Happy Friday! “I still remember the way you taste.” for whichever pairing you'd like to write 💖
Thank you so much for the prompt!!
(If you’d like me to write you a dragon age fic, send me a prompt from here!)
Characters: Fenris, Anders
Tags: mild sexual themes, they're definitely friends at this point
It’s been three years. Three years since one ill advised dalliance upstairs at The Hanged Man which for all the whores in Kirkwall, Fenris has not been able to forget. And now the mage has had the gall to take his coat off, leaving him in nothing but a loose linen shirt and his threadbare pants. He stretches with the easy grace of an oversized cat, exposing the russet graze of hair on his lower belly, framed by a sharp V of muscle that leads tantalisingly below his waistline. Fenris’ fingers tighten around his cup as he glares at his own blurred reflection in his wine. He knows it is not possible to curse someone like this, not in a way he wouldn’t have noticed. But he cannot help feeling bewitched by the infuriating man in front of him as Anders tilts his head back, red-blonde hair wavy with the humidity, loose and soft in the candlelight.
He’s saying something to Isabela, and when he laughs his stubble-grazed throat ripples in a way that Fenris resolutely tries to ignore. He finishes his wine in one long gulp, ignoring the sting burning through the sweetness of it, and gets to his feet with an angry scrape of his chair on the wooden floorboards. Fenris ignores Varric’s mild chastisement and the burning of his ears, muttering a half-hearted excuse about getting another drink as he storms downstairs to the bar.
The Hanged Man is busy tonight. It’s always busy. Thanks to Varric’s spies, it’s the only place in Lowtown where it’s possible to get a drink without a knife to the stomach for your trouble. Fenris presses through the mostly human crowd easily enough, taking a certain pleasure in shoving aside men almost twice his size and ignoring their shouts of embarrassment and anger. He’s as safe here as he ever is anywhere in Kirkwall. Moreso, thanks to the shroud of Varric’s favour. They might want to start a fight with him, but they won’t, not where Corff can see them.
Mouth and nose full of the taste of sweat and liquor, Fenris finds his way to the splintered bar, tattooed with a few dozen wood carvings. He recognises Isabela’s work in a particularly lewd piece and takes a moment to snort, before setting his cup on the bar and waiting for Corff to attend to him. Someone tall and, unusually, clean-smelling, squeezes in beside him. Fenris refuses to look at him. “What do you want, mage?”
Anders is more relaxed than usual - a rare victory in itself - and his smile comes easily. “Tell me, do you practise being that disagreeable in the mirror?” He arranges his fox-like features into a poor approximation of gravitas and deepens his voice. “Death to the imperium.”
Fenris raises an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be me?”
Anders crows, flinging his long arms into the air. “Hey, you recognised it, I’m counting that as a victory.”
Fenris scowls, turning away from him. “Are you here for any cause other than to mock me?”
“Yes, actually. ‘Bela wants some Antivan tequila. And I wanted a word with you.”
That’s unusual enough to give Fenris pause, and he shifts his attention away from the merry jig of the tavern’s regular band, at last giving Anders his full attention. In the candlelight, his freckles look like gold dust, and his brown eyes are copper coins. “Are you well?”
Anders’ face does something complicated before he laughs, covering his mouth with a scarred hand. “Oh, ah, no. No, I’m fine.”
Fenris’ frown deepens. “The clinic, then?” He lowers his voice, stepping closer to avoid the prying eyes and ears of the pressing throng around them. “If it’s threatened, you must know Varric would aid you in protecting it.”
Anders’ broad shoulders visibly relax, and Fenris is all-at-once all too aware of the sweet, clean, warm smell of linen and elfroot that clings to him. Anders doesn’t move, doesn’t breach his personal space. But Fenris feels the weight of his gaze like a kiss. “I know, Fenris. Thank you.” Anders’ mouth twists, and the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth crease as he glances across the bar, where Corff is deep in a conversation about pigeons with a Fereldan woman.
After a moment, Anders returns his attention to Fenris, and his expression is uncharacteristically nervous. His long fingers tap the rough, soft, worn wood of the bar. “I just…wondered whether you might be interested in some company. From me. Tonight.”
Fenris sways backward, taking in the length of Anders’ body as he does so and trying to ignore the coil of heat in his belly at the memory of it. Anders, on his knees, a smile pulling at his lips, even stretched obscenely around - “What gives you the impression that I should desire it?”
If Fenris had wanted Anders to take his answer as rejection, it has the opposite effect. Instead, his eyes become hooded, darkening in the low, warm light of the tavern as he leans forward, tall body curving like a sapling in the breeze. When Anders speaks, he does so directly into Fenris’ ear. His breath is hot as it falls down his neck. “Because you haven’t been able to take your eyes off me all evening. And-”
Anders touches him, long fingers trailing lightly over his shoulder and bicep, deftly avoiding the lyrium lines as they do. Fenris shivers, feeling his skin prickle at just the touch of him. When Anders speaks, his voice is barely a murmur, “I still remember the taste of you.”
Then he withdraws his hand, picks up the tequila Corff has just poured for Isabela, and saunters away into the crowd.
“You alright Fenris?” Corff says, amicably, filling Fenris’ cup from an earthenware jug of Tevene wine. “Look like you’ve been struck by lightning.”
Fenris doesn’t bother to reply. He takes his cup, murmurs a thanks, and weaves his way back into the crowd. He has no intention of sleeping alone tonight.
