Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 9
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Cormac Hawke ♂, Artemis Hawke ♂, Anton Hawke ♂, Anders ♂, Cullen ♂, Fenris ♂
Rating: E (L2 N4 S4 V0 D1)
Warnings: Anders is fucked the fuck right up, Artemis isn’t much better, oh my god Cormac, teh gay, buttsex, organ-fondling good times, zero relationship skills
Notes: Jizz! On! Everything! Apparently we broke this in such a way that it’s the orgasm chapter. For everyone except Artemis, who came first.
Anders leaned back further, draping himself on Cormac, who continued to thrust into him, albeit at a substantially quicker pace, now that they were both wearing wine. The tunic was going to be a loss, he thought, but that thought vanished, as Fenris caught his eye, glaring. He licked his lip and smiled wantonly at the elf, because for once, it was extremely unlikely to end in him getting punched in his very pretty face.
It wasn’t so much that Fenris growled again as that he’d never actually stopped growling, and he’d just gotten audible again. His hands smoothed over Artemis’s warm body, but his eyes never left Anders’s, and there was some terrible sense in the pit of his stomach that three mages in a room in which he had his knob out was at least two mages too many. At least. But, there was also the extremely luscious sense pooling in the bowl of his hips that not enough of these mages were touching him, not enough of them were serving his lusts — the lusts he wouldn’t even have noticed, had it not been for this mage, right here, grabbing his ass.
And that memory lit his brands, as it raced through him. A glimmer of blue that started in the centre of his chest and flickered and danced outward. His fingers sunk into Artemis’s flesh.
Artemis squeaked around Anders, eyes popping wide. Fenris was inside him. Well, Fenris had been inside him, but only the usual bits so far in the usual places. Fingers fondling him through his skin was certainly not ‘usual’ and usually served as a precursor to having one’s internal organs ripped apart. Since Fenris’s hips were still pistoning, Artemis assumed the elf wanted him intact, at least for a few more minutes.
Maker. Fade-lit fingers were tracing the lines of his hip bones, and somehow that was more intimate than anything else they’d done yet. Anders’s knob stoppered two syllables that sounded suspiciously like ‘Fenris’.
The sound made Fenris smile, his growling somehow sounding like less of a warning and more of a victory. He was the only one who could touch Artemis like this, who could make him tremble by stroking the lines of his vertebrae. Screw mages and their alluring lightning tricks.
Anders found that wicked smile turned his way. It was a smile that taunted, ‘don’t you wish I was touching you this way?’ And Maker, Anders knew Fenris was more likely to rip out his intestines than fondle them, but yes.
Artemis blinked down at the wine on his palms and wondered how it’d gotten there.
Cormac was not disturbed by the wine. He’d hoisted his skirts far enough to introduce himself to Anders’s ass, and that was well clear of the smashed glass and the puddles around them. Also fortunately, he seemed to have been closer to the white side of this rack. And thank the Maker for all the times he’d done stupid things, in his life, and the muscle he’d gained from doing them, because he was supporting nearly all of Anders’s weight and propping up his brother, and he still had the balance to keep thrusting. Mostly. Cormac wobbled a bit, and then Anders slumped hard, a raspy inhale following him down, as he emptied himself into Artemis’s mouth.
"Fuck, Cormac, don’t stop." Anders tried to stop leaning so heavily back, pulling himself up with the hand he’d forgotten was on the wine rack. And, no, he hadn’t dislocated any fingers when Artemis had almost dropped the cellar on them. Good. As he rose up, Cormac followed. Better.
"Mine," Fenris hissed against Artemis’s back, offended at the thought of the Abomination having left anything in his mage, despite having been waiting for exactly that.
Artemis finally pulled off of Anders and panted for breath, jaw aching. He balanced himself on one hand and wiped away what he hadn’t swallowed, dizzy from the taste and stink of sex and wine. If he wasn’t drunk before, he certainly would be now, drunk off the taste of Anders and the possessive way Fenris was growling and holding him from the inside out.
"Yours," he agreed, reaching behind him to grasp what he could of Fenris, grabbing a handful of glowy, Fade-tinted flesh. He was starting to see patterns now, in the way Fenris growled and moved and shook, that made him think of that night in the tent, that told him that Fenris was getting close too. Artemis twisted, wanting to see his face, to kiss him, but the angle was too awkward. He’d rather not pitch them over into wine and broken glass.
"Mage," Fenris growled against Artemis’s skin, his rhythm stuttering.
Artemis was tempted to ask ‘which one?’ but he doubted Fenris appreciate the reminder that he was, in fact, the only non-mage member of this party.
Fenris’s hands clenched, gripping the bones of Artemis’s hips as muscle and warm organs slid over the backs of his fingers. This was not how this was supposed to go, he was sure, but it was how he would mean for it to go, in the future. He didn’t figure they’d be able to deny it, after this, so there was probably going to be a future. Assuming the mages didn’t accidentally kill them all. But, he wasn’t sure if he’d care if he died, right that moment, because everything was perfect. Everything was amazing and wonderful and full of stars.
"Mane cum me," he choked out, his entire body tensing.
Anders’s eyebrows nearly left his face, they went up so fast. That, from the mage-hating broody death elf, who apparently didn’t hate mages nearly as much as he’d thought.
Artemis would ask him what that meant later. It clearly meant something, from the look on Anders’s face, and he hoped it was the good kind of something.
Fenris’s hands on his bones were another good kind of something, as was the way he shuddered against him, over him and behind him. "Fenris," Artemis sighed, finally slumping, breathing hard and his ass still in the air. The stone was wet and sticky under his cheek, mostly from the wine, enough wine that he was sure he could get drunk all over again just by licking it, and he was sore in places he didn’t know he had. He almost lamented the loss of Fenris’s fingers when he pulled them out and laid them on his skin the usual way.
Fenris was still reeling, still seeing sparks behind his eyes when he found himself on his ass with his arms full of mage. It was the right mage at least, he decided when Artemis kissed him. He growled on principle but held him close, ignoring the stickiness of wine on his knees and ass and on Artemis’s hands, focusing instead on the hammering of his heart and the similar, leaping pulse he could feel under Artemis’s skin. For that moment, all was well, and he forgot about the other mage presences in the room. He forgot about everything else altogether, and that was a frightening thing.
"You’re still hard, you’re probably still sloppy-wet, and now you don’t have my brother’s face in your crotch," Cormac purred, from behind Anders. "What if we turn this around a bit?"
A few feet away, the tips of Fenris’s ears turned vibrantly red.
"Yes! That! Right there!" What was the Templar’s name again? Killian? Kieran? Fffff… "Cullen! More!"
Hearing his name from Anton’s mouth, hearing it in that tone, these were the kind of pleasures nothing could have prepared him for. And the way the man clutched and clawed at him, spreading himself open for every thrust, while never moving his legs from Cullen’s back — if he wasn’t completely sure this wasn’t a mage or a demon, he’d have suspected magic.
He thrust in harder, already ramming in hard enough to shake the coat rails above them, hangers clattering against the wood every few thrusts. And still Anton wanted more. Cullen could feel a warmth in the base of his spine, a liquid heat that seemed to slosh delightfully with every motion of his hips. Sensation darted through his body, clinging to the tips of his fingers, his tongue, and other appendages.
"Maker," Cullen breathed. "Anton!"
It took a few tries before Bodhan’s knocks were loud enough to be heard over Anton’s encouragements, and Cullen stilled. "Uh, I hate to interrupt, Messere Anton," called Bodhan through the door. Maker, but Cullen could hear his embarrassment. "But the Lady de Launcet would like her coat."
Cullen’s wide eyes found Anton’s, and then suddenly Anton was laughing, shaking them both with the force of it. Through another blush, Cullen found himself smiling in response. Without moving, Anton called through the door, "I don’t suppose it’s green with fur trim, by any chance?" Too bad, if it was. Anton was growing rather fond of it.
There was a pause and some stuttering, and then Bodhan replied, "…I will go ask her, Messere."
"Oh, Maker," Cullen groaned.
"Hurry up!" Anton hissed. "It’ll take him a few minutes to figure it out. We can do this."
Cullen’s hips responded before his brain even processed the sentence, rolling ardently against Anton’s ass. And that didn’t help him think at all. Perhaps he’d leave the thinking to Anton, who both lived here and seemed to be quite good at thinking under extreme circumstances.
"And once we’re done in here, I’ve got a bottle of some exceptional Orlesian honey-wine back in my room, if you want to lie around naked and help me drink it. The naked is an essential part of enjoying the vintage." Anton worked his hips, bucking and rolling, wringing Cullen’s flesh inside him.
Somewhere around the word ‘naked’, Cullen lost track of a few parts of his body that were deemed non-essential. Like his brain. He was a good Fereldan, born and raised, and the very idea of such decadence actually existing and being offered to him, by the man whose hot, tight ass was currently squeezing pleasure into his body — it was all a bit much.
Cullen bent forward to kiss him. It was little more than a breathy passing of lips, the way they were moving. It was for the best that Cullen had lost the capacity to think or he would have thought something sappy, like how Anton’s lips were sweeter than any Orlesian wine. Worse, he would have said it. And meant it.
As it was, the roll of their bodies said plenty. Right now it said that Cullen was in danger of shaking apart at the seams if he felt anymore.
But there was space still for one word in his mind, on his lips: "Anton."
"Yes, that’s it!" In contrast, Anton’s vocabulary was far more extensive, much to his own annoyance.
Everything was wet, or at least that was Cullen’s last impression of it, as he lost control of his body, one elbow cracking soundly against the floor, as the space between them echoed with the squelching sounds of every irresistible, shaking thrust.
"Maker !" The strangled start of a prayer heaved out of him as he collapsed onto Anton, who squeezed a hand between them, in the last desperate moment there was still space for air.
Anton’s middle finger shoved back the edge of his foreskin, and his thumb came down hard against the edge of the slit, in a sharp pinch. Thought he came for your sister, but came in your ass, instead. Clearly a success. And a win that tipped him over the edge.
Reality reasserted itself in fragments, like shards of a broken mirror. The longer Cullen stared at that mirror the less it made sense, and he wondered how he’d ended up here, naked and sweaty and tangled with the middle Hawke son. The middle Hawke son who was definitely Not a Mage but no less dangerous because of it. Cullen blinked down at Anton, at the lax, sated smile on his lips that made him look a little drunk, and he wondered if he regretted this. He should regret this — he was on duty, for Maker’s sake — but.
But the man wrapped around him was charming and gorgeous and just the right side of dangerous.
"Well, handsome," Anton said, laying a hand on Cullen’s chest. "Was it good for you?"
And there he was, blushing again. It was a line — even he knew that — and a terribly impersonal, clichÃ©d one. Maker, he was a fool.
"It was…" Cullen fished for the right word. His vocabulary was slowly returning to him, but there was still enough skin on skin contact to make him stupid. "It was lovely," he decided, though that word didn’t seem to fit either.
Bodhan knocked on the door again. "Messere Anton? Yes. It’s the green one with the fur."
Anton laughed and wiped his hand on… something that wasn’t the coat under his back. He hoped. "Help me get off this nice woman’s coat, Cullen, and then we can go back to my room and practice some other kinds of getting off. If you’re interested, of course. If not, it’s been, as you say, lovely."
Fishing through the infinite cloth for his smalls, Cullen didn’t answer for a while. This wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense. It was good and wrong, and he’d been invited to do more of it. With fancy Orlesian wine and a bed. He shouldn’t, and he knew he shouldn’t, and maybe that should mean something.
But, he pulled on his smalls, and helped Anton off the pile of coats, watching the muscles of the man’s back and legs, as Anton picked up the coat and offered it to Bodhan, around the edge of the door, while Cullen, himself, struggled to stay out of view. Somewhere, in all of this, were his clothes. Regardless of his choice on the matter at hand, he was going to need to wear them to get out of this closet.
Oh look, there was part of his armour, buried under something intricate and heavy (and likely wool, from the way it itched). And there was another piece, over there. And another. And — Sweet Maker, what a mess.
Cullen would deal with the armour later, he decided. Once his head was screwed back on right and he wasn’t so distracted by the thought of miles of skin and sweet wine under his tongue. Yes. Armour later. Pants now.
Speaking of… "Hmm," Anton hummed, drawing Cullen’s attention. He had Cullen’s pants in hand, a mischievous smile on his face. He held them behind his back when Cullen reached for them, and there was all that naked skin in his way again. "You haven’t answered my question, Ser Cullen."
Ser Cullen. People called him that all the time but never with that sinful purr. "Can I have my pants back, please?" he asked, stalling.
"Perhaps. Can I have my answer?"
"Er." He shouldn’t. He’d been over that in his head. He really, really shouldn’t, and yet he really, really wanted. Then again, he’d already done ‘shouldn’t’, so how much worse could he make it. "Orlesian wine, you say?"
"Orlesian wine," Anton agreed, grinning.
"And the room in which we would be drinking this wine is less public than our current situation?" Cullen eyed his pants longingly.
"With the party going on, no one will even know we’re there. Just you, me, some Orlesian honey-wine, and the blessed silence of the thick, stone walls. We can take the servants’ stairs. We’ll be invisible." Anton cocked his hip and looked Cullen right in the eye. "Come on, Ser Cullen. Give me something more interesting to do than this stuffy affair."
Terrible idea. Possibly the worst he’d had since that horrible night in the tower. But, this was different. There was no demon, here. He chewed on his lip, indecisively. He’d just done unspeakable things in a coat closet, with one of the Amell heirs, and the man was inviting him to do more unspeakable things. Unspeakably enjoyable things. He was, he reasoned, Knight-Captain. He was here under his own direction, and there was no one to reprimand him for his choices, as long as Meredith didn’t find out. And he wasn’t going to tell her. He doubted the Amells had much to gain by so doing, either. And however bad he was in it, unless it came to involve demons or blood magic, it was unlikely to get any worse.
"Yes?" Cullen cleared his throat and tried again. "I don’t think I’ve tried Orlesian honey-wine. It’s a very kind offer, and I’m… er… pleased to accept?"
"Excellent." Anton grinned. "You have earned your pants. For the moment." He handed over said pants, and Cullen pulled them on more hastily than he should have, nearly getting his foot caught in one pant-leg.
They threw on just enough clothes to qualify as Not Naked (Cullen hoped the clothes he was wearing were his, but he couldn’t be sure), and then Anton was taking Cullen’s hand and sneaking him out of the closet. He wasn’t sure how they made it upstairs without being seen, after a few minutes of running and ducking and breathless laughter, Cullen found himself pinned to a closed door, a tongue down his throat and a literal knob sticking into his back.
Cullen was breathless and dizzy by the time Anton pulled back. "You said something about wine?" he asked just to give him a chance to breathe.
Anton chuckled. "It wouldn’t be a party without wine." He squeezed Cullen through his trousers before pulling away to rummage through the cabinet by his bed.
Staggering away from the door knob that was pointedly disagreeing with his kidney, Cullen walked straight into Anton’s hand, and wound up sprawled on the bed, feet still on the floor. "Going to be like that, is it?" he asked, blinking up at the man straddling his hips, two glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other, much like when they’d first been introduced, but more horizontal.
"And that’s just to start." A teasing smile hung on Anton’s lips as he poured, just filling the glasses, for now. There would be time enough for other applications, once there were less clothes in the way. He offered both glasses to Cullen.
Cullen sat up just enough not to pour wine on his face, when he tried to drink it, propping himself up on an elbow. "Bloody Orlesians and their exotic wine," he muttered, not entirely displeased with the taste. It seemed overwhelmingly sweet and burned a bit going down.
"It’s better when you don’t drink it straight," Anton assured him, leaning back to set the bottle atop the cabinet it had come out of. "In fact, it’s much better on things and sometimes in things."
Cullen could guess what ‘things’ it tasted good on. The word ‘in’, however, made his brain short-circuit. "Why do I have a feeling you’ll be demonstrating that shortly?" he asked, bolder now with wine on his tongue. He preferred Fereldan wine himself, but this? This was never really about the wine, was it?
"I’m all about practical application," Anton replied, wriggling his hips more than necessary as he settled atop him. He took back one of the wine glasses, leaving Cullen with one free hand he didn’t know what to do with. Eventually he rested that hand on Anton’s thigh, tracing lines of muscle he’d seen bare minutes before.
Cullen pulled him down for a kiss between sips, keeping the caress as sweet as the wine. "Are all your parties like this?" he asked, lying back, his touch almost reverent against Anton’s flank.
Anton smirked into his wine glass. "Well," he said. "This is our first party, but I’ll let you know."