Apr 142015
 

Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 42
Co-Conspirator: TumblrMaverikLoki
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Cormac Hawke , Artemis Hawke , Anton Hawke , Bethany Hawke , Anders , Cullen , Fenris
Rating: E (L4 N4 S4 V0 D1)
Warnings: Drinking, partying, oh my god Artemis, templar buggery
Notes: Artemis is drunk. Very, very drunk. So is Cullen. *coughs*


Cullen found himself leaning against a familiar dark-haired blur. Ah. Anton. That’s where he was. He’d found Anton and his feet. And his thumbs. He was doing well tonight.

And Anton was nudging him towards the doors out into the garden and slurring something that sounded like ‘piss’ and ‘that fuckawful tree’. Cullen wasn’t sure how a tree could be fuckawful, but he was sure Anton would know. Soon, he found himself half-supporting Anton, who seemed to be trying very hard to hold himself up against what was presumably the fuckawful tree, while not pissing on his own shoes. The tree was, he was willing to admit, pretty fuckawful, at close range. Had that been intended to be an octopus? He couldn’t be sure. It was that or a hideously deformed pride demon.

Demons. Don’t think about demons. Think about… Anton. Yes.

"Mmm, d’you want me to hold that for you?" Cullen purred in Anton’s ear, and then reality recomposed itself for a moment, and that wasn’t Anton, at all. The air was foully sweet with the taste of alcohol, and the man wrapped in his arm was one of Anton’s brothers. Who was, admittedly, still sexy. Something in the back of his head told Cullen not to do this, but he couldn’t figure out why, so he ignored it.

‘Anton’, however, had no such compunctions. Artemis turned to grin at the blond blur half holding him up. "You can hold whatever y’want," he murmured against a stubbled cheek, twisting to nibble at the tempting line of throat beneath. That throat wasn’t usually so easy to reach, and Artemis wondered when Anders had gotten shorter.

They somehow ended up in a tangle of limbs behind the godawful tree’s less godawful cousin, and Artie wasn’t sure whose elbow that was, but it was in danger of puncturing his spleen. There were hands in his clothing and a hand on his ass, and the math wasn’t quite adding up, but Anders’s lips tasted delicious with a hint of cordial.

Anton or… not-Anton… whatever… tasted of whiskey, which struck Cullen as a little off, because Anton hadn’t been drinking whiskey. Or, not that he’d noticed. But, this was fake-Anton, and the Maker only knew what fake-Anton had been drinking. That ass, though, was a wonderful impression of Anton’s. He squeezed it harder, pulling fake-Anton against his thigh, and feeling the knob in his other hand start to thicken. He had a pretty good idea of what to do with that, and he narrated every touch, words still slurring sloppily together.

"I ‘member ev’thing. How y’love it when I stroke like this. How y’make those little noises when I rub m’finger into the slit." He’d dreamed of saying these things to Anton, and now he was just drunk enough to get it all out without even a stutter. Nothing but a slur.

That all sounded very good to Artemis. Artemis, who was pressing up into a callused hand and making soft pleading sounds in the back of his throat. Artemis, who wondered, for a moment, when Anders got so talkative.

"Fuck," Artie groaned. He tried to pull Anders closer to him, but there were clothes in way. Why were there always clothes in the way? "Pants. Fuck these pants."

Cullen giggled at a memory. "M’pants still bothersome?"

That was a good question, Artemis decided. But yes, Anders’s pants were always bothersome, now that he thought about it.

Cullen rolled over, onto his back and tried to squirm out of his pants. Then he remembered he’d have to open them to make that work. That, as it turned out, was somewhat more difficult, but between the two of them, they somehow defeated the pants, and he kicked them down… around his boots. Well, fuck. Boots. Right. The things on his feet, which he’d already found. Boots were definitely too complicated, just yet.

Instead, he rolled back over, to where fake-Anton was making disconsolate sounds at him, and pressed his face down next to fake-Anton’s half-interested knob. He inhaled deeply, taking in the rich, earthy scent of the man beneath him, which was definitely not Anton, but he was strangely okay with the illusion breaking down a little. It wasn’t a demon, if it wasn’t right. Had this been a desire demon, every bit of it would have been Anton, except for violating the laws of physics. He put out his tongue and licked, with no hesitation. This was something he was sure he knew how to do, by now, and he hoped fake-Anton would appreciate it as much as the real Anton did.

And fake-Anton sure did, hips squirming under not-Anders touch. And Artemis was slowing catching onto the fact that this was not-Anders, in the same way the whiskey in his glass had been not-wine: you could most easily tell the difference when it had you flat on your ass.

Not that Artemis was complaining, not when there was hot breath and an enthusiastic tongue on his knob. He all but purred at the attention, aware somewhere in the back of his saturated brain that he was making more noise than usual. That was sober him’s problem.

He wriggled a bit so that a root wasn’t digging into his asscheek. Trees. He should know better by now than to have sex around trees.


Bethany had sent Cormac to check on the drunks, but by the time he and Anton made it across the floor, they’d moved. Artemis had been wasted. The kind of drunk where Cormac probably wouldn’t have left him alone, but he figured his brother would be fine with Anders… Anders who had been dragged off by his sister. His sister who had left Cullen over here, and then come back complaining that both Cullen and Artemis were shitfaced. And shitfaced Artemis…

"Oh, no…" Cormac looked at Anton. "Are you thinking what I’m thinking?"

"Oh, shit. You don’t think…" Anton looked something between gleeful and horrified.

"I’ve got odds Artie bottoms." Cormac produced a single gold coin.

"I’m not betting against that! You have way more knowledge of our brother’s sex life than I need." Anton shook his head and pointed at the open door.

A few minutes later, they’d traversed enough topiary and hedge maze to tire a horse, but those sounds were unmistakeable. And there, around the next bend, a few metres up the way, in the shade of the ugliest damned piece of tree-art either brother had ever seen, were both the missing. Half-naked. Cullen’s face was pressed to Artie’s crotch.

"I’m going to have to agree with our brother," Anton said. "He’s really good at that."

Artemis was singing not-Anders’s praises in between swears and appeals to the Maker, fingers scrabbling at dirt and tree roots and — ah. Roots made convenient handholds. Maybe there was a use for trees after all.

And Cullen was drinking in fake-Anton’s words, growling his own words of encouragement in between judicious applications of lips and tongue.

"Wow," said Anton, eyebrows crawling towards his hairline. "He doesn’t usually, um… narrate so much. I’m a bit envious."

Eventually, Artemis swore — again — and all but lunged for not-Anders clumsily. He growled something in not-Anders’s ear that he swore was meant to be something other than garbled, slurring vowels.

Cullen fell back knees pushed up by the pants he still hadn’t managed to take off, and the way fake-Anton was leaning into the crotch of those pants and growling something about ‘stuffed full’. And Cullen could say he hadn’t been on that end of it, yet, but if this was what happened when he got drunk enough to run his mouth, then maybe drunk was a good thing to be. Or at least it would be if this really was as good as Anton had always made it sound. Cullen had just never worked up the courage to…

He was sure there had been magic. He felt it happen. And then he just didn’t care. Slick fingers swiped at his hole, one of them finally pushing in, and he was sure this would be the end of him. "Oh, yes, touch me! Touch me right there! Touch me inside! I love your hands. Your fingers are so beautiful. Put them inside me!"

Anton whistled, long and low. "Okay, I’m a lot envious. Clearly I need to get him a lot more drunk a lot more often."

"Wow. Good thing you didn’t take that bet. I think I’d be out another sovereign." Cormac leaned his shoulder against a tree, just … watching. He’d had some good times with Anders and Artie, but he’d never seen Artemis get like this.

"You like that?" Artemis growled against not-Anders’s throat. He loved feeling the sounds not-Anders was making vibrate against his lips, loved the way not-Anders was squirming as though Artemis had never done this before. "Want more than my fingers?"

"Yes!" Cullen groaned. "I yearn to feel your manhood inside me!"

A cough from behind them had Anton and Cormac turning around. There stood their little sister, cheeseplate in hand, biting her lip against a laugh. Next to her was Anders, who looked a combination of horrified and amazed.

"Did… did he just say ‘manhood’?" he asked. "Really?" He had to stuff his face with cheese to keep from laughing.

Bethany grinned like a shark. "Oh, good, we got here just in time for the good part."

The light went on in Cormac’s head. "You — you set this up!"

"Of course I did! Fidgety, blushing, neurotic brother; fidgety, blushing, neurotic not related to us… It was too good to pass up. And we all know how Artie gets when he’s drunk." Bethany shrugged and leaned around Anton for a better angle. "Quit hogging the view. Ser Templar over there has a mighty fine ass, for it not being related to us."

Cormac looked vaguely exasperated, and then the exciting noises started, and he nudged Anton and nodded toward the pile of limbs and ruined clothes under the tree.

Cullen was howling like he’d never been fucked, before, which, to be fair, he hadn’t. Still, every third or fourth breath contained a whole lot of ‘yes, yes, more’ and terrible lines from the worst in Orlesian fiction. "Oh, yes, fill me with your throbbing meat-pole! Ram it into me until I ache, until I can think of nothing else! Fill me full of your creamy release, until I can taste it!"

Cormac couldn’t breathe. He clung to Anton’s shoulder, mouth gaping, just… wheezing. Anders wasn’t faring much better, having dropped to his knees, smacking his head on the ground to keep from cackling like a loon.

Luckily, Artemis was either deaf or just drunk enough to take all that seriously. He rammed not-Anders with his ‘meat-pole’, as requested, and with great fervour. Cullen continued to howl his requests of Artemis’s manhood while Artemis continued to muffle his swears against Cullen’s neck. Maker, it had been a while, a while since he’d been buried deep inside someone like this.

"Oh, sweet Maker," Anders choked, eyes still streaming from laughing so hard. "Cormac, I didn’t know your brother had it in him!"

"Technically," said Anton, "Cullen’s the one who has it in him."

"Oh, yes!" Cullen crooned. "Impale me on your meatstick!"

Cormac finally collapsed, clutching his sides and honking like a goose, trying to choke back the soon-to-be-inevitable gales of laughter. Bethany sighed at her brother and sat down on Anders’s shoulder, still eating cheese.

"Move your ass to the right, Anton. You’re in my way." Bethany slipped a piece of cheese to Anders who tried not to choke on it. "I appreciate a fine ass, but I prefer not to be related to the ones that close to my face."

Anders choked on the cheese, remembering a certain dance of related hands and asses that went on upon his sofa.

Cullen’s voice got frantic, pleading and panting, suddenly. "Oh, yes, please, yes! Yes! Fuck! Anton!"

And then Anton stopped laughing, teeth clacking shut, and a chill ran down his spine. "Close enough, I guess. Not like he mistook Cormac for me."

Then the earth started to tremble under them, and Anders stopped laughing too. "Uh oh. Oh. Cormac? He’s a templar."

"Oh, shit, Artie… no." Cormac froze, horrified, but there was nothing they could do. Not now. Now, it was much too late. "He’s drunk. They’re both drunk. The templar is drunk enough to think that’s Anton, therefore everything else can be passed off as ‘too fucking drunk’."

Anders sure hoped so, with the way Justice was suddenly rattling his cage.

And speaking of rattling… Artemis tensed and trembled with a shout, and a resounding crack told them something had broken nearby.

"Oh my," whispered Bethany. Following her gaze, Anders saw the crumpled remains of a statue, a ruined portrait of some ancestor or other. He looked back at the drunk duo and saw Cullen blinking dazedly, brows knit in confusion, but there was no Smite dropped on their shoulders. Artie, on the other hand, lay slumped over the templar like he’d fallen asleep.

"And we’re out of time," Cormac announced, getting to his feet. "Anton, you’re first. Go get your man back into his pants and up the back stairs. I’ll get Artie. Bethy, Anders, go stop the crowd. That was loud. They’re coming."

"Technically, they already did." Bethany stood up from Anders’s shoulder and offered him a hand. "Come, let’s be scandalous. We’ll say Cormac knocked over a statue. You and Cormac. Look embarrassed, would you please?"

"Yes, ma’am." Anders grabbed the hand and hauled himself to his feet, before slapping himself in the face a couple of times to raise a blush and running back toward the house, with Bethany.

Anton was already busy with Cullen, trying to get the templar back into his clothes while blocking the view of Artemis with his body. He finally got Cullen turned the other way, if still unsteady on his feet.

"What — what happened?" Cullen asked. Everything had suddenly stopped making nearly as much sense as he thought it had been.

"We knocked over a statue. It wasn’t mounted right, and we got a little rough," Anton bullshitted, off the top of his head. "C’mon, we’ve got to get you out of here, before anyone spots us. Cormac’s going to take care of it. You just have to walk back to the house with me. Can you walk?"

"I dunno." And he really didn’t.

"Fuck it." Templars, Anton learnt, were very heavy, even without the platemail. He stumbled toward the house, only to be met, halfway, by a figure from the shadows.

"Give him to me," Fenris said. "Get the doors."

"Seriously?" Anton asked.

"You’re wasting time."

And then Fenris was carrying the drunken templar, while back in the garden, Cormac tried to pull Artemis, who was still unconscious, back together.

"You’re pretty," Cullen muttered, squinting up at the elf.