[ Master Post ]
Title: Rhapsody In Ass Major – Chapter 183
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Anton Hawke ♂, Cullen ♂, Carver Hawke ♂
Rating: E (L2 N4 S4 V0 D1)
Warnings: Ridiculous smut, completely ridiculous smut, put down your drink, accidental voyeurism
Notes: Someday, Carver will learn to stop opening doors without knocking. That day is not today.
Cullen paused to stifle a snicker against Anton’s shoulder. He cleared his throat and composed his expression as he said, "Then you leave me no choice." Holding Anton’s hip, Cullen pushed forward, sinking into him and breathing a sigh against Anton’s skin, eyes slipping closed for barely a moment before meeting Anton’s eyes in the mirror. For the first time, he could see that Anton’s expression reflected his own, eyes lidded and lips parted.
"Oh, Captain," Anton groaned, "here stand you with your blade buried and blooded and mine rises still bare! Mercy, ser, mercy!"
"Do you yield?" Cullen panted, grinding in hard, wondering how Anton still had the wit for lines like that at a time like this.
"Oh, such a deep wound." Anton licked his lips. "Such a deep wound, Ser Templar! You tempt me. But, I think I will hold on." He squeezed tight, clamping down around Cullen’s knob, as he tilted his hips down, pulling and driving his tailbone against the base of Cullen’s knob.
Cullen gasped, hands clutching at Anton’s body, as his knees loosened. "You cheat!" he declared, trying to figure out how to keep standing as the pleasure washed over him and wound around his bones.
"Oh, Ser Templar, I’ve barely just begun," Anton purred, eyes lingering on Cullen’s. "And you accuse me of cheating, when you stab me from behind?"
Cullen wrapped an arm tight around Anton, his other hand cupping Anton’s knob. "If you take me down, I will take you down with me!" he said, voice breathier than it had been. He twisted his hips, thrusting up hard enough to rock Anton forward on his toes.
"Oh, Captain!" Anton gasped, adjusting his grip on the mirror. "Another grievous wound!"
It took a few deep, shivery breaths before Cullen could ask again, "Do you yield?"
Anton groaned, watching Cullen’s face in the mirror. "Not yet, Ser Templar! Though I see tales of your prowess were not exaggerated! You are a worthy opponent!"
"I fear this may be a short duel, if it keeps on like this," Cullen murmured, nibbling at his husband’s neck. "Quick and deadly." His hips rocked, forcing Anton to move with him, in little lifts, rising up onto his toes. Finally, he slid almost out and slammed in again, jarring a surprised shout from Anton.
Behind them, the door slammed open, hitting the wall. "Andraste’s tits, Anton, what the shit is—" Carver’s voice choked off, mid-sentence, as he got a look at the scene in front of him. "Captain? Maker’s balls, I … well… Ser." Carver looked at anything that wasn’t his naked boss having sex with his naked brother.
"Carver, didn’t Bethy teach you not to go around opening doors?" Anton groaned, leaning forward to rest his head against the mirror as he started to laugh. "Can this wait? I’m a little busy. Actually, I’m a lot busy. That’s… very, very not little."
If Cullen wasn’t blushing down to his toenails now, he doubted he ever would be. "Hello… Ser Carver," he said, voice strained. "And never mind Bethany… D-didn’t living with any of your brothers teach you that?"
"I… er…" Carver fumbled for words as his hand fumbled for the knob. The doorknob. "It… it can wait. Yeah." He pulled the door closed behind him, but the traumatized look on his face lingered in Cullen’s mind.
"Oh, Maker," Cullen said weakly. "I work with Carver. I’m never going to be able to look him in the face ever again. Or return to the Gallows. I’ll just have to stay here and hide in this room."
"I wouldn’t exactly mind that," Anton said, chuckling as he leaned on one hand to rub a hand over his face. "You’re always welcome to hide in my bed, you know."
"Yes, but then I would be suddenly unemployed, and your idiot brother would be alone in that place. Can’t have that, can we?" Cullen left out the part where he really didn’t want to try to give up the lyrium. He’d seen men try. He had yet to see one succeed and survive, and the thought of Samson, down by the docks, lingered in his mind every time that crossed it. And if there were ever a thing that could put him out of the mood…
"Cullen, my love, you’re brooding." Anton noticed the sudden hollow look in his husband’s eyes. "My brother’s a bit of a shock, all of them are, but surely not so much as all that. It’s his fault! He shouldn’t be throwing open doors, after all the things he’s seen!"
"Can we avoid talking about your brothers? That’s… not helping." Cullen managed a weak laugh, glancing down to see if his toes had turned red yet.
Anton reached back and pinched Cullen’s bottom. "Do you yield, then, Ser Templar?"
"Mm, not just yet," Cullen replied, grinding shallowly up into his husband. He pressed a kiss to Anton’s neck. "I think I’m getting my second wind. You have not yet won this battle, Ass-Bandit." The ridiculous nickname brought a small smile to his lips, and he tried to brush off the dark mood he’d been falling into. He could be broody and embarrassed later.
Anton grinned in reply, bracing himself against the frame again. "Good," he purred. "I don’t enjoy an easy battle."
"Really?" Cullen growled against Anton’s neck. "Because ‘easy’ is one word I have for you."
Anton snorted, reached back pinched Cullen’s ass again. Cullen retaliated with a hard thrust of his hips, rocking Anton up onto his toes again.
"Do you doubt that I’m hard for you, then?" Anton teased, rubbing against the hand still cupped over his knob. "Because it is just for you. All for you. I’ve got a line of men and women who long to try my sword, but tonight, this is our duel, yours and mine, Captain. Let us see who still stands at the end of it."
"Both of us had better still be standing, or that mirror’s going to be a loss," Cullen pointed out, easing Anton back down, before jarring him up onto his toes again. He sucked at the top of Anton’s shoulder, nibbling at it, as he stroked Anton’s knob in time to his slow, grinding rhythm.
"And where would I be without that concession to my vanity, hmm? I might start to look like a peasant, again!" Anton’s hips moved easily, legs flexing to balance him wherever Cullen wanted him. He clenched in time to his breathing, wringing Cullen inside him. "You never knew me as a peasant, did you? I was just as dashing a bandit of asses and other portable finery, if a bit less well-dre—" Any further comment was cut off in a squeak as Cullen rammed into him again, pressing him forward into that unmoving hand.
"Less well-dressed?" Cullen growled. "Is that what you were about to say? Well-dressed or poorly-dressed, I prefer you undressed."
Anton panted around a laugh, a laugh that broke into a groan. He licked his lips and watched them in the mirror, watched Cullen shove into him, watched his own knob bob until Cullen wrapped his hand around it again, swiping a thumb over the head. "I’m inclined to agree," Anton said. "This is the best dressed I’ve ever been." A long groan pulled from his throat as Cullen’s hand worked over his knob. "Are you trying to disarm me, Captain?"
"Dual-wielding," Cullen replied, earning another gasping laugh from his husband.
But, that laugh melted into a steady stream of pants and groans, interspersed with the occasional gasp of Cullen’s name, as Cullen brought his ‘swording’ skills to bear. His eyes never left Anton’s reflection, watching every twitch and flex, every bead that became a falling droplet with a flick of his wrist, every time Anton’s eyes squeezed shut in the middle of a surprisingly hard thrust. Anton truly was just as handsome and dashing as he thought himself, and Cullen almost envied that surety, that freedom. But even that envy was drowned out by his desire for Anton. His thoroughly fulfilled desire, even. This was, he reflected, everything those ridiculous books said love should be, and so very much more. Anton — in the moment, everything was Anton — the taste of his skin, the smell of his sweat, the feel of his body, the sound of every lusty groan, and the glorious sight of that lean, muscled body in the mirror.
Anton was reduced to gasping, propped up on his toes, fingers nearly numb where they gripped the frame of the mirror. He wanted to make other sounds, to cry out Cullen’s name, but he couldn’t quite catch his breath, couldn’t quite get his jaw to move the way he wanted it to.
Cullen was not much better as he panted against Anton’s skin, as he watched Anton’s face twist in pleasure. Had he the breath to, he would have asked Anton if he yielded, but he knew he didn’t need to, with the way Anton was twisting and straining against him. Cullen’s lips moved anyway, mouthing words he didn’t quite have the breath to say, words of adoration and devotion as Anton cried out, stiffening against him. The mirror shook in his grip, and Cullen felt and watched him spurt over his hand… and onto the mirror.
"Oh, Cullen!" Anton gasped, finally finding his voice again as his eyes rolled back. "Oh, Captain!"
"Anton," Cullen breathed, finding the breath for just those two syllables. "Anton." The vision of Anton straining and spattering the glass was more than enough. The thrill of watching Anton, his Anton, his gorgeous fool of a husband, come apart for him tipped Cullen over after him, shuddering and panting, knees weak and quivering.
Of all the things they’d done, standing hadn’t much been on the list, aside from when there was a wall involved, and Cullen leaned heavily against Anton, as he tried to catch his breath. At least until he heard the squeak of wood. The mirror was not going to hold both of them. As he leaned back, trying to regain his footing, which should have been easy, since both feet were flat on the floor, Cullen’s knees decided they were quite through and dumped him unceremoniously on his posterior.
Anton cried out, again, a sound of surprise and frustration, and after a moment, he started to laugh. "I do not yield," he cackled. "The game is mine, Ser Templar, and you have fallen!"
Cullen pushed himself up long enough to wrap his arms around Anton. He flopped back to the floor, his weight pulling his husband with him, and Anton squeaked, landing sprawled across Cullen’s chest. "As have you, Ass-Bandit! I’d call this duel a draw. We are far too well-matched."
"Although your skill with a blade was impressive," Anton laughed, "you fell first!" He twisted so they were lying chest to chest and bumped Cullen’s nose with his.
"Then I shall have to challenge you to a rematch." Cullen grinned against Anton’s lips, hands stroking Anton’s sides and back. "But later, when we both have the strength to lift our swords again."
Chuckling, Anton leaned across him to pick up Cullen’s discarded wine. It had mostly melted by then, but the drink was still cool against his tongue. "Consider the gauntlet thrown," he said after a long sip. "Or the trousers, in this instance."