Jul 312015
 

[ Master Post ]
Title: Rhapsody In Ass Major – Chapter 154
Co-Conspirator: TumblrMaverikLoki
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Anders , Cormac Hawke
Rating: E (L3 N4 S4 V0 D0)
Warnings: Klismaphilia, the internet is for porn, Anders is not okay, Cormac really isn’t either
Notes: Anders isn’t quite himself. Cormac struggles to keep up.


Anders shivered and shuddered, rocking back against Cormac, trying to get him to move faster. "Harder," he demanded. "You wanted to feel me slosh? It’s not going to happen unless you stop being gentle with me. I’m not going to break, Cormac. Just fuck me. Hard and fast. I want it."

A faint discomfort washed over Cormac, but he leaned forward, stretching to press his hand just below Anders’s shoulders. "Ask, and you shall receive," he said, giving himself time to consider the idea. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before, from both sides, but… not like this. Still, Anders knew what he was doing, and that would have to be enough.

Cormac picked up the pace, from slow and easy thrusts to intent pounding, listening to Anders’s breathing change, watching the body below him react. There were no complaints, not that he’d really expected them. Not yet, anyway.

"More," Anders demanded, between ragged breaths, and Cormac shifted a bit, bracing himself for more savage rutting. "Just like that!" The words came out on breaths knocked out of Anders, with each jarring thrust.

Relaxing into the new pace, Cormac warmed his hand just a little, as he kept stroking Anders’s belly. He knew Anders was touchy about fire magic, for all the obvious reasons, but he also loved to be warm, and sometimes Cormac could get away with a little bit of magic to that end. From the sudden change in Anders’s breathing, he could tell he’d made a good choice. His hips jerked hard and fast, and he tried so hard not to think of how good it felt to be inside Anders, because like this, he’d only be good for a few minutes, if he let it get to him. And then he heard the first slosh, and a small, sick sound slipped between Anders’s lips.

"Do you—"

"No. Don’t stop. I know, but don’t stop," Anders panted, grinding back against Cormac. "Just surprised me."

"You want me to talk to you?" Cormac offered, knowing that some nights, Anders needed to hear his voice, to fend off the nightmares — even when he wasn’t sleeping.

"Yes…" Anders sighed, like it was the best idea he’d heard all night. "Talk to me. Tell me how it feels…"

Cormac wished he hadn’t asked. He wasn’t going to be able to keep this up. "Do you have one of those potions lying around? This is what you do to me, Anders. If you want me to tell you how good it feels to be in you, I’m going to have to start feeling it, and if I do that, I’m going to come so hard you’ll feel it run up your spine. You’re amazing. You’re always amazing, but this…" Cormac shuddered, thighs tensing. "If you want me to actually satisfy you, instead of just myself, I think it’s time for me to consider a potion."

"Shit," Anders panted, resting his forehead on his wrists. "It’s on the table behind you. I thought of that. Just forgot to tell you."

"You sure you’re all right?" Cormac asked, one more time, as he leaned back and turned, holding Anders’s hip with one hand and stretching for the bottle with the other.

"You know, if you move your hand a little, you’ll know how all right I am," Anders drawled, sighing against his forearms. "Stop asking. If I’m not fine, you’ll know. You always know."

"The last thing I want, right now, is Justice’s opinion on any of this." Cormac tossed the empty bottle onto the bed and leaned forward, again, hands travelling Anders’s skin, tracing the edges of the scars on his back. "I wish," he breathed, fingers lingering just short of that horrific, drippy exit scar just next to Anders’s spine. "You understand?"

"I don’t wish." Anders tipped his hips up and pressed back against Cormac. "I know you know."

"I do," Cormac said, pressing himself closer to lick the length of some scars he could reach. "I love the taste of every line on you. Scars taste different. Some of them of them are like echoes, barely a taste of your skin at all. Some of them, like this one —" he dragged his tongue along a line that even after all these years, still looked thick and red. "— taste rich and strong, almost like if I keep licking there, I’ll still be able to taste you in the morning. Can taste the salt in you, the basil from your soap. All of you, every little hint and subtlety. If there were a wine that tasted like you… I’d still be right here, licking your back."

"Every once in a while, I wonder if you have any idea how weird you really are," Anders laughed, slowly relaxing under Cormac’s touch.

"Mmm, every once in a while, you remind me, my gorgeous magical unicorn." Cormac rolled his hips, shivering as Anders squeezed him, gently.

"I keep telling you, you’re just borrowing me." Anders rocked back, encouraging Cormac to pick up the pace again.

"From who?" Cormac slammed in hard enough to slosh.

Anders gasped and followed it with a long slow breath. "From me."

"Well, we’re both in the room, so I hardly see the problem," Cormac teased.

"Speaking of hardly," Anders looked back over his shoulder. "Aren’t you supposed to be fucking me hard? You’re hardly fucking me."

"Waiting for the potion," Cormac admitted, grinding in slow and deep.

"It’ll catch up before it matters. Just move." Frustration marred Anders’s face, as he glared up the length of his back toward Cormac.

"Yeah?" Cormac purred, thrusting a few times, still wholly sheathed in Anders. "You want me? You want me to have my wicked way with you until this potion runs out and we wake up on the floor, all stuck together?"

"Please don’t pass out on me," Anders panted, pushing back harder. "I do have to get up, when we’re done, or this is going to get really ugly."

"I think I can at least manage to pass out in the wet spot, instead of on your back," Cormac teased, picking up the pace. "You want me to make you slosh?"

"Please," Anders gasped.

"Tell me how it feels." Cormac slammed in harder. In all the years they’d been doing this, he’d never taken Anders like this. Never this hard, never this rough, and he just needed to hear that this was what Anders wanted. Needed to hear it again. Probably a few more times, really.

"Warm," Anders choked out, between jarring thrusts. "So full. Can’t explain."

Anders had an enormous vocabulary, and a healer’s precision when it came to his own body. There was no ‘can’t’, Cormac knew. ‘Can’t explain’ was just ‘don’t want to talk about it’, and that made Cormac impressively angry. Not at Anders, of course, but about whatever had left him like this. Templars, he expected. It was almost always templars. Still, he kept going, listening to the slosh and gurgle in the middle of every third or fourth thrust.

"Want you," Anders managed.

Cormac ground in deep and hard, watching Anders shiver and shudder, beneath him. "You have me."

"More," Anders demanded, clutching at the foot of the bed to keep from getting shoved forward as Cormac rammed into him. And then Cormac was howling his name, curled close against his back, throbbing inside him. "Yes! Fill me up. Give me everything. I want all of you," Anders panted.

The words filtered through the haze, into Cormac’s mind. That wasn’t right at all. Anders didn’t talk like that, pretty much ever. Anders didn’t lose control of his mouth while he was fucking, and Cormac knew all the reasons why. A chill crept up his spine as he tried to find all the requisite parts of his body to keep going. "More?" he asked, taking a moment to sort himself out. "You still all right, Anders?"

"Andraste’s tits, Cormac," Anders growled, knuckles white around the foot of the bed. "Stop asking me that!" He was fine. Fine, fine, fine. And he was determined to be fine, to continue to be fine, to ignore the crawling shadows in the back of his mind. Crawling, the way his skin had felt under bruising hands…

"More!" Anders shouted, half plea, half defiant growl, and he kept asking for it, kept begging for it, Cormac’s name a mantra on his lips, a lightning rod, a focus. He shouted until his voice rang through the room, just to hear it bounce off the walls and back to him, just to remind himself that there were no templars here to silence him.

Cormac’s skin crawled with how wrong it all sounded. Five years ago, this would have been amazingly hot, but now he was so used to Anders’s silence — Anders’s pride in his own silence, that smug little smile that came after a sharp breath that Cormac knew would have been a scream. Still, this was what Anders wanted, and after all the things Anders hadn’t been sure about, when he’d suggested them, he could do this.

Every plea for more was met with a brutal thrust, Cormac’s hands still caressing Anders’s body, wherever he could reach. One hand supported him, while the other wandered, always returning to the curve of Anders’s belly. And that was strange, too. He’d gotten so used to Anders being mostly concave, a flat plane, face down, and sharp hips and ribs, when he laid on his back. And that was part of it, he supposed — part of Anders’s insistence he didn’t want to be empty any more. It wasn’t even some grand existential thing; he was just tired of being cold and hungry, although Cormac thought he’d mostly solved those problems.

That voice was getting to him, though. Maybe he could get used to it, if Anders decided there were times to be loud, that didn’t involve shouting about politics. "Do you know how beautiful you are?" he panted, hands still wandering. "How amazed I am that you’ll let me have you like this, even after all these years?" And that was a truth. That had always been one. Anders didn’t have time. He had Justice. Cormac had gotten the impression — the very direct and explicit impression, actually — that if Anders had his way, he’d live a much less ascetic life, with a great lot more fucking and expensive dinners. But, Justice tolerated this. Tolerated him.

"Cormac." This time, when Anders said the name, it wasn’t a shout. It wasn’t a plea. It was simply a breath, a statement. And suddenly it wasn’t just templar hands he remembered, and in that moment, he needed, had to see Cormac’s face. He twisted, looking over his shoulder, each hard thrust still knocking anguished, needy sounds out of Anders’s lungs.

"Cormac," he said again. Then, in one, determined rush, "Cormac, kiss me." A demand, a need he didn’t want to think about. No more thinking. No more remembering. He just wanted to feel.

And that wasn’t right, at all. Cormac cut off a line of thought that tried to suggest demons, as he leaned forward, eyes a little too wide. Couldn’t be what Anders was asking for, though. Didn’t make sense. He dotted kisses along Anders’s spine, pausing to ravish a scar with his mouth. That made much more sense. That had to be what Anders had meant. Kisses, the way Anders liked them. All over his body, but never his lips.

Cormac could still remember when he learned that. It was the second or third time he’d ended up almost naked in Anders’s bed, and he’d leaned in for a kiss and gotten shoved onto the floor by his face. One moment, gorgeous mage in ecstasy, the next moment, gorgeous mage’s calloused hand in his face, and his ass on the floor. ‘Just don’t’, Anders had said, and never explained, and Cormac never asked. Instead, he learned all the places Anders wanted his lips.

Anders bit back a frustrated whine. He didn’t want to ask again, but he couldn’t expect Cormac to understand, to rewrite years of expectations. He struggled to put the words back together, struggled to find the breath to say them a second time. "No. Cormac, kiss me." He twisted to look over his shoulder again, trying to meet Cormac’s eyes, to tell him with a look what he meant, what this meant.

"I am—" Cormac looked up and caught Anders’s eyes. "Oh. … Oh." That was an interesting proposition. He’d never actually tried to reach Anders’s face, except with his hand, from this position. "Tip your hips up. I can’t quite— I’m a whole head shorter than you and your ass is in my way. Well, my way is in your ass, I suppose, but …" He leaned forward, stretched forward, tried to drag himself up Anders’s back, without pulling too far out, but he could hear water dribbling onto the blanket under them, when he leaned too far, and the distance was still too much. "That’s not going to work, in this position, sweet thing. I’m much too short." Never ‘you’re too tall’, which was really the problem.

Another frustrated groan stuck in the back of Anders’s throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut, considered waving it off and letting the moment pass. All these years, and they hadn’t kissed, so why should now be different? Except that now was different, and not just because of the heavy weight of water inside him. With his eyes shut, Anders saw another bearded face, felt another pair of lips, and Anders’s eyes snapped open again to banish the memory. "Then we’ll try another position," he said, sounding more confident than he felt. And, really, that was a conundrum all itself: moving. "Let me… on my back, hips up." He twisted under Cormac, slowly, carefully, mindful of every slosh of water as he moved.

"You… you really mean it, don’t you?" Cormac pulled out, slowly, carefully, holding Anders’s hips to keep them tipped up, until they’d separated. The change in position went quickly, after that, sharp movements and grabbing hands, a few dribbles of lukewarm water. "If I lean forward, you’re going to bend in the middle, you know that, right?"

But, Anders’s hands were insistent, still tugging at him, as he pushed back in and eased forward, slowly and carefully bending Anders, until he could reach. The sounds told him things he hadn’t realised. Cormac had absolutely no idea how much water was in Anders or how much would fit, but to judge by the sound, it had filled in spaces he hadn’t considered.

Trying to keep the uncertainty off his face, Cormac ground in and touched his lips to Anders’s — just barely a kiss. A breath of warm air and a pleased gasp against the tattered lips he’d avoided for so many years.