Jul 302015
 

[ Master Post ]
Title: Rhapsody In Ass Major – Chapter 139
Co-Conspirator: TumblrMaverikLoki
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Cullen , Anton Hawke , Meredith
Rating: M (L2 N2 S3 V0 D0)
Warnings: ANTON NO, Anton yes!, this is why we don’t sneak into the Knight-Commander’s office, the internet is for porn
Notes: Particular Hawkes might wish to become more particular about their choices of closets.


Anton stole into Cullen’s office a few days later, hoping to surprise his tempting templar with a mid-afternoon break. Instead Anton was the one surprised, finding Cullen’s office empty and his chair cold. Probably another meeting, he suspected. Or out training the recruits. Anton pictured Cullen barking orders at Carver, and the image brought a smile to his face.

Ah well. Cullen was never away from his office for long, so if his chair was cold, he was likely due back any moment. Anton would just keep it warm for him. The chair was cushioned, the kind that gave a noisy exhale whenever someone sat in it, and Anton wriggled against it until he was comfortable.

Anton had only been keeping the chair warm for a few minutes when he grew bored, toying with a quill Cullen had left, rolling rolls of parchment back forth along the length of the desk… and eventually over the side. He made a note to pick those up later.

A few minutes later, and Anton was poking through Cullen’s desk drawers, rooting through contents he’s already poked through months before. Taking a pick to those locks was second nature, and he had them open in a matter of seconds. He ought to tell Cullen to change those locks, just so he could have more of a challenge.

But, what was this, at the top of the drawer on the left? It looked like Isabela’s handwriting… And, Maker, she was at it again, wasn’t she. He wondered, flipping through the soft-edged pages, how Cullen had come into possession of one of Izzy’s stories. Doubly so one about… No. What. No. It wasn’t just about him — that would have just been funny. It was about him and the Arishok, which was really decidedly less humorous. If she was going to write something like that, why couldn’t it have been Cormac, instead of him. Qunari just… No. He felt like Aveline would be in some way responsible for this.

Unless, of course, Cullen had… That was absurd. Cullen could barely carry on a conversation with Izzy, and more than that, he could barely mention a knob without getting red in the face. There was no way he’d asked… was there? And if he had, what would that even mean? He’d always expected the templar had some kinky depths, but Qunari? And with how possessive Cullen was…

Maybe he’d taken it away from Izzy. That almost made sense, with how uptight he was about what was written about him, and by extension, about Anton.

Anton propped his feet on the desk and laid the pages across his thighs as he read them. The first few pages were distressing — he remembered the Arishok. He didn’t want to remember the Arishok. The betrayal, the blood, his brothers lying broken on the ground — he couldn’t be thinking about those things. So, he took a deep breath and tried again, replacing the Arishok with Cullen, in his mind, and after a few more pages, he was idly palming himself through his tight, Orlesian trousers. The idea of Cullen wrestling him to the ground and ravishing him was … oddly enticing. So much so that he didn’t hear the door swing open.

Cullen stilled in the doorway, hand still on the doorknob. Anton in his office, in his chair, was hardly a surprise. Anton in his office, in his chair, and reading that, however, was. No. It couldn’t be. Anton was only thumbing through the loose papers on his desk. Right?

Except that… well. It looked like he wasn’t the only one with one hand on a knob. He shut the door, and only then did Anton look up, startled, eyes round in a way Cullen hardly ever saw them. That startled look smoothed over into a smirk, and Anton sat back, neatening the edges of the papers against the desk.

"That’s… um," Cullen struggled to explain. "That’s, ah. Andraste have mercy." He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks flaming red, and wondered if it was too late to slink back out the door and act like he hadn’t come in here.

"You have some interesting reading in your desk, Knight-Captain," Anton said. "Is this required reading? Did Meredith assign this to you?"

Cullen’s face felt painfully hot. "I… no. No, I found that."

"Have you been examining Izzy’s rack of secrets, again?" Anton teased.

"It— it was stuffed between your couch cushions! I mistook it for another of Anders’s manifestos!" Cullen sputtered, crossing the room to make a grab for the pages. "And then I thought it might be some kind of code!"

"If Izzy’s writing coded messages into her smut, I’ll be very surprised." Anton laughed and continued to keep the pages just out of Cullen’s reach. "Just trying to crack the code, hmm? Not sitting here in your grand office with one hand under your desk, imagining me getting reamed by a Qunari? I’m almost disappointed."

"Anton—" Cullen made another lunge at the document, but the platemail slowed him just enough. "Anton, if there are any stains under my desk, I promise they’re your fault. Directly your fault. You were there when they happened." Which wasn’t to say he hadn’t thought about it, and it terrified him how much the thought did turn him on, but he suspected that was largely because anything that involved Anton in the nude could get him hard enough to pound nails with his knob.

"You want this back?" Anton teased, fluttering the pages, as he leapt up onto the chair, with both feet. "Take it from me!" His eyes gleamed with the challenge, as he shoved the document into some hidden pocket in his shirt, and in two strides, hit the desk and Cullen’s shoulder, before launching himself toward the door. "Catch me if you can, and maybe I’ll let you strip-search me for it!"

"That’s—! Anton!" Cullen sputtered for a moment before taking off after his fleeing fiancé. "This is hardly dignified!" His armour clanked as he ran, making a racket that drew more than a few stares as they raced down the hall.

Anton’s cackles drifted back to him. Anton spun, running backwards for a few seconds to smirk at Cullen, slowing enough for Cullen to almost catch up before spinning to run forwards again, taking off around the next corner. Cullen swore, reaching for him and missing.

Another twist, and Cullen nearly slammed headlong into a recruit. He steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. "Sorry!" he stammered out before sprinting after Anton again.

And then — oh. Oh no. "Anton!" he called out, seeing the room Anton darted into. "Not in—! Maker."

Not in Meredith’s office. Cullen skidded to a stop inside the doorway, relieved when he found the office empty except for Anton and that wicked smirk of his.

"What do you think, Captain? Can you get it away from me, before she notices?" Anton shimmied and flicked his tongue teasingly at Cullen. "Going to fight me for this very important document, before I can hide it in her desk?"

"You wouldn’t dare," Cullen purred, his stark terror melting away, as he started to realise he might finally have the upper hand. "It’s not about me, it’s about you. Do you really want to give her any more ideas about what you do in your spare time? The ideas she has are bad enough."

"It’s not my fault you’re loud." Anton grinned. "Well, that’s a lie, I suppose. It’s at least my doing."

They danced around the desk, first one way, and then the other, Cullen never letting Anton quite out from behind it. A feint to the left, and Anton lunged right, as expected, but Cullen was there to meet him. He’d watched Anton enough times to know what would come next, and grabbed the hand that tried to slip into his armour. They cracked into the edge of the wardrobe, on one wall, and as the door swung open, Anton shoved Cullen into it, but Cullen turned, pulling Anton in, as well.

"Well, well," Cullen purred into Anton’s ear, "looks like I’ve caught you." The door swung mostly shut behind them, leaving only a sliver of light for Cullen to see by. But he knew the shapes of Anton’s body by heart, his hands tracing the shapes of his waist and shoulders, touching far more than he needed to in his quest for the papers.

"Looks like you have," Anton replied in kind. "And what are you going to do with me, hmm?"

Cullen chuckled against Anton’s cheek, hands finding skin instead of paper. "Been reading my books again?" he asked. "Are going to quote them back to me, now?"

"I might," Anton murmured, nipping at the corner of Cullen’s jaw, fingers already fiddling with buckles, plates falling to their feet. "I especially liked that one with the masquerade ball. Extra Orlesian. I believe there was a wardrobe involved in that one too—"

Cullen quieted him with a kiss. "See, this is why your brother is filing complaints against you," he teased.

"I protest," Anton breathed, nipping at Cullen’s lip. "I have never done anything of the sort with any of my brothers. And usually not even where they’ll notice. Andraste’s ass, I’m not Cormac."

For a split second, Cullen thought Anton meant something very else, by that last remark, but remembered having heard exactly how loud and shameless Cormac was. "I meant that you’re molesting his superior officer in a wardrobe. We do have a closet fixation, don’t we?"

"Is that a complaint?" Anton asked, quietly, fingers slipping down into Cullen’s trousers. "I rather enjoy the reminder of how we met."

"As pleased as I am to have met you, my love, perhaps it should not have been quite like that. I suspect we’ll have to make something up, if my mother should ask. I will not have you telling her you dragged me into a closet in the middle of a ball, to have your way with me." And really, when he put it like that, Cullen was rather ashamed of himself. He was a Knight-Captain, for the love of the Maker, and he’d let himself be swayed so easily by Anton’s … everything, really. Everything about Anton. He thrust against Anton’s palm, revelling in the idea that he was going to marry this mad and glorious man — that he would have something to look forward to, every day of his life.

"We don’t have to go into specifics," Anton replied, palming Cullen and revelling in the way his breath quickened. "We met at a ball, a ball my mother threw to celebrate our return to Hightown. What happened at the ball? Well, those are boring specifics. We had a few drinks and got to know each other. She doesn’t need to know how… intimately."

Cullen huffed, remembering the absurdity of it all, his armour tangling with Orlesian coats. "I’ll leave the telling to you, then," he breathed against Anton’s throat before nipping at the skin he found there. He had his own hands in Anton’s trousers by then, kneading that glorious ass, one even the fictional Arishok couldn’t resist. Cullen’s plate began to pile up at their feet, and they were tangled in each other’s limbs and clothing when the office door slammed open.

Meredith barked orders to some poor recruit Cullen could practically hear shaking in her doorway, and Cullen froze, teeth still pressed to Anton’s skin. Oh Maker. He was going to lose his job. No, worse, he was going to die. His thoughts chased themselves in a panic, while Anton stifled a laugh behind his palm. His other palm continued to tease Cullen, who was caught between terrified and aroused and unsure where to land.

"Anton," he squeaked, knowing the man couldn’t see how round his eyes were in the dark.

The hand Anton had been using to cover his own mouth slapped quietly over Cullen’s. Anton shook his head against Cullen’s cheek, waiting for a nod, before he let go and reached for the door, which still hung ever-so-slightly open. He listened carefully to the pattern of boots against the floor, as the Knight-Commander paced and ripped into the recruit. Clank, clank, clank — Anton eased the door closed and engaged the latch. Not that the latch was much promise of safety, given that it was meant to be opened and closed from outside the wardrobe, but it was clearly intended to keep the door from blowing open in a draughty room, which would prevent them being seen by chance.

The thrill of having almost been caught raced through Anton’s veins, and his hand stroked and squeezed Cullen far more firmly. He could feel Cullen biting his own lips, not to make a sound, and Anton slowly, cautiously, sank to his knees.

It took Cullen a moment to realise what was happening, and he tugged at Anton’s shoulder, shaking his head, in the darkness, before he realised that Anton probably couldn’t see any better than he could. And then Anton’s lips were on him, and his entire body quivered with the strain of not… anything. Of staying still, staying silent, as Anton’s wicked mouth worked over his knob.

It was unfair at good Anton was at this, at how easily he played Cullen’s body. Even here, feet away from his commander and trapped in her wardrobe, Anton’s pull was stronger than his fear, maybe even bolstered by it. Anton did something particularly wicked with his tongue, and Cullen’s hips twitched, subtly, barely enough to make it worth it but just enough to make a few plates scrape together. Cullen held his breath, going absolutely rigid, as Meredith’s voice stopped. She’d heard, hadn’t she? Oh Maker. She knew. She would find them and —

But Meredith had only paused for effect, it seemed, and she was back to tearing into the recruit a moment later.

Anton merely held Cullen’s hips tighter, and Cullen imagined he could feel that damnable man smile around him. Cullen grit his teeth, jaw aching with the effort not to say anything, not to swear at or praise Anton and that sinful mouth that wrapped so perfectly around him. He exhaled shakily through his nose, fingers bunching in Anton’s tunic as lips and tongue teased at his knob’s head.

Cullen thought he might go mad. In fact, he was quite sure that it wouldn’t matter at all, if the Knight-Commander murdered him on the spot, because he’d be too far out of his mind to notice. Anton’s tongue continued to dart against his skin, and he could feel his knees starting to shake, the occasional whisper of metal on metal stopping his heart, each time.

And then the hand not desperately twisting at Anton’s tunic leapt up to cover his mouth, with a brief squeak and clatter that was hidden under Meredith’s pacing and gesturing, on the other side of the doors. At least Cullen hoped it had been, as he sank his teeth into the base of his thumb, and Anton’s spit-slick fingers pressed into him. He was going to die. That was it. He was just going to die. Anton was going to suck the sense right out of him, and he was going to start begging, and then Meredith was going to kill them both.

Fighting to control himself, Cullen struggled to breathe more quietly, even as his breathing became raw and ragged. Anton knew just how to turn him on, which was amazing and wonderful, until it was about to get him killed. Get them killed. Some part of his brain continued to argue quite convincingly that Anton’s mouth was worth even death.

Anton’s breath moved around him in a nearly soundless chuckle, and then his tongue was teasing just so. Anton’s grip on his hips tightened further, holding Cullen as still as he could even as he started to shake, shivering platemail sounding damningly loud to Cullen’s ears. But not loud enough for him to stop, not loud enough for him to want to stop, as he throbbed, spilling into that waiting throat. Even in the dark, Cullen’s vision flared white, and he was certain there would be teethmarks on his palm for days.

By the time he came back to himself, remembering where his legs were and which direction the floor was, Meredith had stopped talking. Cullen struggled to keep his breathing shallow even as his lungs screamed for deep breaths, and he prayed that Meredith had simply left. The creak of the floor and the sound of footsteps the next moment told him that prayer had not been answered. The office door closed, but those footsteps only returned to Meredith’s desk.

The hand twisting in Anton’s tunic came up to pet his hair instead, and Cullen wished he could see his face, even as he knew he’d just find another of those wonderfully infuriating smirks there.

Hours passed, and Anton made an effort to keep Cullen from getting bored, as they waited for Meredith to leave. Cullen wasn’t entirely sure how much of that effort he really appreciated, under the circumstances, but his body thrummed with pleasure and exhaustion, by the time they heard Meredith get up from her desk.

Anton started pressing pieces of plate into Cullen’s hands, and they fastened the buckles as quickly and quietly as they could, as the Knight-Commander reshelved some books, from the sound of it. If she was leaving, was there anything in here, with them, that she would need? Anton nudged Cullen into the back corner on the denser side of the wardrobe. If she came looking for something, hopefully it would be on the other side, and all she’d see were the cloaks and coats that hung almost to the bottom of the wardrobe.

Meredith’s footsteps paused at the doors, as if she meant to open them. "Don’t be a fool, Merry," she muttered to herself. "It’s still warm."

Anton finally breathed again when he heard the door of the office open and close. "Wait," he whispered, one hand on Cullen’s leg, holding on, until the footsteps continued down the hall.

"Andraste’s grace," Cullen breathed, his whole body sagging with the exhale. He fumbled for the wardrobe’s latch and turned it as best he could from this side, pushing the door open and breathing in relatively fresh air. "That was close," he said, squinting into the sunlight streaming from the windows. He stretched his arms to the side and over his head, trying to get the crick out of his back from standing still for so long.

Anton chuckled, looking altogether far too smug, his hair askew and tunic rumpled from where Cullen had clutched at him in the dark. He tightened a buckle at Cullen’s shoulder, righting a plate that fell at an odd angle. "That was fun," he corrected, pressing a kiss to Cullen’s lips that, for all its brevity, involved too much tongue to be considered ‘chaste’. "We should do it again some—"

"No."

Taking Anton by the elbow, Cullen steered him towards the door, pausing to stick his head out into hallway before stepping out. "Back to your office?" Anton suggested, snaking an arm around Cullen’s waist. "Or perhaps back to my place? It’s about time for supper, after all, if my empty stomach is anything to go by, and I have roomier closets."

Cullen made a sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. "How about something more horizontal this time?" he asked.