Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 6
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Artemis Hawke ♂, Anton Hawke ♂, Anders ♂, Cullen ♂, Fenris ♂
Rating: T (L2 Â N1 S2 V0 D1)
Warnings: Drinking, partying, Anders is fucked the fuck right up, Artemis isn't much better, lots of snogging, zero relationship skills
Notes: Things get a little interesting. Fenris is displeased, Anders is catty, and Anton introduces his new Templar friend to the inside of the coat closet.
The cellar of this grand manse, Fenris noticed, was not as full as his own, but it did appear to contain some substantially stronger drink, to judge by the shapes of the bottles. Whiskey, gin, brandy…
"How upset," he asked Artemis, "would your mother be, if we opened a bottle of brandy? I do not believe the … healer and I are quite drunk enough for each others' presence, just yet." Don't say mage while the house is full of people. He had at least the sense for that. That's how you stop having a healer, whether you like the blighted thing or not.
"Oh, Fenris, just get that stick out of your ass, and there'll be room enough for me, even sober." It wasn't so much that Anders had as death wish as that Anders had a death wish. Regularly. The bright blue kind that didn't let him drink, eat, or sleep.
"While we are all aware of the fantastic capacity of your ass, and the fact that it goes both ways, I am afraid mine does not. Neither for sticks nor for you."
"You amazing hypocrite!" Anders accused. "You'll plunder his ass all night long, but nothing goes in yours?"
"I didn't hear him complaining at the time," Fenris snapped.
"Oh wonderful," Artemis choked, pointedly not thinking of Fenris's weight on top of him and the way he'd felt as they… "Are we talking about that? Because if we are, we are definitely opening that bottle of brandy. And blaming it on Carver." Artemis reached for said bottle as he spoke, setting down the now-demolished bottle of sherry. His earlier drinking laid everything in a pleasant fog, leaving him just buzzed enough to settle the itch under his skin but not nearly drunk enough to make him forget it. He blew at the bottle's film of dust and pried it open, taking a long drink straight from the bottle.
"Oh, we could do more than talk about it," Anders replied with a sly smile, taking the bottle from Artemis and following suit. "In fact, we could re-enact it, if you like. Then you can compare notes."
Artemis squeaked, and Fenris glowed. "Are you…?" Artemis sputtered, eyes round. "What about Cormac?"
"What about Cormac?" Anders shot back, perhaps more harshly than he meant to. Cormac was the last person he wanted to think about right now. It was hard enough when Artemis's eyes were the same shade of blue.
Artemis floundered for a moment, lips forming syllables he never voiced. In the end, he just reached for the brandy. "Give that back," he muttered. None of them were drunk enough for this.
Anders took another swig and passed back the bottle. "You know your brother better than I do. You know he isn't serious. I know me better than either of you. This isn't serious. And if anyone ever told you your brother was better looking than you, they were lying."
"That is a point upon which we can agree," Fenris grudgingly confessed, eyeing the other bottles in the nearest rack. Perhaps a bottle of something clear, as well. He wasn't sure he wanted to become that familiar with the abomination, and everyone's lips but his own had already been on the bottle.
"Did anyone see Isabela, before we left?" Anders suddenly asked. "I think we just left the pantsless pirate in a room full of Orlesian nobles, some of whom are going to end up missing things."
"It isn't going to matter. Money never misses much for long," Fenris grumbled, pulling out a bottle of something he didn't recognise and prying it open. It didn't look that old. Probably wasn't irreplaceable. It tasted of apples and fire.
"I had hoped we were all drunk enough not to remember that," Fenris said, after a few moments, returning to the previous topic. "But, since that's clearly not the case…"
He wrapped an arm around Artemis's shoulders and glared at Anders, as if his eyes alone could strike the man down.
"And to think. I thought you opposed to mages. We're terribly dangerous, you know," Anders taunted.
"Some mages are substantially more annoying than others."
"And sometimes everyone is annoying," Artemis interrupted, "and not nearly drunk enough." He took another drink to distract himself from how warm Fenris felt pressed against his side, his arm around Artemis like he was staking ownership. A few more drinks, and Artemis would let him do so in more pleasurable and regrettable ways.
"Well, there's an easy way to fix that," Anders said cheerfully, even as his glowy passenger disagreed. 'Drinking' was close enough to 'drunk' for Anders to pretend. Besides, there were other ways to lose himself for a while, and this was looking promising.
Another long swig, and Artemis couldn't remember what he'd done with his legs. He still noticed the bottles that weren't sitting right, their labels turned just off of centre, but he was able to leave them be. He made a note to organize the bottles alphabetically later.
"Alright?" Fenris rumbled, velvet voice at Artemis's ear, sending tiny shivers down his neck.
"Mm," Artemis replied, head lolling to Fenris's shoulder. The armour jabbed his cheek, and Artemis straightened again. "Your armour is bothersome," he muttered.
"There's an easy fix for that, too," said Anders.
Cullen, who had until this point assumed himself interested in women, and only women, found himself pressed back against the closed door of a coat closet, with one of the Hawke brothers' tongues in his mouth. It was not, perhaps, the most unpleasant sensation, and really, the bit of stubble didn't detract much from the experience. Anton, he thought this brother was. And really, all told, he wasn't quite sure what he was doing in the coat closet with Anton. There was some conversation, and then there was a door he hadn't noticed, and then… kissing. Not that he was going to object to the kissing. He hadn't been kissed in quite a while, and possibly never this enthusiastically.
He made some small sound and — Maker, no — Anton stopped. Cullen blinked, eyes wild with surprise.
"Are you comfortable in all that plate?" Anton asked, leaning firmly upon it. "I'd think it might pinch in some places, at times like these."
"What?" Cullen swallowed, ears red and his face not much paler. "Plate… times like… what?"
"Oh, I see how it is. Swooning already. Here, let's loosen that up for you." Anton made quick work of a few vital buckles, and metal clattered to the floor of the closet. Not all of it, but enough that stepping out, without stopping to put it back on, would be extremely awkward. "Let's see if that feels a little better."
And then Anton's mouth was on him again, and oh, Maker, Cullen thought he might lose his mind, if he hadn't already. He might have muttered something about desire demons into Anton's mouth, but he'd stopped listening to himself whole minutes ago. It was a party, right? Perhaps a little celebration could be endured, to keep the favour of the noble houses. Good PR. Yes. And the mage was in Starkhaven anyway, so nothing lost.
Kissing Anton — or rather, being kissed by Anton — was like drowning. Breathless and consuming… and a little wet, but Maker damn him if he was going to complain. Cullen wasn't sure what to do with his arms. They hung at his side, limp as noodles, as Anton sucked out his brain through his tongue. Then the blighted demon was all but climbing him like a tree, and Cullen hooked his arms around Anton's waist out of self-preservation.
It wasn't until Anton purred and ground back into his hand that Cullen realized at least one arm had landed south of his waist. He pulled it away, a gasp choked in his throat, and Anton chuckled against his lips. Anton pulled back, licking kiss-swollen lips and devouring Cullen with a look.
The sound Cullen made was not a whimper. Certainly not. He was Knight-Captain, for the Maker's sake.
"Well, aren't you a lovely shade of red?" Anton said. He cupped Cullen's cheek, and felt the fire-hot skin there. Great. He was blushing again.
Cullen shut him up with a kiss of his own. And some Smite. No damage done, no change of situation or perception… Not a mage or a demon, then, just a man snogging him in a coat closet. Cullen was certain he should be in some way more offended by this — this man he didn't even know, whose lips were crushed against his own (which was his own fault, this time) and whose hands were — there was another clatter as a piece of plate hit the floor.
No damage done, but Anton still felt it happen. That chilling wrong that cut through the core of him — he'd tangled with Templars, before, on behalf of one or another of his siblings. He knew what that was. And he laughed against Cullen's lips. "You find me so enchanting that you thought I was a mage? I'm terribly flattered, Ser Cullen."
"How do you—"
"We were at Lothering, when it fell." Anton whispered into Cullen's ear, nibbling on the lobe.
Cullen sucked in a sharp breath, and Anton cut off whatever he was about to say.
"Ah, now you understand. Let it go. We have." More clattering followed, and Anton's hands firmly gripped the unarmoured flesh, now covered only in cloth, running his hands over almost all he could reach.
Cullen found himself rapidly running out of plate. He was still dressed, though, even without it. While it wasn't anything he'd choose to wear in public, it wasn't as if he was down to his smalls. He just kept telling himself that, as Anton's hands wandered over him, as Anton's teeth nibbled down his neck. And then Anton's mouth was on his own, again.
When the Order had issued Cullen that armour, he never thought he'd need it for protection against this kind of onslaught. And an onslaught it was, a duel of lips and tongue and the occasional click of teeth as Anton stripped him of his defences, one by one. He wasn't naked yet, but he felt it.
"Huh. Usually Templars are more aggressive, " Anton murmured, possibly to himself. Somehow, Cullen's body still had blood to spare for his cheeks, and they burned again. Anton chuckled and kissed one cheek almost chastely. "It's not a complaint, Ser Templar."
Cullen wondered if this man even remembered his name.
Anton's lips found Cullen's throat next, and Cullen's hands found skin under Anton's fine tunic… as well as the hilt of a dagger. Another huff of laughter from Anton, and he was taking the dagger from his waistband, away from Cullen's fingers. Did the man mean to kill him?
"Never mind that," Anton soothed between kisses, tossing dagger and sheath to clatter to the floor, next to Cullen's armour. A second dagger followed suit, then a third. Cullen would never have guessed they were there.
"You're a dangerous thing, aren't you?" Cullen said, breathless.
Anton smiled. "Oh, ser, you have no idea."
After a beat to gather his courage, Cullen made a lunge for this beautiful, wild man, crashing lips to lips again. He tripped over a piece of plate, and they fell over in a heap, taking half of the guests' cloaks with them and making one hell of a racket.
Bodhan's voice could be heard from outside the closet. "Serah Hawke? Is everything all right in there?"
"Everything's fine," Anton called out, breathless, "but if anyone wants their cloak, knock first."
There was a strained silence from outside the door that was more than made up for by the panting and quiet groaning inside the closet.
The Templar was handsome enough that Anton might have taken an interest, anyway, but with his sister's freedom on the line, it was time to pull out all the stops. "You like my lips on your lips, on your cheek, on your neck…" Lips followed words, and Anton lost himself against that burning skin. "Is there anywhere else you'd like my lips? Do other parts of you taste as sweet?"
Cullen flushed again, the red creeping down into the collar of his sweat-stained underarmour. Not a demon, he reminded himself, flesh stirring against Anton's thigh, where they'd crashed together on the floor. In a blind panic, he kissed Anton again, not to have to answer.
