Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 29
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Anton Hawke ♂, Leandra Amell ♀, Cormac Hawke ♂, Anders ♂
Rating: M (L3 N3 S3 V0 D0)
Warnings: Dick jokes, Anton cheats at cards, Cormac is clueless, Anders is hopeless, teh gay, old gods jokes, an awful lot of licking
Notes: Just some pleasantly amusing fucking around at home…
Anton squinted at his opponent over his hand. He had the last Song card up his sleeve, but the dog growled every time his finger twitched for it. "Oh, come on," he huffed. "You’ve won the last three hands! You could at least give me one."
"I’m almost out of dog treats, here." The dog’s winnings would be far more impressive if he didn’t keep eating them. "Throw me a bone, will you?"
The dog gave him a flat look.
"Hello, Anton," said Leandra, drifting into the library. She paused to pet the dog, whose tail thumped hard against the carpet. "So tell me. When am I going to meet him?"
"Meet who, Mother?" Anton asked, rearranging his cards. The dog growled again, and Anton sighed, putting the Song back up his sleeve.
"The boy. The nice one who brought you the flowers."
"Mother!" Anton sighed. "What has Bethany been telling you?"
"Bethany’s met him, and I haven’t? Are you ashamed of your old mother? Is that it?" Leandra patted at her forehead. "At least tell me his name. Any young man who brings my son embrium must be someone special."
"Ser Cullen. He’s a Templar." Anton failed to rearrange his hand one more time, as the dog took offence.
"Ser Cullen?" Leandra thought for a moment, and then gasped. "Knight-Captain Cullen Rutherford?"
"Yes?" Anton blinked up at his mother.
"That’s my boy. Ah! Why couldn’t you have been a daughter, too?"
Anton’s eyebrow twitched up. "Ask the Maker. I think he was more involved in that decision than I was."
Leandra swatted his arm playfully. "You boys are so much like your father. I could never get a straight answer out of him either."
Anton locked eyes with the dog one more time, but the bastard was giving him nothing.
"Knight-Captain," Leandra sighed. Anton rolled his eyes, and the dog started to laugh. "Your very own knight in shining armour!"
Anton bit back the ‘knight without his shining armour’ comment on the tip of his tongue. "Careful, Mother. You’re starting to swoon more than he is."
Cormac ran his fingers over the enormous scar in the middle of Anders’s chest, again, completely fascinated. Ever since Anders had started taking his shirt off, Cormac had just been entranced by the scars. A hundred questions, of which Anders had answered maybe six.
But, Anders hissed and grabbed his wrist, this time. "Knock it off."
"Sorry. Does it still hurt?" Cormac moved his hand up to stroke Anders’s shoulder, instead.
"Yes." Which wasn’t entirely true, but it was close enough not to invite more questions. He could feel it all the way through his chest, and every time Cormac touched it, it was like there was still a sword in him, and not the fun kind.
"I don’t care how it happened or why, I’m glad you’re alive," Cormac declared. "There would be this hole in the world, if you died, and if I’d never met you, it would have driven me mad that something was missing, and I’d never know what."
A phantom sword in his chest, and now a phantom sword in his gut, at those words. The breath Anders had been holding punched out of him in an awkward laugh. They didn’t say those things. Not to each other. Cormac shouldn’t even be thinking —
"That was sappy," Anders said. "You’re starting to sound like your brother."
"Oh, shit. Does Artie say shit like that?" Cormac laughed against Anders’s shoulder. "I meant the world would be a very different place without your unreasonable flagpole to prop me up. I love your giant dick. Don’t you dare die before me; I’ll never be satisfied again."
Moving down the bed, Cormac buried his face against Anders’s side, kissing and biting.
"So that’s what you meant, about a hole that couldn’t be filled," Anders replied. He still hated how nervous his laugh sounded. Best not to look at Cormac’s face right now. "The Hawke ass is truly a magnificent thing." He reached down to squeeze the aforementioned part of Cormac’s anatomy.
Best to keep it general. Hawke, not Cormac. As much as Anders liked Artemis, he wasn’t Cormac, but Anders wasn’t about to admit that, least of all to himself.
"The Hawke ass is a legendary treasure of Rivain." Cormac kept on licking and kissing his way down, until his face was pressed against that unreasonable flagpole, and he nuzzled it affectionately. "It’s only right that the possessor of what I can only assume is the legendary flagpole of the Anderfels should come into contact with the mighty ass of the Hawkes."
Cormac was really just flattering himself— or so he told himself. Couldn’t be that he actually thought Anders was made for him, no matter how often he joked about it. There was just something about the way they fit together — Cormac had never had better, and he doubted he ever would. Didn’t stop him from trying.
"Legendary," Anders agreed, grinning as he writhed under Cormac’s touches. "Yes. Every Wintersend, my people carve sculptures of it out of the ice and dedicate them to Urthemiel. You, Cormac Hawke, are truly blessed. But what ancient god have I appeased that I get to plunder such riches as yours?"
"Didn’t you guys just kill Urthemiel?" Cormac asked, burying his face between Anders’s balls and his thigh. "Still, your vanity is both accurate and reassuring. You are beautiful, and so is your gorgeous knob. I’m pretty sure we’re the prize of Dirthamen. You do not know the might of the ass until it is revealed."
"Ah, I see," said Anders, parting his legs wider for Cormac’s exploration. "Allow me to sing Dirthamen’s praises then, later and at length." Though he suspected it would be Cormac singing praises before long. "As for Urthemiel, what better way to kill him than with the very flagpole consecrated by him? The Wardens chose wisely." Even if, technically, he’d been recruited afterwards. As Varric always said, a good storyteller embellishes.
"Mmm. Are you telling me—" Cormac licked a long stripe along the inside of the joint. "—you killed the archdemon with your dick? ‘Cause I might believe you. But, what does that say about me? I take you at least twice a week, and you haven’t killed me yet."
"Well, it means," Anders sighed, hooking a leg over Cormac’s shoulder and all but purring at the attention, "that your ass is more deadly than an Archdemon. Clearly. There should be ballads written in its honour. Monuments erected." He considered his turn of phrase and smirked. "Aside from this monument, that is."
"I do so enjoy raising your monument to my ass. One of these days, you’re going to push it in, and we’re just going to get stuck like that, and it’s going to bring about the end of the world. Fire falling from the sky, Fade spirits rising from the earth, the whole thing." Cormac continued to worship that little corner of Anders’s flesh with his tongue. "And they will sing ballads to appease our gods, until there is nothing left but for the Maker to start fresh, and create in our image. And he would, too, you know. We’re pretty hot."
Anders chuckled breathlessly, looking down over his stomach to catch Cormac’s eye. "Imagine that," he said. "A pair of apostates as a template for a new world. Gorgeous ones, granted, but…" The teasing smile turned wry and reflective, and he laid back, wondering if those thoughts had been his or Justice’s, if there was even a difference, any more.
And that? That was why this couldn’t be any more than it was.
"Shit damn it, Anders," Cormac swore, fondly. "I think I just came. You can’t just say shit like that."
Anders answered Cormac’s fond tone with a fond smile, and he knew they were both in well over their heads.