Nov 302015
 

[ Master Post ]
Title:
Pranksters of Kinloch Hold – A Visual Study of Lust
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Anders ,  Karl Thekla ,  Alim Surana
Rating: E (L3 N4 S4 V1 D0)
Warnings: The internet is for porn, voyeurism, a little rough, the difference between consent and desire
Notes: Surana has been allowed to watch Anders indulge in any number of pleasures, in the interest of furthering his own understanding of experiences he’ll never have, and he and his sketchbook accompany two vastly different interpretations of sex, in a single day. (For TumblrMevima)


Nobody ever looked up, Anders had told him, and so far, that seemed to be the case. Fen’Din perched atop a stack of crates that had been piled into what was once a meeting room, while one of the storerooms was being re-warded against insects and decay. It was, of course, technically possible that Fen’Din might have had something to do with the sudden need to empty that particular storeroom, but no one would ever even think it, never mind be able to prove it.

Sketchbook open before him, he watched Anders, below, robes hiked up and tucked into his belt to reveal long, slender legs thick with golden curls. Humans, Fen’Din had noticed, were like that. At some point, they changed and got hairy. Elves went through their own changes, of course, but none of those involved spontaneously developing animal features! Karl and Anders insisted that hairy bodies were not an animal feature, but Fen’Din was convinced. At one point he handed Anders a book with pictures of wolves and bears in it, but Anders had retorted that nugs were hairless, and also had long ears, like some people he knew.

"So, am I just standing here so you can admire my legs and despair, or are you actually going to do something about it?" Anders asked the other mages, who still hadn’t bothered to look up.

"You’re such fucking trash, Anders," the pale one laughed, stepping closer to slide an arm around Anders’s waist, hand tucked down between Anders’s legs.

"You love it." Anders’s chin tipped up smugly.

"I love you like I love my hand," the dark-haired one teased, "but I can use my hand for other things."

"Keep talking and you’re not going to be able to use your hand for anything," Anders shot back, with a dangerous smile, before he bent forward, suddenly, gasping, as the pale one’s hand clenched.

Fen’Din’s pencil stilled. That look was not jest or pleasure. A few skeletal mice scurried into the spaces between boxes, as he watched this unfold. Over the last year, he’d become even more familiar with the ways Anders moved, and the subtle differences in his expressions. Anders tried to hide some things, Fen’Din knew, but never from him. The entire project would be worthless if Anders lied to him.

But, he watched, as Anders lied to the men around him, neck bent back, even as his body leaned forward, bared teeth slackening into a rounded mouth. He’d help, if things turned ugly enough, but he wouldn’t rescue Anders from something he meant to do, which this obviously was. He still didn’t really understand this, however many times he watched. Sometimes, Anders enjoyed it, and Fen’Din could tell by the way his jaw slid forward and his back tensed. Other times he just let it happen, and Fen’Din could tell by the way his body went slack, eyes unfocused. Somehow, Anders used his talents to gain things he wanted. Where other mages traded favours, Anders traded enjoyment of his body. That Fen’Din could understand. That was a simple exchange. But, why it was something worth trading for, Fen’Din still hadn’t quite managed. Certainly there were other things one could take pleasure in, but there was something else here. There was some greater draw that he would never feel, and it bothered him only in that he would never understand the appeal. Those faces, when he drew them, were faces he didn’t make. He tried them, in the mirror, to see if anything changed inside him, if there was some untapped nuance he could trigger by replicating the form without the meaning, but nothing came. Except maybe Anders, who had looked away, pale-faced and embarrassed, and apologised for something unknown.

But, Anders, now, was down on his knees, chest pressed flat to the top of a crate, with his robes folded up over his back, baring him from the hips down. The pale mage gazed down covetously, as he stood between Anders’s lower legs, sucking his own fingers.

"You know, taking your time, right now, is really kind of wasting your time. We don’t have that long before someone comes looking for one of us, or even just comes in here to get something," Anders muttered, looking over his shoulder.

"Shut up, Anders. I know how not to get caught," the pale one said, eyes raising to the dark-haired mage looking amusedly at Anders’s concerned face. "Or you could shut him up."

"I was going to wait for you, Val." The dark-haired mage’s smile was wolfish, and Fen’Din caught every line of it. "But, if you insist…" He tucked his own robes up, baring legs that seemed much hairier than Anders’s, but that might have been the difference in colour. His penis jutted proudly out in a way Fen’Din’s never did, and the elf was, as usual, fascinated with the sight. Such a change from a thumb-length piss-guide to a nearly foot-length, thick, pink-tinged instrument of presumed pleasure that twinged at every touch — touch, in this case, being merely Anders’s breath, from the timing. Fen’Din watched the man grip Anders’s hair and press his shaft between Anders’s lips.

And that was a taste Fen’Din found himself curious about. Not curious enough to commit himself to that, but curious enough that he’d taken a few months to prove to himself that he really wasn’t flexible enough to indulge that curiosity without assistance. He considered asking Anders, but after the way Anders had reacted to being licked, the last time, he wasn’t entirely sure it was wise — not least because Anders would allow it, without question.

The charcoal never stopped moving, laying down quick lines he’d fill in later. The faces were precise, though, when he needed them to be — and that was one he didn’t want to miss, when Val’s fingers plunged into Anders’s ass, without warning. Anders choked and reeled, but recovered quickly, eyes dimming, as he tipped his hips up. Fen’Din idly wondered what Anders had bought himself, this time, that he was willing to give without complaint, even when his face betrayed him.

"Do you just walk around oiled up, in case you trip and fall on a knob?" Val asked, pulling his fingers out as fast as they’d gone in. He grabbed his robes with the other hand to give him the space to press himself between Anders’s ass cheeks. "Or is that something the templars require of you, that you’re always greased up and loose in case one of them wants a quickie?"

Anders’s eyes flashed, before fading out again, and Fen’Din knew Val was a little too close to something Anders was trying to hide. Probably the templar part. He knew Anders had led templars away from him and Karl, and sometimes, he’d slipped in to watch. The first time Anders had spotted him, he’d gotten the look that meant he wasn’t to interfere, no matter what happened. It was for the best, since he would have, otherwise, and that would have screwed up the angle Anders was working. But, watching Anders put himself back together afterward, Fen’Din had wondered if something like that should ever be for the best. Blood was something he understood, even if he didn’t know pain.

There was a shift in Anders’s breathing that always signalled penetration, and Fen’Din watched Val’s face, instead, curious at the pale man’s reactions. The smile on his face was less pleased than jagged and triumphant, like he’d proven something, a ghost of something else crawling in the space between his skin and itself. Fen’Din caught every line of that look, as Val gloated, before leaning forward over Anders’s back and canting his hips up. There was a brief pause, and Fen’Din watched Anders swallow, before Val slammed in almost hard enough to move the crate. Anders’s knuckles whitened on the other edge of the crate, before the dark-haired mage moved closer, changing the light enough that Fen’Din couldn’t quite make out the hands. Or Anders’s face, really, pressed tight, as it now was, to the dark-haired mage’s crotch.

Panting and grunting, the two men rutted with Anders, like mating nugs. They barely touched him, Fen’Din noticed, and that struck him, as it always did. There were the ones who pressed their whole bodies against Anders, grabbing and stroking, mouths tight against his, and then there were the ones like this, who seemed to touch only as much as they had to.

Even if Anders’s face was lost to him, Val and the other mage were still available, and Fen’Din took their lines. Pleasure and exultation — he knew the second from drawings in an ancient Tevinter religious text. It was like they found some deep righteous joy in satisfying themselves in his friend’s body. And then a choked off breath, a tensing of the fingers, and Val’s hips slammed forward and stopped — it looked like an awkward position, but he stayed there, panting, while the dark-haired mage kept rutting into Anders’s mouth.

Fen’Din honestly wondered how it was Anders could breathe, but he was a healer. There must’ve been some trick to it.

The dark-haired mage let out a tiny sound, barely a hiccup, and Anders reached up and grabbed the man’s ass, fingers like iron, holding him in place. There was a brief struggle, a subtle round of flexing and chuffing, and then the standing mage’s spine tightened, and Anders relaxed and let himself be dragged back by the hair, eyes watering, thick spit dripping down his chin.

"Slut," the dark-haired mage accused, letting his robes fall to cover him. "You just couldn’t wait to swallow. I was going to give you a break."

Anders’s eyes lit with something that was almost amusement, but far more dangerous, and Fen’Din filled that face in carefully. Lifting a hand to heal his throat, Anders finally answered. "You mean you were going to shoot out all over my hair and clothes, and leave me to walk back, like that."

"Maybe, but you also wouldn’t have breathed it." The dark-haired mage smirked, watching Val straighten up and extract himself, with a sharp pinch to Anders’s ass.

"Come on, Leofric, leave the whore in peace," Val said, adjusting his own robes and smoothing his hair.

"That’s right, Val. Whore. And you owe me." Anders pushed himself up, letting his robes fall, face still dripping with tears and spit, a dead-eyed smile completing the image.

"And you’ll be paid in full," Val promised, holding out a hand. "A pleasure doing business, as always."

Anders grunted non-committally, but took the hand, all the same, binding the agreement again. And once again, Fen’Din wondered at the nature of what had been bought, as the two other mages left the room.

Wiping his face on the inside of his sleeve, Anders looked up to where Fen’Din sat, with a wink. He cocked his head to the side, in that way that was always an invitation to leave with him. Fen’Din gathered his sketchbook and tools and climbed down, eyes just as full of questions as they’d been when he walked in.

"Go up to my room, and wait for me. Scare the shit out of Godwin, or something. I’ll be there, soon," Anders promised, tugging at the ends of Fen’Din’s hair. The pressure was a friendly one, Fen’Din had learnt, a gesture of friendship, and he took Anders at his word, parting from him as they stepped into the hall.

Godwin, as usual, was fairly easily dealt with. A quick song, a few dancing skeletal mice, and some uncanny smiles, and the man evacuated the premises, going, as he said, to study with Niall. Fen’Din set the good chair beside the bed and opened his sketchbook again to fill in the half-finished lines. The suggestions on the page were meaningful to him, but they weren’t images another person would recognise, yet. He picked a few he’d really liked, and worked at them, while he waited.

Two finished works in, Anders returned, alone, throwing himself on the bed. "Let me see?"

Fen’Din offered the book, with a sly smile. "They don’t know you’re lying to them," he said.

"You can tell?" Anders looked concerned.

"Of course I can tell. This is the twelfth book. I know your face, Anders. I know how you move." The smile widened, broader and simpler. "But, they don’t know. They don’t care to look. They—" He gave up and flipped pages, finally tapping on a sketch of Val’s face. "There. Do you understand?"

Anders studied it for a long few moments, before nodding. "I think I do. I’m not playing them hard enough." He laughed. "Maybe I won’t. It would be a pity to ruin that so soon, and leave myself stuck."

"What are you—"

"Don’t ask me that. If anything happens, you can’t know." Anders shook his head. "When I need you, I’ll tell you enough. You’ll laugh. You’ll laugh harder, when it all comes out."

The door creaked open, quiet, but not silent, and Karl stepped in, eyes clouded with concern, as he closed the door without looking back. "What did—"

"It doesn’t matter," Anders answered with the warmest smile he could manage, but Fen’Din could see it for what it was, and he pulled the book back, marking that face for later. Anders held his hands out, and Karl crossed the room, eyes flicking to Fen’Din, who shrugged. He’d leave, if Karl wanted him to, but it had never been an issue, with the three of them, and he doubted it would become one, now.

"Karl," Anders whispered, half-sitting on the bed, one arm wrapped around Karl’s waist, face buried against his chest. "Just let me touch you. Let me feel you. Show me that you’re here, that you’re real."

"None of this is real," Fen’Din retorted, under his breath, filling in the last sketch of Anders’s face, until Karl got his ass out of the way.

Anders choked on his next breath. "Shut the fuck up, elfhole," he wheezed, breathing an almost-silent laugh into the folds of Karl’s robes, and Fen’Din snorted his own amusement in return.

Fen’Din still couldn’t see, but he could tell what was happening by the movement in Karl’s shoulders — he was untying Anders’s hair and running his fingers through it. Finally, Karl sat, turning to slide onto the bed, beside Anders, and Fen’Din wasn’t sure he could move fast enough to capture the look on Anders’s face — like a bowl of water, full past brimming, with just enough tension not to spill over. Anders’s eyes seemed almost sad as he grabbed Karl’s hair, kissed him ravenously. Ravenously really was the word, Fen’Din thought. It was like a desperate hunger that would never be satisfied. Anders kissed like starving animals ate.

Karl’s hands were gentle, like they always were, caressing the length and angles of Anders like the Sisters handled sacred relics. There was something more between them, but Fen’Din would never say it, and they would never admit it. It simply wasn’t done, and they all knew why. But, the way Anders breathed, with Karl, was different — just as slow, but less precise, less measured. Anders submitted to so many things, but he relaxed into Karl, eyes always bright and full, instead of flat and empty. There was something between them, and Fen’Din swore it was hope, radiant and magnetic, and it called to him, spoke softly to him, as he drew them together. They made him smile, like an extra egg at breakfast.

They moved together, all hands and falling folds of cloth, kisses and whispers, and Fen’Din did his best to catch the smiles between them, as if each were blessed by the presence of something greater than himself. Which, of course, they were, but Fen’Din was never certain they could see it. Everyone assumed he was mad when he spoke of the light and the shapes between things.

"This fucking beard," Anders teased, fingers scratching at Karl’s chin, as he settled behind Karl, robes hiked up around his hips. "One of these days I’m just going to shave it off while you’re sleeping."

"What, am I too Fereldan for your dainty Northern tastes?" Karl shot back, rolling his eyes at Fen’Din. This had been going on for years, and Karl’s beard was right where it had been, the whole time.

"Mmh." Anders pulled Karl back against him, his absurdly large penis sliding between Karl’s thighs, in a position to make its size that much more obvious. "Too much like a goat," Anders decided. "Furry, bearded, and always up for a fuck."

"Why would you know that about goats?" Karl asked, eyes almost crossing in horror.

"Tevinter legends cast goats as a symbol of penile potency," Fen’Din filled in. "Thought you knew that."

"Forgot." Karl shrugged, some secret in his eyes as his hand drifted down to tease Anders’s flesh with the sort of light touches Fen’Din couldn’t feel at all. But, Anders pulled Karl closer, with one arm, the other shoving under him to wrap a hand around Karl’s much smaller appendage, and Fen’Din’s eyes lingered, taking in the differences between them, size and colour, the way they moved their hands. It was no surprise, Fen’Din thought, that Karl wouldn’t allow Anders inside him. Perhaps it was more correct to say couldn’t, since he couldn’t imagine any result but Karl splitting right in half. But, he could tell Karl wanted to, all the same, in the apologetic look in his eyes, every time he held Anders like this.

As quiet as they were, sometimes, with the door closed, one would make a sound just louder than a whisper. This time, Anders poured out a ghost of a moan, just behind Karl’s ear, and Karl arched and rolled his hips, rubbing himself against Anders in every way he could reach. A grease spell came ready to his hand, and Fen’Din watched the light change where the oil was stroked over Anders’s skin.

"Please," Anders begged, more breath than word, his eyes squeezed shut against something Fen’Din couldn’t see.

"Yes," Karl promised, just as quietly, hips rocking against Anders’s hand as the muscles in his thighs rolled.

Fen’Din watched their faces, watched their hands, watched the way Anders’s foreskin slid, and a shift in colour bloomed from the slit at the tip of his penis. He watched the way Karl seemed to notice the same thing with his hand, perhaps a change in texture, as well, and the motion of his fingers changed, thumb now circling that slit, teasing at the edges.

Anders’s breath rasped against the back of Karl’s ear, just loud enough for Fen’Din to hear it. Karl looked intent, a faint sheen rising on his face, lip caught between his teeth, as Anders’s hand seemed to wring him like a washrag, squeezing and twisting. His breathing grew sharper and shallower, and his movements jerkier. Some muscles seemed to spontaneously disagree with the motions they were being dragged into by the muscles around them, and Fen’Din noted every twitch.

Anders whispered something Fen’Din couldn’t make out, and Karl arched again, eyes wide, mouth round, but stiffly open, and Fen’Din watched the first spurt splash across the sheets, before he raised his eyes to Anders, whose eyes were closed, his face buried against the top of Karl’s head. Anders’s joints seemed to go loose, his thrusts broader and longer as his hips rolled, affected by Karl’s sudden stiffness and the recoil from the ropes of the bed. He writhed, eyes squeezed as tight as his hands, and the rest of his body apparently boneless, until he suddenly relaxed, and Karl’s hand cupped and turned down, semen dripping from the side of his palm, after a moment.

"Stay," Anders sighed, meaning both of them, and for a moment, Karl looked like he might move. That uncertainty made it into the lines, as Fen’Din continued to sketch. Still, after a moment, he settled back into Anders’s arms, pulling down just the front of his robes to cover them.

They looked as if they could be somewhere else, faces soft with joy that wouldn’t last, and Fen’Din wondered if one day they might all get out of this place, together. Like this, he could almost believe they could walk out, with him. But, they never held on long enough, and the spirit of the place took hold of them again, the sickness and unhappiness that inhabited the very air of the tower.

"Any good?" Anders asked, peering over the top of Karl’s head.

"Go to sleep," Fen’Din replied, smiling, but not looking up. "I’ll show you later."