Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 18

Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 18
Co-Conspirator: MaverikLoki
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Anton Hawke ♂, Cullen ♂
Rating: E (L3 N4 S4 V0 D0)
Warnings: Anton's mouth, zero relationship skills, Cullen has no idea what he's doing, teh gay, nude dudes, interesting uses for syrup
Notes: Anton and Cullen get creative with dessert, part 1.

Lunch had been just as good as Cullen remembered the food at that place being, and Bethany had been an exceptional example of all things Hawke, checking her brother when he got too far out of line, but usually with enough bite to start a whole other skirmish across the tea and the table. Bethany had left them when they got back to the house — to the Amell estate — with a warning not to break anything serious.

"I didn't break it!" Anton had replied. "I just knocked it over!"

And then Anton's hands were on him, right there in the hall. And then Anton's lips. And then things got a little fuzzy around the edges, but here he was, pantsless — and shirtless, entirely bare, in fact — stretched across Anton's blessedly soft bed, while Anton unpacked a few bottles he'd picked up when they crossed the market. Syrups and essences, mostly in Nevarran styles, almond, orange, rose — those were the ones he'd noticed, but there were more than three bottles, now. And the honey, of course. Three different kinds of honey, all with bits of shredded flowers in them. Anton had chosen those like he knew what he was doing, and Bethany had a few words of advice about the third.

"I'm… wow," Cullen stuttered as he counted the bottles. "You weren't kidding earlier, were you?"

And this? All this? This was evidence that Anton had been thinking about this, had been preparing for this and wanting this. Cullen had no idea what he'd done to deserve Anton, whether he was a blessing from the Maker or a temptation from a demon, but he vowed to find out so he could do more of it.

"I never joke about dessert," Anton said with a velvet voice and a wicked smile, all while looking at Cullen like he planned to swallow him whole. He set the bottles next to the bed and bent over Cullen for a kiss. It was a languorous, savouring kind of kiss, a contrast to their frantic fumblings in the closet. Cullen wasn't sure which kind of kiss he liked more. All he knew was that he liked them both, that he liked this man, desired this man, and still didn't quite know what to do with his hands.

That didn't matter for long, as Anton climbed up onto the bed, still thoroughly engaged in that kiss, and pulled Cullen's hands up over his head, holding them there, leaning with just enough pressure to make a point. And then Anton didn't so much break the kiss as slide it sideways off Cullen's face — lips pressing against his cheek, tongue flicking behind his ear — and Cullen writhed. Every nerve in his body started paying very close attention, as Anton's teeth nibbled a path down his neck, tugging gently at the skin.

There was, Cullen reflected, a certain freedom in being held down, however loosely. He didn't have to figure out what to do with his hands, because Anton had decided for him. He could work with that, he decided, as Anton bit and licked his way down from the collarbone. And then all of Cullen's reflections were dashed by a single point of sensation, as Anton's teeth closed around his nipple.

He gasped and sputtered like he might have something to say about that, but no words were forthcoming, and then Anton's tongue darted over his skin, and he surrendered to the gasp that put a stop to any word that may have considered surfacing.

He could feel Anton smile against his skin, could feel the warm chuckle vibrating in his chest. Anton's skin was warm against his where their bodies touched, and Cullen made a note to thank Emeric later. Profusely. Possibly with flowers.

Anton sat back on Cullen's thighs, admiring his handiwork. So the blush went all the way down to his chest. How endearing.

"Well, Captain," Anton said with a crooked smile, "shall we start on that dessert?" He plucked one of the bottles off the nightstand and opened it.

Cullen lay there at his mercy, dazed and willing to agree to anything Anton asked of him.

"Almond, I think." Anton looked speculative, tilting the bottle and watching the cool syrup drizzle onto Cullen's chest.

It was a high-density syrup, thick and with decent surface tension, and Anton used it to draw… something. Cullen couldn't tell what, but the drops of syrup were much colder than his skin, and he … well … he squeaked every time Anton started a new line. And with every squeak, Anton smiled just a little more. It was really nearly an affectionate smile. Not quite, but in that neighbourhood.

And then he set the bottle aside, and that smile wasn't affectionate at all, it was wolfish and hungry. Cullen shivered, and then lifted his head a little to squint down his chest. He couldn't make it out, whatever the shape was, but some of it almost looked familiar, like maybe he'd seen it somewhere, once. Anton dipped a finger in the syrup, right over Cullen's heart, and took a moment to lick his finger clean.

"Mmm, yes. Almond. It's very nice on you." Anton shifted back, working himself off the bed again, so he could begin licking at the bottom of the design and work his way up. Less chance of ending up crushed onto it, that way. He picked a line and touched his tongue to the end of it, with a low and exaggerated sound of satisfaction.

The puff of air on syrupy skin made Cullen shiver, and the swipe of a tongue that followed made him squirm. The air felt cold on the lines Anton traced, and Cullen's skin flushed with heat as though to compensate. He clutched at the sheets above his head, worrying the fabric between his fingers, as Anton's tongue travelled higher, twisting over the dip of his muscles, over his chest and frantically-beating heart. Anton hummed all the while, eyes half-lidded in pleasure.

Almond. Cullen never would have guessed.

"Maker," Cullen breathed, eyes slipping shut as he squirmed.

"Flattering, but no," Anton murmured, at Cullen's lips now. "Just me." Cullen nearly rolled his eyes at the line, but then Anton was sealing lips over his. Hmm. Yes, the almond was quite delicious.

Cullen's hands moved of their own volition, which was probably for the best, hesitantly pawing at Anton's back. Anton hummed encouragingly into the kiss, and the hesitance was gone, Cullen's hands clutching, squeezing, and kneading his flesh, and Anton very nearly purred. He twisted to offer more of himself to those wandering hands, pressing back against Cullen's palms and fingers, completely clear in his desire for more.

Anton rolled onto his back, pulling Cullen with him, and unfortunately, trapping those hands beneath him. Cullen didn't seem to be bothered by the challenge, thankfully, his hands still groping just as intently. With a bit of a stretch, Anton managed to lay hand to another bottle, fingers checking the shape and texture of it, since he couldn't see past Cullen. It seemed the young Templar was getting the hang of kissing, and really, Anton had no complaints. Ah, yes. That was the bottle he wanted — saffron syrup. It was a good thing the sheets were already gold, because they'd be a loss after this, otherwise. On the other hand, this was exactly why Anton kept gold sheets on his bed.

He tilted his head to the side, out from under Cullen's lips, and whispered into his ear. "Would you like to try?"

Cullen smiled, a lopsided, coy smile against Anton's cheek. "What fool would say no to that?" he whispered against the soft skin there, offering it one last kiss before pulling back.

He accepted the bottle Anton pressed into his hand and opened it, peering inside at the golden contents. He took a moment to enjoy the view of Anton laid out in front of him, the miles of smooth skin. He poured the syrup onto Anton's chest, wincing when he poured too much at first and he left a glob in the hollow between pectorals.

"Sorry."

"Don't be," Anton chuckled. "You'll be cleaning it up either way, won't you?"

This was a fair point. Cullen traced shapes of his own in the syrup, nonsensical patterns highlighting a delectable body. Runes in the language of the flesh, he thought. Okay, maybe that was a bit much, but he was sure Anton's skin would be delicious either way.

Cullen followed Anton's example, touching his tongue to the bottom of his design and sighing in contentment at the taste.

While Anton was perfectly able to maintain his silence under far more entertaining conditions than these, he also knew how to play these games, and what would win him the most enjoyable evening. While he might never exceed Cormac's … exceptional talents for triumphant praise, he could rival them, when he had a mind to. For now, he stuck to rich, wordless sounds, from the bottom of his chest, interspersed with sharp little gasps. Encouraging sounds.

Cullen found himself profoundly encouraged by every sound out of Anton. Maker, was this man even real? Oh. Oh, no. That was not a good line of inquiry. He pushed that thought away, with a shiver, and lapped syrup out of Anton's navel. He'd never much thought on the taste of saffron, but he found his opinion of the flavour improving with every passing second. Or maybe that was just his opinion of Anton, who had an equally appealing flavour. As it went, he was mostly absorbed in just licking, with little mind to whether he followed the lines. If he licked every bit of Anton he could reach, he'd still get all the syrup off, he thought. Tongues, he decided, were an excellent idea, and he'd be thanking the Maker for this particularly divine design, once he got home.

Anton's belly jumped under Cullen's tongue as he laughed. "I think you've gotten all the syrup," he said.

Cullen licked over the curve of one hip, looking up at Anton over his body. "I'm just being thorough," he said, eyes crinkling with mischief. Anton decided he liked this side of Cullen as much as the blushing, stuttering side. The man was much too endearing to be a templar, let alone Knight-Captain.

There was almost enough templar saliva on him to make him glisten. Anton bet Isabela would appreciate that.

"Well," Anton purred, digging his fingers into Cullen's curls, "whatever shall we do next, I wonder?"

"You did buy a lot of syrup," Cullen pointed out. "And we've only tried two flavours."

"Would you like to see what we can think of to do with the rest?" Anton asked, a wicked smile teasing at the corners of his lips. "I could show you some very adventurous uses for them, if you haven't any in mind."

Cullen had one in mind. Well, a few, but mostly that one. And he had absolutely no idea how to ask for what he wanted. There were no polite words for that, not that he figured Anton was too much in the habit of polite words, but he was. Especially when asking for things. Especially things like that, that he'd never had a reason or a desire to ask for, before.

Of course, he could always just be vague and trust Anton to fill in the blanks. Anton seemed to be terribly good at that.

"I could think of somewhere I'd like you to lick clean." The heat flashed across his cheeks and the tips of his ears burned red. And Anton got that wicked smile in all its glory. Oh, no.

"I bet you could. The tips of your toes, perhaps? Just something about you. You strike me as a toes man." Anton leaned in some way Cullen couldn't have resisted, if he wanted to, and they rolled over, again.

Anton picked one of the pots of honey, dipping his finger into it and letting it drip onto his tongue. "Bergamot, I think. An offset to boot-leather."

He sounded like he'd done this before, Cullen reflected, sputtering like a fool. No, in fact, his toes were not what he meant at all. He'd rather hoped Anton would guess his knob, but … Oh, Maker, the man was going to make him say it. Or he could just not. One never knew, right? Maybe he really was a toes man.

Anton trailed a hand down Cullen's leg, slow as you please, and he scooted down the bed to kneel at his feet. Was he really…? Oh he was. He was really.

"Which foot, do you think?" Anton hummed, tapping his chin.

"Er…"

"Left foot it is." Fitting, as Cullen often felt like he had two of those.

Anton lifted his foot off the bed, long fingers wrapped around the heel, and Cullen bunched his toes together on instinct. Still wearing that damnable smile, Anton licked a broad stripe up the length of his big toe and coaxed the toes into unclenching. Okay, that… sort of tickled a little, but it wasn't unpleasant. Eyes on his, Anton suckled each toe in turn, starting with the smallest, and Cullen bit his lip against any ticklish squirming. The last thing he wanted to do was kick this man in the face.

Then Anton took Cullen's big toe into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, and the whole thing became incredibly suggestive. Suggestive of where Cullen most desperately wanted some licking to happen. Maker preserve him.

This time, Anton licked the honey onto him, before licking it back off. Long, broad, sticky strokes that almost tickled, and then intent, nearly reverent kissing and sucking, to clear it off, again. The soles of Cullen's feet tingled warmly, and he'd never heard of a lust that rose up from the feet, before, but he'd begun to think the people who wrote such things might need to get more creative, because he'd clearly been missing out. Not that he read those sorts of books. Usually. Maybe if he'd read more of them, he'd have been better prepared for this eventuality. He'd heard good things about that 'Hard in Hightown' series.

Anton kept licking, leaving no inch of foot untended, his thumbs digging in to some spots on the sole that had Cullen squirming and making terribly unmanful sounds. A toes man. He'd called it. Of course, Anton figured, he hadn't told Cullen he could turn any man on to the charm of toes, but he was already professionally a liar and a cheat, so he didn't figure neglecting to mention it really counted against him. One foot attended, and Cullen reduced to a squeaking pile of goo, Anton turned his attentions to the other foot, compounding the effect. Bergamot, he thought, really was the correct offset to bootleather, however much Isabela argued in favour of butter-rum.

Anton was no less thorough with foot number two, and by the time he was finished, Cullen ached for Anton to touch him. Somewhere. Anywhere.