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Why he demeans himself like this, Fenris doesn’t know. Why does he sit and wait, watching what he can’t have? He begs for scraps, the mage. It is absurd how he willingly submits himself like this. Why? Fenris can see the way his eyes track the strong lines of Hawke’s body. Over her shoulder, he watches as the mage follows each thrust of Fenris’ hips, gaze trained on Fenris’ prick moving inside Hawke’s wet cunt. Anders’ tongue darts out to wet his lips, his eyelids lowered as though he’s drunk.
Fenris grazes his lips over Hawke’s pulse point, brushing her hair aside and not taking his eyes off the mage.
‘How you doing, Anders?’ Hawke asks, her voice shaky – but Fenris can hear the grin in her words. She pushes herself down on his prick, moaning loudly and squeezing tight around him. Her thighs tense, trembling slightly with pleasure.
‘Never better,’ the mage replies, a bit dry. His trousers are tented at the front and he’s holding his shirt in his hands. His knuckles are white where they twist the material. Fenris can almost see the desire burning inside him and the way he shakes with the temptation to touch, to have.
‘Control yourself,’ Fenris reminds him, breath ghosting over Hawke’s shoulder. A tremor runs through her body and she squirms against him. ‘I can see how much you want this. You must restrain-‘
‘I’m in control,’ Anders snaps at him, and Hawke stills.
‘C’mon,’ she says. ‘Play nice now.’
‘When have you ever played nice?’ Fenris asks in a low murmur against her skin, and she chuckles.
‘I’m nice all the time,’ she says. ‘I’m being nice right now.’ She rolls her hips and Fenris tenses, letting out a low groan. She is warm and wet and tight around him. ‘See? So I’m nice to you, you’re nice to Anders. That’s the deal.’
‘I’m not sure it is.’ Fenris blinks slowly at the mage, watching as his teeth dig into his lower lip. It’s already red from continuous biting. Fenris does not envy him. To be this close to Hawke, to smell her on the air, to hear her moan, the way she gasps when Fenris pushes into her just right. It must be torture.
Fenris would do this with no one else. The idea of sharing Hawke is repulsive. It scratches inside him like how the lyrium scratches under his skin. For as long as they belong to one another he knows that he could not bear the thought of anyone else having her. Fear made him leave the first time and although he came back, he knows that he is not… whole enough to give away a portion of what is his.
But this is not that. He knows that the mage loves Hawke and by showing him what he can’t have and letting him have only the smallest taste he is hardly sharing.
Fenris can feel himself getting close. He brings one hand up to cup Hawke’s breast and tease at her nipple and presses kisses which quickly turn to love bites to her shoulder. He would like her to come before he does, not least so that Anders does not get that pleasure – at least not first. The mage is leaning forward now, closer. Fenris can see him shuffling closer, inch by inch; but he stops him with a sharp glare.
He says nothing, because Hawke doesn’t like it when they fight, but Anders knows what the look means. He stills, eyes trained on where Fenris’ fingers pull at Hawke’s nipple. Her back arches.
‘Maker,’ she grits out. ‘Fen, I need…’
Fenris drops his other hand between her legs to where they join. She is so wet that when his fingers slip over her clit it’s a fumbling, frictionless movement – but she seems to appreciate it nonetheless. She turns her head, kissing him deeply and Fenris closes his eyes. He can feel the mage on the air, gaze prickling them. He rubs his fingers in slippery circles over Hawke’s clit and pushes into her cunt faster, pulling her closer to the edge. She is a tense line, muscles straining. She is larger than him but he holds her weight over himself effortlessly.
When she climaxes, she stills. Her skin vibrates. Fenris opens his eyes halfway and looks at the mage. Anders gaze isn’t focused anymore, it’s jumping around all over Hawke and Fenris both, erratic, like he’s trying to take in everything about both of them all at once. The desire is written on his face plainly. Fenris might still be learning how to read print, slow and stilted and uncertain – but this is a language that he can interpret easily. Anders meets his look suddenly and that is when Fenris feels something burn through his spine.
He moves his hand away from Hawke’s cunt – she is pushing at him, writhing and shaking her head too much -- and holds his slick fingers out toward Anders. He curls them in a beckoning motion and the mage crawls slowly closer. Heat travels up Fenris’ arm when Anders curls his hand around his wrist and brings his hand toward his bitten red lips. He nearly pulls away, wary of magic, but holds steady and lets Anders lick over his fingers before pulling one digit into his mouth.
The mage’s tongue shapes around his finger and slowly pulls back. Hawke is watching them and she rolls her hips in a lazy, spent motion. The burning feeling searing up Fenris’ wrist shoots down his stomach in time with the mage sucking Hawke’s taste from his skin and he feel himself crashing toward orgasm.
He curls in on himself, muffling any sound on Hawke’s shoulder. She mumbles something encouraging and brings a hand up to stroke his hair. Anders’ presence tethers him in the present. Sometimes he still finds it too much, being with Hawke. Letting himself go. But he can’t let his guard down with the mage here, and it’s good. Better in a different way. Everything feels so immediate and real and it seems to last forever as he spills inside her.
Anders nips at his fingertips and Fenris pulls his hand away. He wraps both arms around Hawke, holding her close for a moment, because he knows what will come next. It is fine. It is the arrangement, and it works for them. But still, just for a moment he wants to feel his moment. Buried inside her, slowly softening, heart pounding in his chest.
‘Aw, snugglewuffin,’ Hawke says, linking her fingers with his and wriggling on his lap. Fenris laughs, the humour bubbling up inside him. He opens his eyes slowly. The mage is looking at the floor, hair falling into his face, casting shadows over his expression. ‘Cheers for that.’
Anders snorts. Fenris fights back a smile because he doesn’t like laughing at the same time as the mage. Slowly, he pulls out of her and Hawke kneels up on shaky legs. She crawls across the bed up toward the pillows, where she flops down with a heavy thwump. She rolls onto her back and lets her legs fall apart. Her cunt is framed in dark curls, glistening with wetness. In the candlelight, Fenris can see her pulse, his own cum oozing out in a slick line, trickling down onto the sheets below.
‘Please,’ Anders says, his voice nearly cracking with want – and it’s the first thing he’s asked for tonight.
Fenris nods. The mage has been adequate. He has restrained himself. He has shown some control.
‘Peckish?’ Hawke asks Anders, slipping her flingers between her legs and playing with the seed sliding out of her.
In response, Anders only groans. He crawls across the bed, long limbs clumsy in their hurry, and he drops between her spread thighs. He buries his face in her cunt like a starved man, and for a moment Fenris can only hear the wet, slick, messy noises.
Curious, he moves up the bed to watch. As he does so he runs his hand down Anders’ bare spine and guides both the mage’s hands behind his back to clasp them at the base of his spine with the silent warning don’t touch. He holds the mage there and leans forward, watching him eat Hawke out. Anders’ lips and tongue glisten with spunk and Hawke’s own wetness.
‘Shit, Maker,’ Hawke gasps, hands coming down to grip at Anders’ long hair. She holds him in place, hips shifting. She grinds her cunt against his face and Anders seems to revel in it.
‘Clean her up,’ Fenris tells him and Anders nods fiercely. As though he loves this, being nothing more than an object, an accessory. He has never gotten anything from this before. He gets used and he goes home hard and wanting and he never complains. He thanks them for it.
Why? Fenris wonders again. Why does the mage allow himself to be debased like this?
He tightens his grip on Anders’ wrists and pushes him down so that his hard prick grinds futilely against the bed, too rough for pleasure or release. Anders just opens his mouth and sucks at Hawke’s cunt lips, cleaning up every single droplet of come as it oozes out. He swallows every few seconds, like he doesn’t want to lose any of it.
Hawke thrashes her head against the pillow as she fucks herself against his face. Fenris can see that she will come a second time. Her chest is flushed, her cheeks pink. Sweat glistens on her skin and she’s making gasping, breathy noises which aren’t always words.
‘Anders,’ she groans. ‘Yes, Anders – Maker yes, that’s perfect.’ She strokes a thumb over Anders’ cheek and opens her eyes, looking at Fenris. ‘You’re both perfect.’
Lies, Fenris knows. They are both liars who will pretend to tolerate each other as long as it gets them what they both need – which is this. But Hawke knows this. She just hopes it will lead to something better, Fenris suspects. A reduction of animosity. A foolish thought, maybe, but Hawke is allowed to be foolish sometimes. It’s endearing.
‘That’s enough,’ Fenris says after Hawke comes for a second time. He tugs at Anders’ arms, pulling him away from her. She is gasping against the pillows, trying to catch her breath. The mage looks dazed himself, as though he were the one to climax. Fenris knows he hasn’t, because he can still the line of his hard prick tenting his trousers if he glances down.
Anders nods, and Fenris lets his wrists go free. Cracking his neck, the mage wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and looks around for his shirt. ‘I’ll, uh…’
‘Stay.’
It surprises all three of them that it is not Hawke that says it, but Fenris. He clears his throat, glancing quickly at Hawke, who nods, and then down at the bedspread. ‘I will help you with that,’ he says, vaguely referencing the tenting fabric of Anders’ pants. ‘And Hawke. We’ll help you, and then you will go.’
‘No,’ Anders says quickly. He’s found his shirt, and he starts to pull it on. He doesn’t look at either of them. ‘No, I’m going to head home. Thanks. But it’s enough.’
‘Anders,’ Hawke says, a little sharply.
The mage shakes his head and repeats himself. ‘No,’ he says, firm. ‘It’s enough.’
Fenris snorts, coughing out a laugh. He has known mages, magisters. And not a one has ever asked for less than what is on offer. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he says. He reaches forward, stopping Anders from pulling his tunic down over his messy hair. He pulls it away, throwing it back onto the bed. Anders looks at him with suspicious eyes, but Fenris looks away quickly, uncomfortable. ‘Just lie down.’
Cautiously, Anders does. He settles on the pillow next to Hawke, who rolls over to smile at him. She reaches out and brushes a hair out of his face. It is caught in his eyelash, and the movement is so gentle and tender that Fenris tastes the jealousy on his tongue before it touches him.
It doesn’t touch him. It just sits harmlessly in his mouth, almost sweet, and stalls words from forming on his lips. He moves down to lower himself between the mage’s legs, watching him and Hawke out of the corner of his eye as he does so. They are looking at each other and the expression on Anders’ face is contorted almost with pain from how much he wants her. Hawke is unreadable, a smirk playing at her lips.
Fenris looks away, down at the skin of Anders’ abdomen. There is a trail of fair hair leading down to where the ties hold his trousers in place. His stomach is flat, almost too skinny. He smells of arousal and healing herbs and the simple tang of a human body. There is a scent that Fenris associates with magic. It is something like the morning after a thunderstorm and overly heady incense.
He can’t smell it on Anders, though. Odd.
Lowering his head to taste, Fenris runs his tongue up through that line of fine hair as he brings a hand up to feel Anders through the fabric of his slacks. His erection is hot and firm in his grip, twitching with desire. Fenris palms him and squeezes him teasingly, peppering kisses to the skin of his belly. He surprises himself by enjoying this.
He glances up and his hair blocks most of his sight of the two at the top of the bed. But he can see that Anders is staring down at him, lips parted. Hawke is touching his chest, fingers grazing over his nipples. She pinches one roughly. Anders swears and his hips jerk, bumping Fenris in the side with a knee. Hawke laughs when Fenris glares at her.
‘Keep going,’ she prompts.
‘Do that again, mage,’ Fenris growls warningly.
Anders lets out an offended, breathy noise. ‘Me? That wasn’t my fau—‘
He is cut off as Fenris tugs his trousers down over his erection and sucks his prick into his mouth.
Anders tastes bitterly of precum, and the heady smell of him fills Fenris’ nostrils as he swallows him down. It is easy. The mage isn’t particularly large and Fenris has done this before. The wiry hairs at the base of his prick tickle his nose and Fenris breathes deeply as he hollows his cheeks and pulls up again.
‘If I’d known you were good at this, I might have been nicer to you all these years,’ Anders comments. Hawke slaps his arm admonishingly, which is good because it saves Fenris the trouble. He resolves to shut the mage the hell up.
Closing his eyes, Fenris blocks out everything other than his actions. He listens to Anders’ gasps and moans. He feels the way his hips shift when Fenris sucks at the head of his prick, tongue lightly teasing at his frenulum. He brings a hand up to squeeze gently at his balls and feels Anders’ prick throb in his mouth.
The mage is close. It was never going to take him long. Not after how worked up he had already been. Fenris wonders what he and Hawke are doing above him. He doesn’t want to look or listen, because what if they are kissing? What if they are holding each other, looking at each other? What if this was all a mistake and the mage has been slowly and carefully stealing Hawke away from him?
The thought makes the lyrium under Fenris’ skin light up. He opens his eyes then, seeing only blue glow and the flickering gold of candlelight in the darkness for a moment and tasting the mage shooting off in his mouth. It is sudden and salty and Anders’ cry is loud. Fenris sucks back up his prick, swallowing as he fills his mouth and careful not to choke. He looks at Hawke and the mage, and they are both staring down at him. Anders’ chest is rising and falling rapidly, the muscles in his stomach contracting, his lips parted.
Fenris slowly pulls off his prick and wipes a hand over his mouth. He clears his throat.
‘That was beautiful,’ Hawke says, voice rough. Her eyes are sparkling and Fenris feels something drop in his stomach because he knows what she’s thinking. She believes this to be a breakthrough of some sort.
Anders just sink bonelessly into the bed as if he’s getting comfortable. That’s not good, Fenris thinks – but the jealousy still hasn’t settled inside him and instead he feels oddly calm. Fingers shaking slightly, he laces the mage’s trousers up again over his softening prick and reaches for his shirt. He throws it at him. It lands on his face, and Anders sits up immediately.
‘It’s time for you to go home,’ Fenris tells him. The mage pulls his shirt over his messy hair and turns to smile at Hawke apologetically. Fenris licks the taste of him off his lips and scowls. ‘Was it enough?’
It takes a long moment for Anders to pull his gaze away from Hawke, who is grinning widely, sappy and hopeful. He shrugs a shoulder when he finally looks at Fenris and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.
He says, ‘Too much, I think.’