Apr 062015
 

Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 8
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters:  Cormac Hawke , Artemis Hawke , Anton Hawke , Anders , Cullen , Fenris
Rating: E (L2 N4 S4 V0 D1)
Warnings: Drinking, Anders is fucked the fuck right up, Artemis isn’t much better, lots of snogging, teh gay, buttsex, zero relationship skills
Notes: So, we heard you like smut… *coughs* Cullen gets laid! The threesome in the cellar becomes a foursome! Hot hilarity ensues in all cases!


Cullen had no idea where his pants went. He suspected they were somewhere under the pile of cloaks and coats Anton was currently laying on. He certainly had no idea where his smalls had ended up, and some poor noblewoman was likely in for a surprise when she went to get her coat later. More surprises than that, the way Anton was clawing at his back, but a few spots of blood were easy enough to overlook in a place like Kirkwall. Could have picked those up anywhere.

But, even that faded out as Anton’s legs wrapped around his waist. "Come on, Ser Templar. Sheathe that powerful sword."

The blush that raced across Cullen’s face hit so hard that he wondered if it would bruise, and all that came out of his mouth was disjointed stuttering. He was supposed to put what where? Anton surely didn’t mean… But, a hand slid down through the tangle of legs, and that was exactly what Anton meant, judging from where Cullen suddenly found the tip of … himself… pressed.

Anton’s fingers moved slowly, enticingly along the length, slicked with one of the small packets of oil he carried for occasions like these and the occasional stubborn lock or hinge. He licked his lips and then kissed Cullen again, licking and nipping the templar’s lips. "I’m a man like any other, if a little better looking than most. Just push."

"I haven’t—" Cullen started to say, only to realize that this wasn’t the time for that kind of confession, not if he wanted ‘I haven’t’ to turn into ‘I have now’. And, Maker, did he want that.

Cullen pushed in carefully, as slowly as he dared. One inch, then two. He watched Anton’s face, watched it twist and heard his breath hitch in what he thought was pain. "I-I’m hurting you." Oh Maker damn it. He’d done it wrong, hadn’t he? He’d said to push in, but—

"Mm?" Anton opened his eyes as Cullen started to pull back out. His legs coiled around Cullen’s and held him in place. "Please," he huffed, smirking up at the templar. "It takes far more than that to hurt me. Care to try?"

Cullen let out a breath. "You’re alright?"

Anton’s smirk softened. The man looked so genuinely concerned. For him. "Yes, I’m alright." If he weren’t, Ser Templar would have a knife in his liver. Or spleen. Maybe both. He wasn’t too picky about vital organs.

The only one organ he was interested in right now, however, was this templar’s sword, and it was currently sinking into his flesh in the most delicious way. "Mm, yes," he purred, wriggling hips to pull him deeper.

Cullen tried to keep breathing. Really, he did. But that became increasingly difficult with each slow inch that slid into Anton’s almost painfully tight hole. Hot, tight, and pulling him in. This was completely unreasonable, in every sense of the word, and he wanted more — but only if he could have it without hurting this outrageously alluring man. But, given the way ‘yes’ was about every third word out of Anton’s mouth, maybe he was doing something right, after all.

The last time you felt this good... No. There were no demons, here. He’d checked.

Anton saw the doubt flash across Cullen’s face. "Regretting this so soon?"

"No." Cullen pushed the rest of the way in, and everything seemed to be brighter, sharper, and in a completely different reality. He wondered if this was why the mages in the tower were always hiding behind statues and bookcases with their robes hiked up around their waists — if it was just to get closer to the Fade, because surely that’s what this was. "No regrets."

Anton’s fingers sunk into one heavily-muscled ass cheek, and he dropped his hips. The strangled sound that followed was everything he’d hoped for.

Cullen held himself up on his elbows, lips slack and breathing heavy as his hips ground forward. It was a tentative move, almost a question, one Anton answered with a pleased hum. He moved again, again, slowly gaining confidence under Anton’s lavish encouragement.

The coat cushioning Anton’s shapely ass rucked up with each movement, the fur trim tickling him in places he never thought he’d want to be tickled. "Yes," Anton sighed, nails bruising against Cullen’s broad back. Maker, if all templars had shoulders like these and blushed so sweetly, he’d have joined the Order himself!

Well… that was a lie, but he would’ve kept his brothers from setting that last one on fire.

Cullen and Anton settled into a rhythm, one delightfully rougher than Anton had expected, especially after that stuttering display earlier. One broad hand held Anton’s hips for leverage, and Anton laid back and let Ser Templar do his ‘magic’.

And to think his brothers were in the middle of that boring party. Ha!


Cormac was on the cellar stairs when he heard what sounded like someone having a good time. The way the voices echoed off the stone didn’t give him much of a clue as to who, but probably some Orlesians. Maybe he’d get the bottle he’d come down here for, and stay for the entertainment. He’d always wondered if the rumours about Orlesian erotic arts were true — if nothing else, maybe he could learn something that would finally get Anders to make noise. Any noise. That man was uncannily quiet, once he got going.

And then he came to the end of a rack, and saw what he’d been hearing, another couple of racks down and over. It took a minute to sink in. At least a minute. That… was very definitely Anders, kneeling, but still tall and dead silent, still half-dressed, one hand on the rack behind him and the other on… was that Fenris? No, couldn’t be. There was no way.

Cormac slid into the shadows of the next rack, still watching, and … if that wasn’t Fenris, he was going to be extremely surprised, and terribly curious which of the guests was Tevinter and whether Fenris had killed them yet. Those lines, even if they were lines he’d never actually seen, were pretty unmistakeable. Ok, that was Fenris. And Fenris and Anders appeared to be clutching each others’ wrists over someone else, who was bent between them, almost invisible at this angle.

One more rack, and Cormac could finally make out the third figure, stripped bare and dripping on the cellar floor. That was his brother. That was Artemis, blowing Anders while Fenris fucked him. This shouldn’t have been so inspiring, but he couldn’t take his eyes off them. Hard enough to get stupid, he stepped out into the light.

"Oh, Anders, really!?" Cormac clutched at his chest, dramatically. "You come down here to have a threesome with my brother and Fenris, and you don’t invite me? How could you! Oh, my throbbing knob!"

Anders looked up at Cormac, hips stilling in his surprise. "I’d say this isn’t what it looks like, but I’d be lying," he said.

Artemis stiffened, squeaking around the knob in his throat before spitting it out and scrambling to sit up. Fenris stilled behind him, knuckles white on the hand holding Artemis’s hip. He swore in Tevene. "I have had enough of mages interrupting me," he growled, pulling Artemis tight against him and swivelling his hips. Artemis stuttered out a breath, clutching Fenris’s arm around him.

"Cormac?" His voice cracked, his throat feeling well-used. Oh fuck. Not again. His face and chest were flushed as much with embarrassment as from arousal. "What are you doing here?" He tried to cover his fun bits with his hand, but it was something of a lost cause, considering his handsome, dick-wielding bookends.

"I just came down for a bottle, to spice up the party, but it looks like there’s a better party down here." Cormac’s eyes lingered pointedly on Anders’s lap. "Don’t worry, Artie. I’m not here to ruin the fun."

Fenris glowered intently, shoulders lifting and pulling forward. Anders thought if the elf had been a cat, he’d be all puffed up. And that was not a laugh. He was not laughing. Not if he wanted to keep all his body parts attached.

"Then stop looming, you prick." Anders had had about enough of not getting off. Especially since he meant to do it more than once. Several several times more than once, and the longer it took to get to the first one, the less likely he was to have the time to enjoy the rest.

"Get back up off your ass, and I’ll take up lurking behind you, instead," Cormac cracked, hiking up his robes and tucking the cloth into his belt, so the skirts stopped just above his knees. His head twisted so he was obviously addressing Artemis, without actually looking. "He’s delicious, isn’t he? Just wait until he gets back up, so you don’t choke on that utterly unreasonable flagpole."

"I’m an entire head taller than you, Cormac! It’s proportional!" Anders complained.

"Cormac," Artemis groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. If he blushed any harder he’d spontaneously combust. He shouldn’t be surprised, not with how shameless he knew his brother to be, not with all the nights he’d laid awake with a pillow over his ears and an erection in his smalls listening to his asshole of a brother getting laid.

But the worst part — the absolute worst part — was that Artemis’s knob was no less interested in the proceedings with his brother in the room. If anything, it was more interested, the perverse bastard. He tried to will it to calm down, but his knob wasn’t listening.

Fenris certainly wasn’t helping, with his teeth worrying Artemis’s ear and his hips taking up a delightfully harsh rhythm. Artemis made a note to get Fenris frustrated more often.

Cormac settled to his knees behind Anders, teasing the healer into lifting his ass off his heels, with a few sharp nudges and a very talented hand. "If you’d only told me, I’d have brought down some butter."

Anders nearly sat right back down as all the blood rushed out of his head. He’d taught Cormac the thing with the butter. That was so unfair. His grip on the wine rack tightened as he struggled to find his voice, and Cormac struggled to keep both of their clothes out of the grease spell. Anders offered Artemis an almost apologetic smile. "I’m really tall. He can’t see over my shoulder."

"Drink more," came Cormac’s voice, from behind that shoulder. "I’ve heard it helps. Carver told me all about the thing at Ostagar, right before he punched me in the face and told me it was my fault."

Cormac’s fingers worked Anders open, and Anders fell silent, a radiant joy emanating from him, as his head tipped back to rest against the wine rack, baring that long, pale, stubbled throat. Cormac’s other hand untied his hair, and it fell in a dark gold curtain, just past Anders’s shoulders.

Fenris watched the blatant debauchery, across from where he continued to grind into Artemis’s warm body. The abomination seemed to have fallen into a meditative state, and given what he assumed Cormac was doing, Fenris wondered how that was even possible. Abomination. Right. Weird demon nonsense.

Speaking of magic, Artemis was starting to make those little noises he liked so much, groans choking in his throat. He nuzzled behind Artemis’s ear, his eyes never leaving the mage tableau in front of him as he wrung more shuddery breaths from the gorgeous man in his arms.

Anders, in contrast was much too silent and still, as though to make up for the whorish noises that were sure to come out of Cormac soon.

Artemis seemed to agree, the way he was watching Anders, eyeing the impressive knob still glistening with his spit. Artemis twisted to give Fenris a sloppy, awkward kiss, and then he bent over Anders again, breath hitching at the change in angle, the rush of breath on his knob making Anders’s toes curl.

Then Anders found himself at the mercy of two Hawkes, filled and surrounded by heat and warmth. Fenris’s thrusts rocked Artemis into him, almost making Artemis choke, and he paused and stroked a hand down Artemis’s spine in apology.

"Venhedis," Fenris cursed. Three mages. Three unfairly gorgeous, troublesome mages. They would be the death of him.

Anders’s hand settled, eventually, on Artemis’s shoulder, angled to serve as a break point. This was good. This was, in fact, breathtakingly good, to judge by his own ragged breathing, but it would stop being good very quickly if Artemis threw up on him. Still, two Hawke brothers — what had he ever done in his life to deserve this? Whatever it was, he was going to make a point to do it again. He tilted his head to the side and managed to rub his cheek against the top of Cormac’s head. Why were Fereldans so short? It just wasn’t right.

Paying close attention to how Anders’s hips rocked, Cormac picked a rhythm that put him just slightly off from Fenris — something that would shove Artemis back onto the elf a split second after the end of Fenris’s thrust. Anders had a hand in the right place, and Cormac reached around the other way, to brace Artemis’s other shoulder. As interested as Cormac always was in his own enjoyment, he took a certain devilish pride in pleasing those he was with, even to the point of abusing the laws of physics and the tolerances of the human body, to get where he meant to end up — in this case, that would be with all four of them in a sweaty, exhausted heap of ‘whose what is that on my something’, on the floor of the cellar.

Fenris couldn’t quite find it in himself to care whose what was where, as long as he stayed buried in Artemis. The Fade glimmered and sparkled down his arms, flickered across his chest, as his hands clutched at the sharp points of Artemis’s hips. Somehow, Cormac had taken control of the entire affair, again. It had been Cormac, in the tent, he decided. For all that Anders was unsubtle, he was … well even less subtle than that, when he had a plan. So, Fenris rolled his hips and changed his pace, pushing in as Cormac pulled out of Anders.

Artemis didn’t have the mental capacity to think, let alone count. All he knew was that there hands on his shoulders, hands on his hips, and knobs in his… everywhere. There wasn’t, however, a hand on his knob yet, and his hands were much too busy bracing himself and digging lines in the floor to change that. He hummed around Anders, sounding as pleading as he could with his mouth full.

Add scraped knees to the list of dubious injuries Anders would have to heal later. Handy that, bedding a healer. Or… flooring, he supposed.

Anders sucked in a breath as Artemis started doing something truly lovely with his tongue. Leave it to a mage to know how to wield a staff. Either that or the Amell line were genetically predisposed to giving good head. Perhaps he’d have to test out the other three. You know, for science.

He didn’t see Fenris eyeing the line of his throat, but he could feel Fenris pick up the pace. So could Artemis, judging by the way he started to shake.

Fenris’s hands travelled in and down from Artemis’s hips, as he leaned forward over the mage’s back, one warm hand cupping Artemis’s balls and the other closing around his knob. The grip tilted Artemis’s hips up, and lessened the forward shift from his thrusts. But, more than that, he could feel the radiant heat from Artemis’s back against his chest and every beat of Artemis’s heart in his fingers. A few strangled sounds escaped his throat as he tried to hold himself back, at least until the abomination had finished. He meant to let the mages wear themselves out, before allowing himself to surrender, but he hadn’t considered what he’d heard on the other side of the tent, that night.

Anders whispered something inaudible to Cormac, and Cormac’s free arm wrapped up around Anders’s chest, clutching at his collarbone. Shifting his weight, Anders leaned back onto Cormac, spreading his knees further for Artemis and sinking down further onto Cormac, who responded with a stream of reverent expletive. Trousers shoved down to the tops of his boots, but otherwise still dressed, silent, flushed, and so inviting, Anders was the very image of decadent debauchery.

Artemis adjusted the spread of his knees to alleviate the ache growing there, in sweet contrast to the aches he was feeling everywhere else. Fenris’s hand was beautiful on his knob, as was Fenris’s voice in his ear, and Anders’s knob stoppered the sounds his own throat was trying to make. Maker. He’d never felt so consumed and surrounded, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to burst or collapse. It was a good thing there were so many hands keeping him upright even as they were pulling him apart. He’d lost count again, but he was certain at least one of them was his brother’s.

Fenris’s breaths were becoming more ragged, tickling Artemis’s spine, and his hips were pumping on just this side of wild. It was all driving him crazy. He wished he could see more of Anders at this angle, and there he was, wanting ‘more’ when it was all already ‘too much’. He made some shaky sounds around Anders, warning him he was close.

Oddly, Cormac was the one who correctly interpreted the sounds his brother was making — probably because they were a much quieter version of the sounds he made in similar conditions. He managed to knock down the volume of his own nearly-incoherent praise of Anders’s incredible ass enough to whisper something encouraging to Anders. Just a nudge.

Anders called up a bit of electricity, letting it spill down into Artemis’s shoulder, warm and vibrant, and Cormac matched it on the other side. "Come for us, Artemis," Anders choked out, and across from him, Fenris snarled, much too far gone for words.

Fenris continued to growl, thighs shaking as he continued to pound into Artemis. This mage was his. His mage. And he would not have the abomination seducing his mage away from him. The closer he got, the more he wanted, and it felt like nothing would ever be enough. And then the electricity crackled across the ends of his hair, skipping off of Artemis’s back. Stupid mage tricks. Stupid mage tricks that would probably feel incredible, if they were a little closer to his body, as he recalled.

Artemis didn’t know if it was Anders’s voice, Fenris’s growls, or the spark of magic down his spine that pushed ‘more’ past ‘too much’ and into the land of non-coherence. He arched back, hips shaking against Fenris, and came with a choked scream around Anders, fingernails scrabbling against stone. He was too far gone to feel the floor shake or to hear the crash of wine bottles shattering.

Fenris noticed, however, and swore in a language he didn’t even know, curling around Artemis on instinct and shielding him, even as he held him up with an arm around his hips. Anders raised his eyebrows and bit back a laugh at the look on Fenris’s face. Artemis was all but purring around him, eyes closed and tongue moving lazily, oblivious to the mess, the rivers of wine catching in the seams of the floor.

Fucking mages.