[ Master Post ]
Title: Yet Another Thing We’re Not Talking About Sober
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Anders ♂, Nathaniel Howe ♂
Rating: E (L3 N4 S4 V0 D1)
Warnings: Drunken stupidity, internal watersports
Notes: Anders has some unusual desires, sometimes, and he’s not so good at ‘no’, when it’s an implication and not a command. Nate’s too drunk to catch on that Anders really means it, and keeps trying to brush off the demand as a joke.
They were drunk. That was how this worked. They were always drunk. And sometimes, it didn’t end like this — both of them naked and sweat-soaked, still going hours after other men would have stopped. But, they were Wardens, and that was the benefit, or in some cases, the price. But, when it went bad, it went so very bad, and Nathaniel would drink more, just to forget the things Anders said to him. Anders was a giddy drunk, usually, just as much sex and hilarity as when he was sober, but the jokes were worse. But, some nights, Anders would stop being funny, entirely, and what he’d pass off as pisstakes about the templars made Nathaniel’s blood run cold. And neither of them quite remembered in the morning, other than that something had happened that neither of them wanted to talk about.
But, tonight was one of the good nights. Sufficiently drunk, Nathaniel would admit that he liked the way Anders looked, naked and ecstatic, sweat running down his scarred chest. He loved the way Anders would buck and tip his chin up, if he dragged his blunt nails across the skin between the lash marks, breathless and wringing him tighter. Nathaniel took his pleasures where he could get them, when he was sure no one was watching, and while shitfaced with a fellow Warden riding him like a pony at the Arl’s Fair wasn’t where he wanted to end up, in life, it was good enough, for now, as long as no one knew. He had a family name to rehabilitate.
Right now, though, he had an aching knob that demanded satisfaction, and an unreasonably attractive mage wrapped around it, one of that mage’s hands buckling the flesh of his chest and the other shoving delightful sparks of lightning up his ass. He couldn’t marry a mage — the chance of the magic appearing in his children, his heirs if he could take back his father’s land and titles, was too great — but he could probably take a concubine. Maybe one of those Orlesian Mage-Wardens. He writhed and almost regretted that he couldn’t keep Anders, aside from the part where Anders annoyed the living shit out of him, but it would have to be a woman, and as stupidly pretty as Anders was, that was not going to hold water.
And that was the problem with being drunk, for this, Nathaniel had discovered — well, two problems, really — he kept getting distracted and there was only so long he could hold his water, so to speak. He reached up and patted Anders’s shoulder, insistently.
"Anders, get up. I have to take a piss." It wasn’t going to be an easy one, either, but they’d pick up after, like they always did.
A strange calm crossed Anders’s face, as he looked down from the ceiling, eyes settling on Nathaniel’s, as the calm gave way to a wry look. "And? Why should I get up for that?"
Nathaniel blinked up at him. "Because you’re sitting on my knob. I need that if I’m going to go take a piss. And I need to be able to get up if I’m going to go anything."
"You seem to be under the mistaken impression," Anders started, and Nathaniel hated the way Anders could string together complicated sentences while too drunk to commit the evening to memory, "that your need to pass water somehow requires me to get off your knob." He ground down harder, clamping down and rocking his hips forward in jerky little thrusts.
"That’s because if you don’t get off my knob, I’m going to piss up your ass, genius," Nathaniel grumbled, hands clutching at Anders’s hips, trying to get him to stop moving, before an accident followed.
But, Anders’s thighs parted and tensed, a flush creeping across the top of his chest, as he squeezed Nathaniel even tighter inside him, hips rolling wantonly in Nathaniel’s grip. He loosed another spark against Nathaniel’s hole, before moving his hands, and Nathaniel half-sat, trying to keep control of himself. "Yes," Anders affirmed, "I am a genius."
One hand slipped down to the bowl of Nathaniel’s hips, as Anders leaned forward, to whisper in Nathaniel’s ear. "Do it, Howe. Fill me up. You’re not so big I don’t have room. Fill me up, hot and wet. Make me come, Howe. I’ll come so hard I’ll paint your face white."
Nathaniel looked horrified, falling back almost to the bed, and letting go of one of Anders’s hips to catch himself on his elbow. "You’re out of your mind," he breathed, lust and disgust winding through him, as so often happened where Anders was concerned.
"You say that like you didn’t know it weeks before the very first time you fucked me into unconsciousness." Anders’s hands moved so he was leaning against the edge of Nathaniel’s pelvic bone, his own knob caught between his wrists. "And this is hardly the first time."
Nathaniel writhed, under the pressure, every twist of his hips just making it worse. "This is ridiculous," he said. "Just get up so I can take a piss," he said. But, he didn’t say ‘no’. He didn’t say ‘stop’. In the back of his mind, Anders’s words repeated again and again — ‘I’ll come so hard I’ll paint your face white.‘
"Come on, Howe," Anders whined, curling his fingers down, pressing, kneading like a cat. "I miss it. Just let go. It’ll be so good…"
There were things in those words that made Nathaniel’s knuckles ache, a chill splashing across his chest and pooling in his palms. There was something wrong, here, and he couldn’t find enough of the pieces to see it — by virtue, of course, of currently being drunk and having been completely wasted for every conversation of any historical value about Anders’s past.
"It’s going to get on the bed," he protested. That much he was absolutely certain of. Still, he writhed and squirmed under Anders’s hands, the pressure licking across his nerves in delightfully disgusting ways. He shouldn’t want this, but he shouldn’t want Anders, either. He could feel his knob thickening further, a warm rush that teased at the tip, as he fought not to give in.
"Laundry’s problem," Anders purred, wicked delight clear on his face as he leaned forward, just a bit, rolling his hips and licking his lips.
"Anders, Anders, Anders—" Nathaniel fell back, elbow no longer supporting him, both hands grabbing at Anders’s wrists. "You need to stop leaning on me or I’m actually going to piss, and this is going to be a lot less funny."
"Who said anything about funny?" Anders ground down harder, shifting his weight to dig bone against bone, as thin as they both were, and Nathaniel felt the first few beads of liquid swell and break on the tip of his knob. "Stop worrying about what anybody thinks, Howe. There’s nobody looking. Nobody’s ever going to be looking. Just let go. You’ll feel better; I’ll feel incredible. It’ll be so good, Howe. Just fill me up. Stop fighting it."
And there was the smile that, if he were sober, would have scared the shit out of Nathaniel, but he was drunk enough that if someone asked, tomorrow, what he’d been doing tonight, he’d be able to shrug and say something tart, with a straight face, because he wasn’t going to remember enough to comment on it. And, on the whole, that was the way he preferred to spend time with Anders. The mage was a lot less annoying, drunk and naked, most of the time. They were there for one reason: to ride out the Warden stamina, so they could actually get some sleep. Maker only knew what anyone else was doing with that problem.
But, Anders was smiling at him — that decadent tyrant’s smile, when the fall of the empire’s come knocking. He felt like it belonged on a magister, not some desperate, scarred runaway — albeit one who was going to fuck the living sense out of him, before daybreak, which he always appreciated. Anders was smiling at him and pleading so sweetly to be pissed in, like a chamberpot.
Nathaniel gave up, releasing Anders’s wrists and reaching out with one hand to claw between Anders’s lash marks again. "Whatever you force out of me is yours, and it’s your fault what comes of it."
"My fault if I wring you out and come all over you? I think I can live with that," Anders laughed, kneading between Nathaniel’s hips again.
A muffled squeak choked out of Nathaniel, as Anders’s hands pressed against him hard enough to wring out a spurt it took a few seconds of heavy breathing to stop. His fingers dug into Anders’s thigh, but Anders only leaned down to whisper in his ear.
"It feels good. I want more." Chest flushed, Anders sat back up, one nipple jutting firmly from his chest, and the other unresponsive, just below the scar Nathaniel had put there, a couple of months ago. Anders writhed and kneaded, as Nathaniel struggled not to let go, but every time he slipped just a bit, Anders would clench around him with a nearly-silent gasp, chin tipping up just that little bit.
The sound that tore out of Nathaniel, next, was raw, a sound of ecstatic failure, his face twisting in pleasure and shame as he shot out into Anders and then lost control, emptying himself with a few long, shuddering breaths, as he tried and failed to hold back. Above him, Anders arched, hips tilting up, head falling back, panting, open-mouthed, in simple bliss as his fingers stroked the insides of his thighs. So very, very quiet, even as the first shivers rocked his body. Hands clenched, the rest of Anders’s body relaxed as his knob throbbed, one almost-milky spurt catching Nathaniel across the cheek, before there was nearly nothing left to push out, just a few nearly-clear dribbles with each twitch of that deliciously aching flesh.
"Still good?" Anders asked, after a full minute of trying to convince his tongue it had something to say. "If I lean back, can you switch with me? Pound that into me, before I drip any more of it onto the sheets?"
Nathaniel grunted, half-heartedly, hands pressed over his face, as he drunkenly tried to come to terms with what had just happened. One hand slid down, wiping the spatter off his cheek and then smearing it across Anders’s thigh. "Move, mage. That’s not the sheets. My balls are in the way."
"I knew you were good for a good time!" Anders chuckled, easing them into the next position. After this, he knew, Nathaniel would be under him, again, spread open around the flagpole and screaming for it. But, that was always last, after they’d exhausted everything else, when Nathaniel was relaxed enough to gag himself with a corner of the bedsheet, even though there was no one else on this floor. Just in case. Just to be sure no one would ever know he bent over for a mage and loved it.
One day, Nathaniel was pretty sure, this would end in blackmail attempts and murder, but for now, he’d take his pleasures where he could get them.
"You look distracted, Howe. Did you forget how to fuck?" Anders laughed, tucking his heels under his ass and angling his hips up for more.