[ Master Post ]
Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 302
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Cormac Hawke ♂, Anders ♂, Nathaniel Howe ♂
Rating: E (L3 N4 S4 V0 D1)
Warnings: You may want to step out for the next few chapters if you have aversions to: antagonism in bed, Nate coming to terms with the idea of Justice!Anders (in bed), internal watersports, drunken blackouts with memory loss, voyeurism, "in bed" not actually involving a bed at all.
Notes: Nate gets a sudden reminder of exactly how drunk he usually was, when things got this far. Anders takes a certain glee in rubbing those holes in his memory in his face.
Anders didn’t need to be told twice. Whatever he could have said about tone or politesse, it wasn’t going to improve the situation, and by ‘improve’ he meant ‘get him laid faster’. They were in the Deep Roads. This was going to be fast and hard and all the things he’d never ask Cormac for, and he wanted it. "I’m told that I have a pretty incredible ass, now," he remarked, standing up to work on his trousers, before remembering who he was talking to, and that he hadn’t gotten sick and thin until after he came to Kirkwall. "Ah, but I’ve always had a pretty incredible ass, for you, haven’t I?"
"Incredibly visible, perhaps. Always there, every time I turned my head," Nathaniel drawled, looking up as Anders stood across his lap, trousers unlaced.
"How dreadful for you," Anders teased, "being so afflicted by my glorious ass."
"‘Afflicted’ is one word," Nathaniel muttered, looking down from Anders only long enough to set down the bottle just out of easy reach, "but I’m sure I could think of a few others." He eyed Anders’s legs as the trousers slid down them, landing unceremoniously in Nathaniel’s lap.
"And you say I’m the one with the incessant chatter," Anders tutted. His boots were in the way from stepping out of his trousers completely, but he hardly cared. The important bits were readily available, at least.
"That’s because you are," Nathaniel said distractedly, one hand reaching up to squeeze a pale thigh.
"Well, at least the chatter comes with nice legs, attached to a nice ass."
"Of the asses I’ve known, you are pretty nice, aren’t you?" Nathaniel smiled up, blithely, and Anders lifted his knob and slapped Nathaniel across the cheek with it.
"Have, not am."
Nathaniel huffed, shoving Anders back, just hard enough to watch him stumble over his trousers. "Why are you still standing up?"
"Because you always looked so pretty with my knob in your mouth." Anders stretched and purred, rolling his hips in a way he’d never have done if he thought anyone else was awake.
"What? No, I didn’t! I never—" Nathaniel looked utterly horrified.
"Of course you did. How drunk were you?" Anders sank to his knees, bemused. "More than once, too."
"Did I? No." Nathaniel shook his head and pulled himself up as far as his knees, lifting the Warden armour out of his way, to reach the knots of his own trousers. "You’re mad, Anders. Dreamed the whole thing. I would never…"
"It was entirely your idea," Anders laughed, holding out a hand. "Come here and touch me. I’ll get the knots. Your pants aren’t that complicated."
"It’s been a while," Nathaniel reminded him as he shuffled closer on his knees. "For all you know, I’ve learned more complicated knots since then."
Anders chuffed and tugged Nathaniel closer by the laces. "You know Fenris?" he said, tilting his head in the direction of Fenris’s bedroll. "Qunari knots. If I can conquer his pants, I can conquer yours."
"His—?" Anders could see the whites of Nathaniel’s wide eyes in the gloom. "Andraste’s tits, have you slept with everyone in this camp?" His hands came around to squeeze Anders’s ass, comparing its weight and feel to what he remembered.
"Not everyone." Anders’s hand closed around Nathaniel’s bare knob, making him suck in a breath. "Not Anton, though Natia has made a pass at me. Granted, it was less a pass at me, and more of a pass at Cormac, with me as an added bonus."
"That’s more than half the camp," Nathaniel pointed out.
"But not all of it. Then again, the night is young."
"You are disgusting," Nathaniel marvelled.
"Yes, but you’re fucking me," Anders reminded him, having had this very same exchange on so many occasions.
"Not yet, I’m not." Nathaniel snorted, grinding himself against Anders’s hand. "Unless you’ve changed enough to count this."
"I’ve changed, but not that much." Anders leaned back, tugging Nathaniel with him, until he lay on the floor with Nathaniel atop him.
"Didn’t I tell you to get on your knees?" Nathaniel asked, with a poor imitation of a scowl, hips rocking as Anders’s leg wrapped around him. Only the one, with his trousers still caught on his boots.
Anders shrugged, the sound of his coat scraping the ground sharply. "I did say I’d changed a little."
Nathaniel leaned down, before he remembered that would align him with Anders’s chest, not his ear. The point would still be made. "I hope you’re still good enough to make this worthwhile," he grumbled, cramming a hand between them, to stroke both himself and Anders. Not that either of them apparently needed the help. Nathaniel’s body remembered Anders even more clearly than his mind, and Anders had a certain taste for the memories of the way Nathaniel touched him — like he was a perfectly made object of pleasure.
"You always did say the sexiest things, Howe," Anders drawled, fingers slipping into his mouth. He didn’t need the spit — he had grease spells — but it was a warning of his intentions, and his arms were definitely long enough to make it work.
Nathaniel licked his lips at the sight, wondering if he’d had enough whiskey that he could blame everything on that later. That was later’s problem, he decided, as Anders reached around him, following the contours of Nathaniel’s body by memory as though it had only been days instead of years that they had last done this. Wet fingers trailed along the cleft of his ass, and Nathaniel arched forward, pressing Anders’s hips down into the ground.
It was less than comfortable. Rock dug into Anders’s bare ass-cheeks, while Nathaniel tried to work around their tangle of clothes. With his knee, Nathaniel tried to nudge Anders’s thighs wider apart, only to end up kneeling on his pants. He swore against Anders’s chest.
"Liked you better without pants," he muttered. He pulled his hand off their knobs and sat up to tug at Anders’s boot.
"That buckle — there," Anders instructed, eager to have the heat of Nathaniel’s skin against his again. The boot came off, followed by one pantleg, before Nathaniel descended upon him again. Both legs hooked over Nathaniel’s hips this time.
And this would be awkward if any darkspawn decided to show up — somehow more awkward than being without pants altogether — but Anders could cast just as well while tripping over his trousers.
"You going to fuck me, or do I need to seduce you all over again?" Anders asked, when Nathaniel hesitated.
"Please don’t. We’re not drunk enough for that." Nathaniel coughed out a laugh, one hand sliding up under Anders’s tunic. There were scars he’d touched a hundred times before. Maybe he’d asked about them. Maybe he hadn’t. He’d been drunk enough that he hadn’t really been listening, anyway — not to Anders or himself. "You still haven’t healed that?" he asked, fingers brushing over the scar above one nipple.
"Needed something to remember you by, didn’t I?" Anders reached back, again, fingers following the same path they had the first time, but with less half-tangled leg and pants in the way. "And don’t touch that nipple. I should have healed it, and you don’t want to know why."
Nathaniel’s hand jerked to the side, brushing up over the unexpected swell of a new scar, and suddenly Anders’s hand was clamped around his wrist, through the fabric, blue light skittering across his face.
"Not there, either," Anders breathed, eyes closed, swallowing hard.
"I don’t re—"
"It wasn’t there." Anders’s eyes opened, slowly, and they were still his. "They killed me, Howe. They found me and they killed me. It just… didn’t take. Justice was already with me. You knew — you had to know we weren’t both coming back, that time."
"You, ah… you look better than the last corpse." Nathaniel twitched as Anders’s fingers pinched the back of his thigh.
"I’m not a corpse. You know what you said about making him an offer? I made him an offer." Anders’s fingers moved, caressing Nathaniel’s ass, as he talked, kneading and squeezing flesh he thought he’d never touch again. "And then the templars decided we were an abomination. I suspect you know how that ended."
"I did think you were dead," Nathaniel admitted, as Anders’s hand finally released his arm, and he drew his hand back away from the scar.
"Well, I’m definitely not," Anders assured him, grinding up to rub his extremely not-dead knob against Nathaniel’s stomach. "Unless you want to blame this on rigor mortis."
"That’s disgusting." Nathaniel looked a bit ill at the thought, his hands slowing on Anders. "And the opposite of seducing me, for future reference."
"Relax. I’m not dead. I’m making terrible jokes, but I’m not dead. And you know how I like to celebrate being not-dead…" The pad of his middle finger brushed along Nathaniel’s entrance, tracing its shape in small circles.
Nathaniel’s breathing deepened, and Anders remembered the countless times he’d heard those breaths in his ear, heavy with desire and the promise of louder sounds later.
"Ass," Nathaniel grumbled, fighting not to squirm.
"That’s the idea, yes," Anders teased, curling that finger and pressing it into Nathaniel. Nathaniel squeezed Anders’s hips, another harsh breath rustling Anders’s feathers.
He couldn’t fight it. Or, rather, he could, if he’d had any desire to do so, but that was fading rapidly, under the touch of Anders’s hands, the long finger hooked inside him. "Give me the grease," Nathaniel demanded, with way more breaths between syllables than he’d intended, turning a palm up to catch it.
And there was that wicked grin again. "You don’t need it," Anders assured him. "I already took care of it."
Nathaniel looked a little confused, stroking himself, first, and finding no oil. He knew where Anders’s hands were. Had he actually— And suddenly, Nathaniel wondered exactly how drunk he’d actually been, even for those times he thought he was mostly sober. Unless this was something new. His hand moved down, fingers pressing at Anders’s all-too-accepting hole. Nothing at first, but there, past the first joint, the grease swirled against his finger as Anders flexed around him. A moment passed, while he absorbed the idea, and then his hand was back on his own flesh, a sharp breath from Anders, as the finger suddenly slipped out, and then that long, slow inhale as Nathaniel shoved his knob into that waiting slickness.
That sound woke Cormac. Not that it was loud, but it registered as a familiar sound and something he should be aware of. That long drag of breath was something he’d heard so many times, over the years, sometimes waking up to Anders arched beside him, one or another of their toys buried inside him. This time, it took a little longer to figure out. First, Anders wasn’t next to him. Slowly, everything filtered back. Deep Roads. Messere Howe. Messere Howe, whom Anders had apparently had quite a fling with, back in Amaranthine.
Rolling over, Cormac spotted the two of them at once, Anders with his head tipped back against the floor and Howe shakily pistoning into him. This was going to be much better than whatever he might have been dreaming, he decided, sliding his robes up as best he could, to wrap a hand around his own knob.
Magic had its uses, Nathaniel decided. Anders had proven that to him many times, only half of those times in the bedroom, and here was Anders proving it again. He was grateful Anders hadn’t taken the opportunity to say he had a ‘magic ass’ or to make another joke about tunnelling.
And Nathaniel had missed this, the way Anders opened around him, the way scarred skin felt in his callused hands.
"Nate," Anders breathed, his hands on Nathaniel’s ass pulling him deeper, closer. A part of him wished they’d done this on the bedroll, on anything soft to cushion his back as it scraped against the floor, but a part of him savoured the physicality of it, the raw, aching need in each of Nathaniel’s thrusts. "Nate," Anders said again, as though to remind himself whom he was with.
"Shut up," Nathaniel panted, licking his lips between ragged breaths. "Aren’t you the quiet one?"
"Shut up? And I thought you liked it when I said your name!" Anders’s eyes gleamed, just the way Nathaniel remembered. "When I begged for you to give me what I wanted. Oh, Nathaniel, put it in me! Oh, Nathaniel, fuck me harder! Oh, Nathaniel, piss in my asshole until my belly swells with it and come inside me again! Do you remember that? I remember you folding me in half so I’d come all over my own face. I remember watching the way your eyes rolled back, every time I breathed your name."
Nathaniel’s body stiffened and froze, from the waist up, horror and confusion on his face. He barely remembered most of the nights he’d spent with Anders, and the ones he did remember, he’d tried to put out of his head. Not because they weren’t good, because they were definitely good. He never slept as well as he did after he was wrung out completely. But, some of the things he’d done were the things nightmares were made of — but he’d been the one doing them, and he did them because Anders asked, teased, and antagonised him into them. They were never anything that could have hurt him. Still, his hips rolled and his knob throbbed, as flickers of things he couldn’t quite remember danced through his head.
Anders’s words weren’t very loud. Anders was almost never loud, if he wasn’t shouting about the plight of mages, but Cormac heard every word. He stilled, watching the two Wardens — the way Nathaniel tensed, but kept grinding in, despite himself; the way Anders tipped his chin up, with that antagonistic grin that Cormac couldn’t quite make out, but he knew was there. So, it was true, then. Not just Anders rambling drunkenly. Cormac had already known parts of the story, but he’d been missing this one. He’d been missing the part where Anders had apparently done that intentionally.
He laid back, considering it. Not something he’d want for himself, he didn’t think. But, really, not something he could find a reason to deny Anders. They’d handled a lot more water than that, although he still wasn’t sure quite how that ended, and neither was Anders, from what he could tell. And that was the only reason he had concerns about any of it. He didn’t want to break Anders, again. And maybe that was why Anders hadn’t asked. But, this? This was different, somehow. Anders wasn’t afraid to ask — hadn’t been afraid years before, either, and Cormac couldn’t help but wonder. Maybe he’d make the offer, anyway. Later, when they got home. Not in the cellar, on the floor, this time. Upstairs, in his bed, with the windows open.
"I think you do remember," Anders said, still in a whisper, still with that sharp smile, the kind of smile Nathaniel was determined to wipe from his face, judging from the next brutal shove of his hips. "And I think you want more of it. You already have me folded in half, so what comes next? Oh, right. You do."
"I said, ‘shut up’," Nathaniel grit out through his teeth. He wondered if the wet sounds, the slap of skin, would be enough to wake up their companions, only to decide that he did not care. He ploughed into Anders, pleased when he finally jostled that smile off his face, if only for a moment, grinning teeth parting around a gasp.
Sparks danced around Anders’s fingers, making Nathaniel’s hips stutter in their rhythm. "Or maybe you don’t remember and need me to jog your memory," Anders said, ignoring Nathaniel’s glare and arching up into the next slam of his hips. "How much whiskey did you have?"
"You are disgusting," Nathaniel said again.
"You’re still fucking me," Anders pointed out.
Nathaniel shook his head. "If that’s what you want, wait for it. I just drank it. It’s going to take longer than this, even with you—" The sentence cut off in a ragged gasp as Anders shot another jolt between his hips. Was this how it had always been? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t really care. Pounding Anders through the floor seemed much more important. This was what every trip into the Maker-forsaken Deep Roads had been missing, since this obnoxious mage had run off to the Marches. "You’re fucking vile, Anders. But, if anything in Thedas can get me off like you do, I haven’t met it. Looks like I’m stuck with you, robe trash."
Justice lunged forward, the glow flashing across the dim room, briefly, before Anders could drag him back, and the next jolt was a lot less friendly. "You want me to get you off? You want to come in my vile and disgusting ass? Don’t piss him off."
"I don’t suppose pissing in you is going to piss him off, too? Or maybe it’ll just be pissing on him?" Nathaniel eased back a bit, uncertain of how he felt about the idea of banging Justice. But, it wasn’t really Justice he’d had a problem with. It was the corpse. But, this was Justice. This was a spirit. Could he do the things Anders tended to argue him into with Justice? He was pretty sure this was some even deeper violation of the Chantry’s every admonition than the things he tended to get up to with Anders.
"Shut your face and fuck me, Howe. I thought you were the one who wanted it quiet," Anders shot back, with another spark, this one pressed just into Nathaniel’s ass.
The swear that tore from Nathaniel came out sharp, louder than their whispered taunts. Anders shushed him, heels at the small of his back spurring him on, even as his fingers continued sparking.