Anders was very much used to getting into heaps of trouble with the Templars, antics ranging from seemingly harmless pranks to outright disobedience in form of numerous bard-worthy escape attempts, but this was something on a completely different level to anything else the mage's sharp mind could have ever predicted or concocted. There were always new Templar recruits pouring into the Ferelden Circle of Magi for their 'field' training, all from various ages and walks of life, some more attractive than others but all certainly starved for attention, a little something that a few mages took keenly to exploiting in order to guarantee themselves a hassle-free existence. The blonde mage understood the reasoning behind it but couldn't quite find it in himself to condone such behavior simply because every Templar in his eyes was more akin to a rabid Mabari than a human being, thus making his stomach churn at the thought of willingly giving himself to a dog wearing human skin. This being exactly why his current predicament would have risen more than a few eyebrows if anyone other than himself and the other more-than-willing participant got a whiff of the situation.
"I'm sorry I have never done this sort of thing before and I don't want to hurt you, so if you could maybe give me a couple pointers I would really appreciate it." There was that bashful smile again and he had found himself completely disarmed and dismantled, all well-practiced sarcastic responses dissipating almost immediately, leaving him not only breathless and consumed by desire, but also completely lost for words. A faint yet rapid thrum of the other's beating heart was soothing and erotic in equal measure, for nothing separated the two yearning bodies other than the warm cloaks of their skin – he was nervous, Anders could feel the boy's trembling digits trace the graceful line of his spine ever so softly, his own heart beating just as loud. Templars were always taught to hate mages, to fear them and not show them mercy, for they were all corrupt and eager to strike deals with the unclean inhabitants of the Fade, but this one, Maker's breath, this one was so different. Strong, incredibly so, and built like a warrior lord in the erotic fiction Anders occasionally indulged when company was scarce and needs were dire, but warm to the touch and ever so welcoming, with a smile that instantly liquefied his bones and turned the mage into a helpless, yearning puddle. Void take the brat for all the sins he was too pure to commit.
"Well there really isn't much to it – you just, you know, stick it in and voila!" Faint traces of humor laced with every syllable but his voice was low and he was trembling like a leaf caught in a raging hurricane, response prompting a quiet chuckle and a chaste kiss as Anders felt himself being lifted off the stone floor and propped against the wall, the sudden nature of its cold touch eliciting a quiet gasp from the mage. Legs snaked around the Templar's waist in a form of a reflex, a well practiced motion that was now preformed more due to muscle memory than conscious thought, anticipation making him quiver in delight. He wanted it, he wanted him and each passing moment his cravings were not satisfied was pure agony. It was torture and Anders wanted to howl. Maker, please!
"If this hurts please let me know." Warm breath spilled across a small yet very sensitive area of his neck and the mage moaned, quietly, hips buckling in silent invitation. Like a starved dog Anders was eager, more eager than he'd ever been and the other's hands upon his stark naked behind were really not helping the situation.
"Maker's breath, just take me already!" He hissed, panting, writhing – and was instantly rewarded. Slowly, agonizingly so, he felt the other sheath himself inside and groaned a little louder than before, his hands gliding along the muscular chest of the Knight-Lieutenant in both awe and sudden giddiness, the prospect of being taken so brazenly by a potential enemy bringing fourth a wave of adrenaline that he rode out roughly, panting the Maker's name in the most blasphemous of fashions.
There was gentleness in those iced optics as the Templar proceeded to conquer the mage as if he was the only one in the world he would have ever wanted and who is to say that such was not true? He was still relatively young and painfully naïve as spending years locked away in the Chantry did very little other than shelter the boy even more from the harsh realities of the outside world, but he did try. In a way Anders was thankful – the Chantry had failed to poison his mind, managing to not only preserve his virtue but also a sense of honor, and as for the former, well, the mage was going to take his sweet time claiming it as his own. Although, despite the soft, languid movements and the quiet whispers of the most sincere and intimate confessions Anders knew better than to assume that the man he was perched so comfortably atop was anything but dangerous. Being granted such a high title in the Templar order at such a young age was a rarity in itself and if the speculations of other mages were even slightly close to the truth then Ser Knee-Deep-in-Anders has killed more blood mages than most Templars stationed in the Tower had seen in their lifetime. A shiver skittered down his spine at the thought of the man taking him with his sword pressed harshly against the pale skin of his throat, drawing a thin line of blood as he recited verses from the Chant of Light, his breathing ragged and voice low enough to make Anders' knees shake with desire. Maker he was certainly going to end up in the Void for this.
Quiet murmuring. Some words, Orlesian no doubt, whispered into his ear as if a quiet melody, a beautiful litany that bound this fine creature to the mage with ties stronger than any Tevinter magic. This was the first time he'd felt so at peace at the Circle, so utterly content yet almost driven to the brink of madness by the slow pace and the quiet melody of a faint Orlesian accent that thickened with every roll of hips as the Templar continued to unravel at the seams.
"Mon amour." A quiet purr, soft and incredibly hot in his ear, sending a tremor down his spine as Anders moaned, a little louder than before, finding himself completely unguarded and uncaring whether someone, anyone, could hear him. He was charmed, completely and utterly so and there was absolutely nothing that he could now do to rectify it. Perhaps he didn't even want to. "Maker's breath, I want you!" Roman.