"Never," he whispers back, a fervent answer like the response to a vow. He breathes deep, chest rising under Anders' mouth, hips rising into him too with a slow thrust. All he can feel is the short hairs of Anders' chin scraping across his skin, the tight heat of the inside of him wrapped around him, and the press of those calloused fingers leaving invisible trails across muscle, trails they've left so many times. Marked roads for Anders' fingertips to follow, for only he can find every trail he's forged along Adalwolfe's skin.

All he can smell is the vague acrid scent of the herbs Anders has been trying to make mana potions with, the fresher scent of elfroot, the ever-present tang of blood and of the Fade, all spiked with lightning. He thinks of Anders after storms, sometimes. Crestwood was alive with the scent of him with its long squall. Adalwolfe had found himself so homesick the moment he set foot there. Homesick for their little cottage, for their furs-laden bed. For the smile that had started to come more and more easily the more they got settled, wrinkling at his eyes and stretching his freckles. Alistair had brought a drink to warm them that first night and Hawke had partaken not just for that but because the liquor's color was just the same as his love's eyes.

He moves up again, thrusting slowly just for the feel of the weight of the mage above him, the reassurance that he's really here, that it isn't some well-crafted dream. But if this is a desire demon all in his head, he may well give in for the perfect form it takes.

"I love you," it comes out of him without his bidding, words tumbling from his lips without his having thought them first. It just is. He loves Anders. More than anyone he ever has in his life. He wants him, he needs him. He loves him.