tainted-petals asked:

NSFW Meme (Fenders obviously)

Who is louder?

Anders makes these noises.  They surprise Fenris at first, but when he thinks back to the first time they kissed—heated, in the moment, hands grabbing, fingers bruising—and the way Anders had moaned into his mouth like he was dying…well.  Fenris really shouldn’t be surprised.

Who is more experimental?

Anders likes to try things.  He likes to touch and lick and bite and beg, likes to pull Fenris on top of him and demand.  It takes Fenris longer to become comfortable, longer to know what he wants and that he can ask for it.  He’s not used to asking and getting—neither of them are, really—but Anders is more ready, more willing to try for it.

Who takes more risks? 

Anders, heart on his sleeve and pursuing life, liberty, and love, takes more risks.

Really, when he closed the distance between the two of them in that alley, when lips met instead of fists, wasn’t that the biggest risk of all?

Do they fuck or make love?

At first it’s fucking, angry and impulsive, fingers and mouths bruising, bodies shoved up against walls and hard places.  They fuck like they fight, sharp words and tongues, emotions explosive.

Gradually, things change.  They begin to stay, they begin to listen.  In the wee hours of the morning, when the sun is only just beginning to slip through the streets and back alleys of Kirkwall, that they have more in common than they thought.  That they’re experiences are both valid, and that neither negates the other’s.

Antagonism turns to friendship turns to…something else neither of them are really quick willing to name.

Lights on or off?

Things often happen so quickly they don’t even think of the lights, and so they remain on, their bodies bared to each other.

Who is more likely to be caught masturbating?

There have been nights when Fenris can’t sleep, his body aching, nightmares haunting him, that he gets up and walks, wanders Hightown and Lowtown.  Eventually, his feet lead him to Anders and his clinic.  He lets himself in on these nights.  Sometimes he finds Anders asleep, quiet and warm.  He blinks awake and scoots over, makes room for Fenris in his bed.  Or gets up and makes tea.  Welcomes Fenris.  Sometimes he finds him in the middle of a nightmare himself, limbs flailing. Fenris wakes him up then, voice and hands gentle.

And sometimes he finds Anders awake, feet and back flat on his bed, hand around his cock and hips straining.

“What me to help with that?” he asks, and Anders jerks, groans, looks at him with heat filled eyes.  Licks his lips and nods.

Who comes first?

Anders, almost always.  It’s more difficult for Fenris, and the pain his markings leave him in.  But Anders finds ways to touch him, places that feel amazing.  Much later, he plays with some of his healing skills to take the edge off, tries other things to drive Fenris crazy.  He’s determined to, at some point, make Fenris come hard and fast and firsti.

Who is better at oral and who prefers it?

Anders likes to use his mouth, likes to suck and bite and leave his own marks on the clear plains of skin at Fenris’ hips.  To wrap his fingers around the base of his cock and suck him down until those hips are driving up.  To feel Fenris’ fingers slip into his hair—loose for just this purpose—and hold on.

Sometimes it’s too much for Fenris, and he has to pull Anders off, push him over onto his back and suck his cock instead.  But it’s Anders who goes for it first, it’s Anders who originally dropped to his knees and started this all.

Who is more submissive?

They’ve both worked so hard to have any control over their lives that submission of any sort is difficult, and neither of them care for it.  In bed—or against walls, chairs, tables—they meet each other head on.

Who usually initiates things?

It’s a trade off.  Depends on the day, the week.  On whether they’ve been arguing recently.  On how often they see one another.

There was one time when it had been a while—long enough for them to begin to doubt what was happening—that neither of them wanted to initiate, the both of them waiting for the other to make the first move.

It had been Hawke, sighing into his pint, saying, “Maker, would the two of you just get a room again?” that tipped them back over.  After, limbs spread out on sweat-soaked sheets, they’d laughed about it and known that maybe things were different now, maybe this really was something.

Who is more sensitive?

Fenris, and this is both a good and bad thing.  Sometimes, it means Anders barely has to touch him and he’s driven wild.  Other times, his markings are too painful, make everything too much and he pulls away with a bitten off groan.  It was awkward the first time it happened, but they know each other now.  Really know each other.  This is where Anders’ experiments with healing help.

This is how they learn to be quiet with each other, and gentle.  Where they learn how to talk and listen and hear.

Thinking about Fenris and Anders’ hands. How Fenris doesn’t like to be touched, but likes Anders’ hands. Appreciates the beauty in the line of his fingers, the width if his palms. Appreciates, now, the power that flows through them, capable of healing or harming.

Thinking about Fenris waking in the middle if the night, the pain enough to drag him out of sleep. Of Anders turning to him, words unneeded, pressing careful fingers and palms against him, easing the pain where he can. Muttering soothing nothings as Fenris floats in the dark, everything else drowned out by the sound of Anders’ voice, the feel of his hands.

stormdragon asked:

Fenris/Anders, 13?

“Have you ever wanted to hate someone?”


“Have you ever wanted to hate someone?”

Anders sighs, opens his eyes to stare up at the canopy above the bed Fenris has claimed for his own, now that he occasionally needs room for more than one body. “Yes,” he says, “often and vehemently. Usually I go straight from wanting to hate them to full-on hatred.”

Fenris hums beside him, and Anders can feel the heat coming off of him. They don’t touch much, after. Fenris’ skin is sensitive, and neither of them are used to physical company, not like this. Though Anders hopes, one day…

“Yes,” Fenris says. “Me, too.”

He’s silent for a moment, and Anders wonders if he’s fallen asleep finally. If he has, Anders could roll over, turn toward him. Study his profile in the ebbing firelight. He enjoys looking at Fenris. Sometimes it’s easier if he’s asleep.

But then Fenris says, “But have you ever wanted to hate someone and…found that you couldn’t?”

Anders’ breath catches, his heart doing something complicated in his chest. Beside him, he hears Fenris shift to look at him.

“I—” He turns to look at Fenris, at his familiar face, his slightly mussed hair. His eyes, piercing, but softening around the edges. Anders swallows. “Yes, I have.”

The corner of Fenris’ mouth twitches and he nods. “Yes,” he says, “me, too.”

When he rolls to his side and reaches for Anders, Anders goes easily.

majestic-lizard-birb asked:

I like to just imagine Fenris carrying Anders around for various reasons.

At first I was imagining him carrying Anders like you would, say, a damsel who is swept off their feet, or a bride being carried over the threshold of their new home.  But now I’m picturing Anders picking fights with templars and Fenris just being like, “Nope,” and grabbing him around the waist and throwing him over his shoulder and walking away as Anders protests.

marswithghosts asked:

Fenders, where it's time to get a pet, but Fenris doesn't exactly want a cat.

[Sooooo this ended up being the exact opposite of what you asked for.  I mis-remembered.  I hope you’ll forgive me. <3]

Fenris stares down into the mewling box on the corner in Hightown. Thereare five kittens within, their eyes scrunched, their mouths wide as they cry.How Anders can stand the sound…He shakes himself, and is about to walk awaywhen he notices a sixth, stripped and smaller than the rest, it’s mouth—blessedly—closed. It’s watching him, eyes wide and golden, and something about it catches at his memory.

He turns to the girl minding the box. “Excuse me,” he says, “but is that…is that a tabby?”

The girl, no more than eight he’s sure, rolls her eyes at him. “Yes, serah. But he’s the runt. Sure you’re interested?”

He’s not, at all, and he goes to shake his head and step away when he remembers the last night he and Anders spent together, voices hushed in the dark, sharing parts of themselves they hadn’t before, stories about the past, both happy and painful. Fenris had forgotten he contained joy like that anymore. Anders had helped him find his way. Had given in return stories of Circles and templars and cats name Wiggums, Ser Pounce-a-Lot. Ridiculous names.

He’d mentioned once to Merrill that he liked tabbies.

“Yes,” he says. “I’ll take him.”

Keep reading

ypsilon42 asked:

30 + fenders, please?

[learning what the other person likes sexually.]

They learn each other slowly at first; Fenris discovering Anders’ hands grab that much harder at him when he bites at his neck, Anders finding that Fenris arches into him—neck bared—if he mouths at the line of his hip. Touch is something they both crave, though neither of them will ask for it. Not to begin with anyway.

It’s months before they have sex in a bed, and when they do, Anders discovers that Fenris is vocal, much more vocal than he’d originally thought. He’s vocal and receptive, and he tugs at Anders’ hands when they wander away from where he wants them and swears when Anders refuses. Threatens to harm him when Anders smirks.

Anders knows now, though, that those threats mean nothing, that they hold no heat. He also knows that while Fenris likes it rough—teeth and nails and hard walls against their backs—he melts when Anders kisses him slow, comes harder when Anders makes him wait for it. In the confines of Fenris’ bed, he learns the contours of Fenris’ hips, the dips of his spine. The slight curve of his cock to the left. He learns that for as pushy as Fenris is, as much as he likes to be in control, his eyes go darker when Anders kneels over him, reaching behind with slick fingers to work himself open. He watches Anders and his pleasure intently, fingers tight on Anders’ hips.

In this moment, Anders learns that for as often as Fenris will bend him over and fuck him—hands bruising, thrusts frantic—it is the eye contact he craves, the reassurance that, yes, Anders is here with him.

anonymous asked:

fenders kiss?

I hope you like this, anon!


They don’t kiss a lot at first, and when they do it’s hard, biting and bruising. Fingers tear at buckles and ties, frantic for skin, unthinking. They push and pull, leave purpled prints on skin, until they both tumble over the edge.

Clean up is taken care of quickly, efficiently. A solitary activity. They leave with a look and a nod and the memory of skin on skin, hot breath shared between.

It isn’t until later—much later, years later—that Fenris kneels before Anders after a fight, his hands shaking as Anders’ heals himself. He kneels, reaching out. Presses fingers to Anders’ jaw, brushing them over stubble, brushing back past his ear into his hair. Anders looks at him with wide eyes, lips parted. Breath stops between them, and it’s too much for Fenris, the pink of Anders’ mouth and gold of his hair, the gleam in his eye and blood on his cheek. He makes the choice, leans in, fits their mouths together careful. Feels relief ring through them both.

anonymous asked:

a ♥ fenders possibly? :D?

[This is from the next part of the Tipping Point series.  Angst.  Set after the events of “Dissent.”]

With a nod and a smile, Hawke turns to leave. Varric follows, glancing at Anders with an unreadable look.  Fenris turns as well, and it is only then that Anders can look at him.  Even the back of his head looks angry, and Anders frowns, wonders if there’s any use in talking to Fenris or if all bridges have been burned, if they’ll go back to what they were before, barely civil, or worse, nothing at all.

He’d thought—foolishly—after the last time, after Fenris had touched him in the bath all gentle and firm and quiet, after he’d stayed, pressed Anders to dry sheets, mouthed at his skin and come in the crux of his hip…He’d thought they’d crossed some boundary, moved beyond the familiar into something new.

How easily things change.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I woke up so i'm giving you more: its 4 in the morning, theres some guy shoveling the snow

Scratching his hip, Fenris pads into his kitchen, over to the stove. The read out above the burners glows 3:59 as he grabs the kettle. He’s been unable to sleep and had decided to exploit his insomnia by working on his book.

But first, tea.

He carries the kettle over to the sink and is beginning to fill it when he hears a noise outside.

Lifting up on his toes, Fenris scowls and peers out the window above the sink. Scowls harder when he sees a bundled figure in his front yard shoveling snow from his walkway. The sidewalk beyond him is cleared, as is the walkway to the neighboring house on the left. Having only moved in within the last month, Fenris still hasn’t met that neighbor. Hawke calls Fenris a hermit. Fenris argues he just doesn’t like people.

Aveline calls them both idiots.

Fenris sighs and puts the now full kettle on the stove, starts it boiling. Wraps his robe tighter around him. There’s no time like early morning to introduce himself, right?

The air bites at his bare ankles when he steps onto the porch and he shivers, crosses his arms. “Excuse me,” he calls to the figure in his yard. “Excuse me, hi. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until it stops snowing?”

The figure continues shoveling and then looks up, the streetlights—and the light on Fenris’ porch—revealing a man’s face. He’s attractive, jaw stubbled and strong, eyes friendly.

“Maybe,” he says. “But then it would be that much harder.”

Fenris tilts his head. “Do you often shovel stranger’s yards in the middle of the night?”

“You’re not a stranger,” the man answers. He sounds a little breathless, breath a white cloud in the air. “You’re my neighbor. And it’s not the middle of the night, it’s early morning.”

Fenris rolls his eyes, can’t help it. “As much as I appreciate it, you really don’t have to…?”

“Anders. And I know. I don’t mind. I used to do it for the couple who lived here. Habit and all that.” He stops, close to Fenris on the front steps. There’s snow caught in the copper gold hair that peeks out from under his knit hat. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are dark and Fenris feels something stir within him.

“I mean,” Anders continues. “Unless you mind? I can stop. I mean, after tonight. I won’t leave it half done.”

Fenris shakes his head. “I don’t mind,” he says. “But let me…I don’t know. I was just making a pot of tea? If you wanted to come in and, uh, warm up.”

Anders smiles, wide and bright. “Do you often invite strangers in for tea in the middle of the night?”

“You’re not a stranger,” Fenris says, smirking. “You’re Anders. And I’m Fenris. And when you’re done with that, I’ll make sure you’re warmed up—I mean. Tea. I’ll make sure you have tea.”

Anders smirks back at him, and Fenris rolls his eyes. Goes back inside. Figures writing can wait until later.

anonymous asked:

Imagine Anders deciding that he fancies a change and shaving off his scruff. Fenris doesn't take well to it--the next few days are a chorus of 'I don't like it' and wounded looks, twinned with pointed little noises of complaint every time Anders kisses him. Eventually the scruff reappears, and though Fenris won't admit it he cannot help but be secretly pleased.

!!!!! I love this, anon. I love this SO MUCH. Thank you!

He’d miss the scratch of it, the feel of it beneath his palms, against his cheek, the inside of his thigh. The smoothness would be intriguing, but Anders isn’t smooth; he’s rough edges and sharp points, prickly when he doesn’t feel like being soft.

(Maybe it even drove Fenris a little mad at first, but when it’s gone he grumbles and complains because, damn it, it’s grown on him. And Anders looks too…young, too vulnerable, without it.)

“I wasconcerned.  I thought you might need a friend—” 

“Is that what we are?” Fenris asks. 

“I’d hoped at the very least for acquaintance.” 

Fenris doesn’t move as Anders closes the distance between them.  He stops about a food away, reaches out to touch Fenris’ shoulder when it seems he’s become lost in thought. The touch ignites something in Fenris and he glows bright, blue.  Turns on Anders with both hands, forcing him backward until he hits a wall. The movement knocks his breath away. 

“And what if I don’t want to be friends?” Fenris growls, hands fisted in Anders’ robes.  His eyes are dark and wild and Anders’ heart is racing, his body thrumming.  He’s opening is mouth to respond when Fenris fits his own over it.

[More Fenders lighthouse AU snippets. Because I can.]

It’s the middle of the night when Fenris awakens. He knows because he can’t see anything. Slowly, his eyes adjust to the light of the moon coming through the cracks in the shutters. When he looks around, he notices Anders is not in his bed. Instead, the sheets are pushed back, the top blanket gone. It was the door that woke him, he realizes, the sound of the latch. He wonders what’s going on, if it’s possible Anders has taken to somnambulistic wanderings. If he’ll have to start tying him down. His skin heats at that thought, and he brusquely pushes it down.

Slipping on his slippers and forgoing his blanket to grab his more sensible coat hanging on a peg by the door, Fenris heads outside. Anders can’t have gone far, it’s only been—

Standing just outside the front gate, Anders has his blanket pulled sloppily around his shoulders and his head tipped back, face angled to the ocean and the too full moon. Fenris’ breath catches in his throat, and he tells himself he’s just startled, but he knows it’s a lie.

In the moonlight, barefoot on the damp earth, Anders looks unearthly. Unreal. His hair is haloed about his head, the pale red-gold of it lost in the silvered light. At first, Fenris thinks his eyes are closed, but as he steps closer he sees they’re open, wide and dark, taking in the world. He’s afraid to say anything, afraid to break the spell, or startle Anders if he’s asleep. His hand touches the gate.

Anders turns his head to look at him. His lips are parted and damp and when he sees Fenris, the corners lift.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” His voice is hushed, and Fenris shivers. He thinks of all the things that can come from the sea, mermaids and sirens and selkies, stories he remembers vaguely from his childhood. Wonders if maybe, somehow—

“The moon was so bright,” Anders continues. “I wanted to see it. I was…compelled.” His mouth twists slightly, and he looks sheepish, and Fenris doesn’t know how he gets from one side of the fence to the other, but that embarrassed half-smile is sweet against his lips.

Anders’ mouth drops open beneath his, a sound of surprise escaping. He doesn’t move, though, doesn’t step back and away. He lets Fenris kiss him, kisses Fenris back. The sea roars in Fenris’ ears, and his heart feels like it’s breaking.

When he steps back, Anders’ eyebrows are still raised in surprise. His lips are damp, the softest pink. His eyes are dark as the earth beneath their feet. His hands are clutching is blanket.

“I was…compelled,” Fenris says, and Anders smiles at him, a smile that travels the entirety of his face.

onyxmoonstone asked:

Anders recites children's stories and fairy tales when Fenris has nightmares.

Oh my gooooooooood, my heart.

He would.  He totally would.  I can see Fenris trying to play the nightmares off.  Brushing off Anders’ attempts to comfort at first—maybe this whole actually spending the night together thing is new—and so Anders casually begins, “Have you ever heard the story of…” and before Fenris knows it, they’re curled together, the fire burning low, Anders’ voice calming even as it rises and falls with the story.  Fenris’ eyes begin to droop and then…nothing…

(I really want to play with this idea.  Would that be okay?)

Writing Update

- Posted the third part of Fenders fic last night:  Interference.

- Just finished typing up the fourth part (6000+ words, Fenris POV, explicit).

- I don’t know how many parts it’s going to be overall, but I do have it plotted out–thanks to several multi-hour long car conversations with cautionzombies–through the end of DA2 and beyond.

- Next part…the shit hits the fan.

- Have made a tag for the series here.

onyxmoonstone asked:

Anders is under explicit orders to never tell anyone about the purring sound Fenris makes when Anders scratches under his chin or behind his ears.

omg this kills me.  Just the idea of Fenris finally being okay—and open enough—for this kind of physical affection?  Oh, my heart.

I can also see the first time it happens.  The way Anders would pause, surprised, and the way Fenris would turn to him and just be like, “Not a word.”  Anders nodding, biting back a laugh, and going back to massaging and scritching his scalp.