Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 38
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Cormac Hawke ♂, Anders ♂
Rating: E (L4 N4 S4 V3 D0)
Warnings: Several flavours of ‘holy shit that’s disgusting’, including CBT, bloodplay, and Anders running his mouth about Artemis.
Notes: Anders knows just how Cormac likes it, and Cormac likes it rough. This chapter is nothing but smut, no plot will be lost if you skip it.
"Andraste’s knickers, Cormac, if there was any more sap in you, tonight, you’d be a tree!" Anders wasn’t sure that was quite a complaint, but there was no way he was letting it slide.
"Fuck you, I’m drunk," was the well-considered reply. "I’m drunk, and you’re amazing. You’re amazing when I’m not drunk, too. But, I usually have other things on my mind, when I’m not drunk. You know, saving the world, freedom for mages, the fact that I still haven’t managed to talk you into putting your whole fist in my ass."
"Four fingers and the knuckles isn’t enough for you?" Anders teased. "You’re insatiable!"
"That’s why you keep me around," Cormac purred. "Where else are you going to find someone who can ride you all night long?"
Anders felt his toes tingle at the thought of it. No matter how many times it happened, Cormac still amazed him. Amazed the fuck right into him, as Cormac was fond of saying. Still…
"Your brother was making a good show of it for a while. He’s not you, but you’ve had more practise."
"He hasn’t got it in him," Cormac scoffed.
"Oh, he’s had a whole lot of it in him, and you’ve been there for plenty of that." Anders grinned and pressed a spark against Cormac’s skin.
Cormac writhed, panting, and then grinned wickedly. "He hasn’t got the intestinal fortitude."
"Oh, you’d be surprised," Anders breathed, fingers ghosting over Cormac’s body. "I’m not rough with him, the way I am with you. I’m slow and gentle, and I can drag it on all night, like that, with him making those little gasps and twisting his hips for me. And then? Then he’ll get my favourite toy — you know the one — and move the earth inside me, until I think I’m going to die from it, just rocking his hips and licking his lips, smiling like he knows all the secrets in the world."
Cormac made a strangled sound. "Oh, fuck, Anders. That’s my fucking brother you’re talking about."
"That’s your brother fucking I’m talking about, and he does it so very well," Anders purred against Cormac’s ear. "Oh, shit, Cormac, the time he got it halfway in and leaned down and told me he could feel my dick in his lungs… I came so hard I was afraid I’d break his hips with my hands, just squeezing him. And then he thanked me for the lube, and just kept working his way down, while I shot out all over his insides. It hurt so good, all I could think of was you."
Cormac panted, heart pounding, knob throbbing, as Anders stroked his body and whispered in his ear. "I need you. Andraste’s tits, Anders, if you’re going to talk to me like this, I need you to fuck me. Well, I need you to hurt me, but I really fucking want you to fuck me. Shove your glorious flagpole up my ass until I can taste it. Bite me, pinch me, slap my fucking knob. Rub your finger into my pisshole until you split the ends of the slit and freeze my spunk when I start to come. Fucking hurt me, Anders. Hurt me like only you can."
And, oh, Cormac begged for things that made Anders’s skin crawl, but he’d learnt that doing as Cormac asked always ended well for both of them. He trusted that when Cormac begged for something, he meant it — that he knew what he wanted, he knew exactly what damage it would do, and that he trusted Anders to heal it, if they screwed up. And that was a they, because neither of them could be blamed, alone, for the handful of accidents they’d had. Stupid things— just a little too hard, a little too much, Cormac refusing healing until he woke up in crippling pain. And Cormac in the wrong kind of pain was terrifyingly quiet, not at all like the screaming he did in the right kind of pain.
But, most of the time? Most of the time, Cormac screamed for more, begged at the top of his lungs to be fucked bloody and raw, and as long as Cormac kept begging, Anders would keep going. There were the nights when Cormac shook and cried from the pain, and Anders slowed down and stroked him, asking if he was all right, to which Cormac would always snap, ‘Stop fawning and fucking fuck me!’
So, now, Anders would ease up just enough to be sure Cormac could answer, and ask ‘Fawning or fucking?’ and Cormac would laugh, tears streaming down his face, and detail exactly how he wanted his flesh to be battered and bruised.
As Anders stroked a handful of grease onto himself, he listened to Cormac ramble on about all the ways he wanted to be broken and split open, rutting hard against his thigh. And then Anders rolled over, pinning Cormac down with his body, as he pressed a thumbnail across one pebbled nipple, watching Cormac writhe and squall, even before he shot a jolt down through it.
And then Cormac tensed, a wet, gooey "Oh…" slipping out of him, as his hands danced over Anders’s skin. He wasn’t there yet, but Anders knew that glazed look. Knew it wouldn’t take much to bring him off, the first time. Cormac couldn’t go like Anders could go, but a couple-three times in a night wasn’t unusual.
Anders didn’t use his fingers at all — that was the fastest way to get Cormac snarling — just pulled his foreskin back and prayed, cramming the head into Cormac’s painfully tight ass. As soon as Cormac clamped down, toes curling, Anders stopped pushing.
"Fuck! Anders. Anders! Slap me. Slap my knob. Hard. Make it sting, make it throb, bruise me! Oh, fuck, Anders, just hit me. I’ll come so hard," Cormac pleaded, fingernails digging into Anders’s shoulders.
Biting his lip, Anders took a deep breath and laid a solid, single-finger thwack against Cormac’s frenulum. Cormac arched and screamed, insides wringing Anders in time with the leaping of his own knob against his belly. Surprisingly, he didn’t come, but Anders did, a sharp gasp and his eyes squeezing shut the only signs beyond the sudden throbbing and spurting.
"Oh, shit, Anders. It’s going to leak out of me. Fuck it into me, so I can keep you."
"Sappy. Like a tree," Anders teased.
"Wicked Grace night," Cormac reminded him, tilting his hips up and inviting Anders to push in deeper. "I want to sit across the table from Artemis, secure in the knowledge that I’ve been fucked full of your spunk, because it’s my turn to sit on the flagpole, and he knows it."
"Your rivalry knows no bounds." Anders shivered and slowly forced himself further into Cormac, timing himself with Cormac’s breaths, and the way that exquisitely tight ass got tighter, every few seconds, for just a moment. Anders was seeing stars — the whole night sky worth of them hung between them. "Did I tell you about the time I fucked him full of my spunk and then held him open and licked it out? You should have heard him. I’ve never heard sounds like that, before."
"Oh, shit." Cormac’s skin stippled, and he could feel his nipples hardening even more, skin pulling against itself, as he writhed under Anders, hips rocking abortively. "I wish I’d been there to see his face."
"I wish you’d been there to watch me eat out your brother’s ass. He’s got a very, very nice ass, and I love when he lets me lick it." Anders suddenly slammed forward, stopping only when his pelvic arch collided with Cormac’s ass.
Screaming, Cormac tore at the sheets, before he settled into the usual slightly more coherent streams of expletive-laden praise and demands for more.
"Did I tell you about the night I spent hours listening to him beg for me, just licking his asshole and sucking his balls?" Anders breathed into Cormac’s ear, grinding deep into him. "He got me off twice with just his voice. Twice I came all over myself, just listening to your brother beg for my knob."
Cormac lost all reason and sense of anything beyond Anders, as teeth clenched around his collarbone, hard enough to bruise. He clutched desperately at Anders, clawing and making ragged sounds. Anders reached down between them and rubbed the tip of his pinky against the head of Cormac’s dick, finally settling the sharp corner of the nail into the slit.
"You want this?" Anders asked, with another sharp nip on already-bruised skin.
"Yes!" Cormac’s voice was raw, and it sounded like the only word he knew.
"You want me to slit you open and stroke you with the blood?"
Cormac screamed wordlessly, in frustration, and then, "Fuck — fucking hurt me, Anders! Tear me apart!"
Anders felt the delicate skin part for his nail, as he pushed it in, and he chased it with a trace of lightning. Cormac shouted mindlessly, words following words, eyes wide and unseeing, as he detailed how good it felt to be cut open and bleeding, the feel of the blood beading and then breaking against Anders’s fingertip to run down and pool against the ridge of his foreskin. His hips jerked and rolled of their own volition, grinding his insides against Anders’s unreasonable knob. This. This was it. This was finally enough, more than enough, and he chased it over the edge, still howling for more.
And then the jolt of frost ran down his knob like an ice lance, and Cormac made a sound halfway between desire and terrible understanding. The ice wouldn’t last long, not with the way the two of them generated heat, but Anders wrung his knob around it, and Cormac was once again left without words, screaming and pleading, clutching and squeezing Anders.
And that set Anders off again — the way Cormac clenched and bucked around him, rutting into his hand around the long, thin sliver of ice inside him. Anders buried himself deep, thinking of that terribly smug look Cormac would wear all night, and that long-suffering face Artemis would make at them both. He spilled into Cormac a second time, as Cormac’s body finally melted enough of the ice to force out the last few broken pieces in a red-streaked pool of lukewarm spunk.
Cormac started to shake, wrapping his legs around Anders, as he came down, and Anders slowed to an almost-gentle rhythm, pressing his lips to the tattoo on Cormac’s cheek. Cormac pulled him down further, closer, and kissed just under Anders’s ear, with a warmth and fervour usually reserved for lips. But, even fucked out of his wits, Cormac knew Anders didn’t do lips, and he never asked why, just found something new — something just for them, not that he’d ever admit it.
"Oh, fuck, Anders… No one in the world does me like you do. Shit." Cormac slapped Anders’s hand as it started to stroke healing magic into him. "Fuck, knock it off. Not yet. I need it. I need you."
"Tree," Anders muttered, rolling his hips, and Cormac swatted his ass.
"I need your unreasonable flagpole, hot and hard and huge, so far up my ass I can feel it when I swallow. I need you to fuck me with it. I need you to fuck me raw. I need you to fuck me until every time you kick my chair, tonight, I drop my cards in my lap, because it still feels so good."
"Andraste’s brazen and well-polished tits," Anders panted, hips jerking forward. "You’re not drunk any more, are you?"
"Wasn’t drunk in the first place. It was just a good excuse to run my mouth," Cormac admitted, rolling his hips, his entire body still vibrating. "You know I don’t get drunk before Wicked Grace. And I know you’re not done, yet, so are you going to keep stating the obvious or are you going to fuck me? We’ve got a few more hours. Should be enough to take the edge off, so you don’t lose quite as badly."
"Next time Isabela asks, I’m telling her I keep losing because you don’t fuck me enough, and I’m distracted. See if I don’t."
Cormac’s laugh bled out into a long, liquid groan, as Anders picked up the pace, again. What had he ever done to deserve this man?