tiredness and left for the mansion.
It was just because he had not taken anyone to bed in a while, he told himself. The brands prevented him from enjoying self-pleasure—a measure put in place by Danarius, so he would be reliant on him.
Fenris would rather go without than bother with paying for someone at the Rose, or stooping to asking Isabella.
So the offhand remark conjured images.
‘That would be one way to shut the mage up,’ he thought as he walked through the streets of High Town, pressing his heels into the stone streets harder than necessary. He kept thinking, and then thought some more, and by the time he crawled between his sheets, he had a miserable erection he could do nothing about.
He slept in fits, waking up angry every few hours, and cursed Anders’ name each time.
-
The next day he scowled at Anders before the mage had even opened his mouth. Hawke had them meet her at the city gates, Merrill in tow, and Fenris could not even focus on her explanation of why they had to go to the Wounded Coast. He was exhausted, and cranky, and it was the Mage’s fault.
Anders noticed his glaring and glared back without questioning it. Fenris sneered and stomped off as Hawke finally pointed them in a direction.
The weather today was just as dreary as his mood, rain sprinkling in sporadic bursts that left everyone covered in a fine sheen of mist. It was enough to muddy the roads but not enough to justify turning around, and he grimaced at the squelching sounds his feet made, curling his toes in overstimulated irritation.
“Are you okay, Fenris?” Hawke asked a handful of minutes later, looking curious, but not concerned just yet. “You look like shit.”
“I’m fine,” he spat, rolling his shoulders.
Merrill turned to face him, her twitchy movements sparking a headache behind his eyes that further ruined his mood.
“Hawke is right, Fenris, you look like you didn’t get a wink of sleep.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated, and Anders scoffed.
“Let him be. It’s not our problem if the elf can’t take care of himself.”
Fenris turned to snap at him, but his eyes caught on a pink tongue slipping out to wet his lips. It was an innocuous motion, one he'd seen dozens of times before and never batted an eyelash at. But it took his mind straight back to those four words.
I’d rather blow Fenris.
He faced forward again instead of responding, keeping his eyes resolutely ahead. He pretended he could not feel everyone’s curious eyes on him as he took the lead.
Eventually, as they ran into bandit after bandit, and his sword ran red with blood, his mood cooled and the thoughts of Anders’ uncouth joke slipped his mind.
That is, until they were sitting in front of the fire a few days later, camping on Sundermount after a trip to the Daelish clan. Merril hadn't wanted to come, considering the recent debacle with that cursed mirror, and so it was to Fenris' dismay that Hawke pulled Anders from his clinic. Isabela rounded off their party, egging Hawke and Anders on as they bickered over something or other, and then Hawke said the phrase that had been stuck in his head. “I know, I know! You’d rather blow Fenris.”
Fenris choked on the swig of water he’d tried to take, coughing loud enough to interrupt the conversation. All eyes turned to him.
“All right, Fenris?" Hawke asked.
Fenris thumped a fist against his chest.
“It’s understandable, I’d inhale my drink too if I thought Anders might put his mouth on me.” Isabela winked at him, and he glared, stomping to his tent.
There was no reprieve, of course, because he had been forced to share with the Mage tonight so Hawke could share with Isabela. Normally, he’d just sleep outside, but the weather had only continued to worsen since their trip to the coast, and the air was frigid without the sun. He laid out his bedroll and stuffed himself inside with a huff, staring up and watching the shadows from the lantern flickering against the canvas walls.
It had been a long day, but sleep felt far away. He took a deep breath and tried to relax, tuning out the sounds of the others continuing their conversation outside.
He closed his eyes, stubbornly trying to force himself to sleep to no avail. And then, inevitably, the mage came in for bed. Under normal circumstances, he could ignore the man well enough, even when he was at his most annoying. But tonight, Fenris found himself wide awake and very aware of the man.
“Never knew you were such a prude, Fenris,” Anders said as he laid out his bedroll, an infuriating smirk on his lips.
Fenris huffed and drew his blanket over his shoulders. “Quiet, Mage.”
Anders snickered childishly, and Fenris turned his head toward his pillow, praying for reprieve. He knew that the Maker did not look favorably upon elves, but perhaps he would make an exception.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep my filthy mage mouth away from your cock.”
Fenris didn’t know why he said it. Maybe it was the way the vulgar word sounded in Anders’ accented voice, the way he could picture his mouth wrapping around it with the same enthusiasm he spat his nonsense about the Circle. “I’m... not worried.”
He should have just kept his mouth shut. The words did not come out as sharp as intended. Instead, they fell into the tent with far too much implication. Fenris quickly reached over and turned off the lantern, plunging the tent into darkness. He hoped Anders would leave it at that.
He did not.
“Oh? What, was Isabela right then? Are you so desperate for it you’d resort to a mage?”
Fenris growled and sat up, eyes finding Anders in the darkness. He knew humans could not see in the dark as well as elves, yet somehow the Mage met his eyes evenly, a smug look on his face. “I’m not desperate.”
“Ahh I see,” Anders said, leaning closer as if to share a secret. “You like the idea of a mage servicing you for once. Putting me in my place. Is that it?”
Fenris flinched back, embarrassed at how quickly the shameful fantasy had been ripped out of his head and tossed into the open air. Anders laughed again, a low chuckle, and Fenris clenched his fists in his bedroll. “Silence, Mage.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“…What?”
Anders shuffled closer, settling back on his knees. “If I indulge you in your little fantasy. What’s in it for me?”
Fenris felt his face go hot, and he swallowed. “Do not mock me.”
“I’m not,” Anders said, and it was true that the expression on his face was rather smug, but not insincere. “You’re a pain, but you’re not hideous. If I never slept with people who hated me, my sex life would be terribly dull.”
Fenris felt like he should say something in response to that bleak statement, but felt himself tongue-tied. He did hate Anders. He was a mage—worse, an abomination. It shouldn’t bother him to hear Anders so self-deprecating. Anders was usually so… well, if not confident, then sure of himself. He was always so sure he was right, so stubborn, never stopping to consider the consequences of his actions. It was strange to hear someone like that belittle themselves. Yes, that was it.
“Well?”
Fenris blinked. “I—fool mage, I’m not going to pay you for sexual favors.”
Anders rolled his eyes. “Oh please, Fenris, I’m not asking for your wine fund. No, how about..." He considered a moment, rolling his head on his shoulders. "...The next time Hawke calls us both out, you can’t badmouth mages for the entirety of the mission.”
“…What?” Fenris glanced around, wondering if this was some sort of trick.
“A blowjob to shut you up for a few days? Sounds like a good deal to me.”
Fenris stared at Anders’ face, but he seemed entirely serious. He swallowed, aware that heat was gathering between his thighs. “I…”
Anders raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
“…Fine,” he agreed, unable to help the caution in his tone. Anders shifted to crawl closer, and he leaned away. “N-now?”
Both of Anders’ eyebrows jumped up. “Why not?”
“I…” Fenris glanced to the flap of their tent, which was still hanging open. He lunged forward to close it, tying it shut with more force than necessary. “You might be willing to whore yourself out for cheap favors, but I don’t perform for an audience.”
Anders crossed his arms. “Well, if that’s how you’re going to be, just forget it.” He turned to his bedroll, and Fenris was annoyed at the way it made his heart pound.
“W-wait. I…” The Mage continued to ready himself for bed, undoing the buckles on his coat. Maker, was he really going to debase himself like this just to scratch an itch he’d only just realized he had? “…Apologies, Mage. I would rather the others not be aware of this… arrangement.”
Anders glanced at him from over his shoulder, looking unfairly shocked. “Andraste’s knickerweasles, you really want my mouth on you, don’t you?”
Fenris was glad for the darkness. “Shh!” He pressed his ear to the canvas of the tent, but could hear nothing. Realistically, he knew that it was highly unlikely anyone was paying attention to their conversation, even if they could hear.
Anders was back to looking smug, and Fenris glared at him. The Mage shrugged out of his coat, leaving him in a tattered white shirt and brown leggings. Fenris swallowed again as the Mage crawled closer, trajectory slightly off due to his impaired vision.
Eventually, though, he was close enough for his fingertips to brush Fenris’ knee, and the touch and all its implications made his breath hitch. “You’re just going to have to be quiet.”
Those fingers slid up his knee, over his inner thigh, until knuckles grazed the erection he now sported, straining in his leggings. Anders gasped, tilting his head down, though he couldn’t possibly see.
Fenris shut his eyes, ashamed at himself for the way the simple touch made him shiver. Was it really just because Anders was a mage? Did he want to see the tables turned so badly?
No… would it not be worse if he were this affected by Anders alone? Much better to have the shameful fantasy.
When Fenris opened his eyes, Anders had spread out on his stomach, and seconds later, his lyrium-stained fingertips were undoing the laces on his leggings. “M-mage,” he breathed, leaning hard against the side of the tent, thighs shaking.
“Oh no,” he said, “while I’m doing this, it’s 'Anders,' or I swear on my clinic I’ll stop.”
Fenris bit his tongue as his length was bared to the open air, his hands alighting on Anders’ shoulders and squeezing to release some of the anxious tension.
“A…Anders…”
“Better.” Anders took the leather strap from his hair, making blonde locks spill over his cheeks. Fenris had never seen him like that before, and he was too aroused to question it. He understood a moment later, when he pulled all of his hair back into a neat tail to keep it out of the way. Practical, he thought, trying not to admit, even to himself, how much he wanted.
His breathing had changed to a desperate cadence, heels dragging restlessly against the tent floor, fingers digging into Anders’ shoulders like a lifeline. And then Anders leaned in, lips parting, and Fenris realized he’d made a mistake.
No one had ever done this to him before. It was an act he’d performed many times and had always despised. He’d told himself he’d never make someone service him like that. He’d never humiliate someone like that.
But Anders did not look humiliated. There was a spark of greed in his eyes, and he licked his lips as if he were about to sample an Orlesian delicacy. Fenris knew he’d never forget the sight of him bowed between his thighs, knew it would be burned in his mind forever.
And then his mouth, wet and hot, latched on to the base of his cock and began to suckle, and coherent thought slipped away.