[ Master Post ]
Title: Rhapsody in Ass Major – Chapter 377
Fandom: Dragon Age
Characters: Anton Hawke ♂, Cullen ♂
Rating: E (L3 N4 S4 V0 D0)
Warnings: ‘Villainy’, ass-banditry, exciting uses for office furniture, the internet is for porn
Notes: It is an extremely good thing that Anton’s desk is so sturdy, and that any Orlesians are on the other side of a locked door.
Cullen eyed Anton lecherously, eyes bright, lip curling, as his hands wandered the expanse of bare flesh before him. "I feel like I should have a moustache, for this, so I could twirl it."
"You would look ridiculous, not villainous," Anton assured him, wrapping his legs around Cullen’s thighs.
"I suppose it’s a good thing I shave, then. Can’t have my debonair looks ruined by a twirly moustache. Wouldn’t be fitting to my position."
Anton leaned to the side and opened another drawer, pulling out a small vial that he pressed into Cullen’s hand. "Speaking of positions and fitting, isn’t there something else you’d like to be fitting in this position?"
"In this position?" Cullen blinked as he uncorked the oil. "I don’t think that’s going to work." He poked at Anton’s chest with one finger. "But if you lean back and move a little closer to the edge of the desk…"
Anton heaved a dramatic sigh, even as he scooted to obey. "I knew I should have splurged on that Tevinter office set," he said with a devilish smirk of his own. "We’d have more options, and the chair really would be much better for my back."
"Tevinter office furniture?" Cullen scoffed, pouring the oil over his fingers. "What would that involve, I wonder? Knobs that serve as actual knobs?"
Anton tutted, his feet teasing along Cullen’s leg. "Nothing so obvious as that," he said. "Where would be the fun?"
"I think this desk is full of enough surprises," Cullen said, bending to kiss the smooth skin right in front of him.
"I think you are terribly intuitive," Anton replied with a smirk. He reached down and wrapped his fingers around Cullen’s knob. "I also think it’s terribly convenient to have my very favourite knob in reach, perhaps especially not as part of the furniture. It’s always such a delight to polish this one, in particular."
Cullen breathed something appreciative but incoherent against Anton’s skin, as he kissed his way up Anton’s chest. It took him a moment to remember that he was holding a vial of oil, and another few to remember what he was supposed to be doing with it, but as his lips met Anton’s, his slick fingers stroked over Anton’s hole.
Anton squirmed, hips twitching and rocking as he tried to impale himself on those fingers. "Villainy indeed!" he proclaimed breathlessly against Cullen’s lips.
"My villainy has barely come into this," Cullen growled. He pulled Anton’s lower lip between his teeth, felt Anton gasp against his skin.
"Is that what we’re calling it now?" Anton asked with a breathless laugh. "Your ‘villainy’?"
"You have called it far more unflattering things," Cullen reminded him as he pushed his fingers in slow, achingly slow. "Up to and including ‘man-noodle’."
Anton twisted to stifle his snicker against Cullen’s shoulder. "Well, sometimes villainy is delicious," Anton replied, a gasp making that last syllable higher and breathier than intended.
"Did you want to taste my villainy, before we get further? Before I continue plundering the booty of the bandit of asses?" Cullen pulled his fingers back, teasingly.
"No, no. Do continue the plundering!" Anton gasped, bending his knees to pull Cullen closer. "Plunder to your heart’s content. I can taste your villainy, once we get home. Perhaps with another bottle of that Orlesian honey wine."
"I do like the wine and all the ways you’ve found to drink it," Cullen admitted, twisting his wrist and shoving his fingers back in, only to curl them at the end of the thrust. Anton writhed beneath him, head falling back, giving Cullen access to a lovely expanse of skin, which he was quick to lavish with kisses and gentle bites.
"Honey wine pairs well with villainy," Anton gasped, the quip half-hearted as Cullen’s fingers stole his attention.
"Well, it is Orlesian," Cullen reminded him between kisses, and then his mouth was occupied with Anton’s skin, Anton’s taste, as addicting as any wine. His lips fell to Anton’s chest, feeling it rise and fall with each breath, the spaces between shaky inhales growing shorter. "Would it be terribly unvillainous of me to remind you that I love you?" he asked, his fingers giving a few more thorough thrusts before sliding out.
"Ah, has the villain fallen for his damsel captive?" Anton asked, looking down at Cullen with a lazy smile, carding his fingers through curly hair. "I knew my charms would sway you." His legs hooked around Cullen, nudging him closer as his husband lined up his ‘villainy’.
"Sway me too much, and I’ll miss," Cullen joked, pressing slowly in. His eyes slipped closed as the warm heat drew him in and Anton’s breathing scattered into a series of short gasps, those talented fingers clutching at his arms. This was always so perfect, even the very first time, when he’d been so unsure of himself, and Anton had guided him through all of it. Anton had taught him to appreciate this — looks, touches, every little sound. He’d never imagined most of the things Anton had shown him, even when he was young and a bit more libidinously inclined. Every once in a while, he wondered if he’d ever actually left that place, but he was sure the memories wouldn’t be so terrifying and chaotic, if that were the case. The horror made things like this that much more real.
Anton pulled Cullen’s hands back to his chest, kissing those strong fingers, before setting each hand down against his skin. "Oh!" he groaned, rocking his hips. "I am struck deep with your villainous blade!"
"You make a pretty sheath for my sword, darling damsel," Cullen said aiming for over-the-top threatening and merely hitting absurd and breathless. "But I fear my villainy is no match for your beauty."
For a moment, Cullen couldn’t tell if the squirming under him was from desire or from laughter, but he pulled Anton as close as he was physically able to smother those sounds with a kiss either way. "I hope," Anton panted when Cullen finally allowed him breath, "that you are not overcome with my beauty so soon."
"That would be terribly villainous of me," Cullen replied grinding this beautiful body into the desk beneath them. "Too villainous even for me." Strong legs flexed around him, and Cullen took that as encouragement.
Anton writhed, rocking his hips with every thrust, showering Cullen’s cheeks and neck with little kisses, between sharp breaths. "Shall I be overcome by your villainy, first?" he managed, after a bit. "Isn’t that how the stories go?"
"Oh, yes, the full force of my burgeoning villainy," Cullen panted, punctuating each word with another hard thrust, and taking a certain joy in the way Anton wrung him ever tighter. "Is it villainous enough for you? Is it forceful enough?"
"My appreciation of your villainy would improve, if you applied more force, but if my appreciation improves, does that make it less villainous, or am I becoming more villainous by proximity?" The last word ended in a squeak, as Cullen determined that Anton was still far too coherent for this point in the proceedings, and applied his villainy far, far more forcefully, and with a hip-roll, at the end.
"I think," said Cullen — and that was something that was becoming difficult to do, thinking, "that you would be made villainous by association." He paused to catch his breath and his thoughts between every other word. "Since you are, after all, filled with my villainy."
Cullen often wondered at the absurd things Anton wrung from him in moments like these, and wrung was the word, the way Anton squeezed around him. "Anton," he breathed, breaking character, because in that moment Anton was the only thing that existed. Well, Anton and his desk. The desk was marginally important.
"Villainous horseradish," Anton panted, clutching tightly at Cullen’s back and trying not to slide off the desk as he ground himself further down upon that particular horseradish in all its villainy.
"Careful, my dear damsel," Cullen breathed, between tiny squeaks of pleasure, "or you’ll wring all the sauce out, before you’re done with it."
"Perhaps that wouldn’t be so terrible," Anton groaned, taking a moment to breathe between words, "if you mean to lick wine from me until you taste cream."
"Why not both?" Cullen gasped more than asked. "Have your fill of my horseradish sauce, and I’ll have your wine and cream for dessert."
"That’s awfully generous of you, my dear villain," Anton gasped in kind. He wrapped his legs tighter around his husband, pulling him closer and hoping the angle would keep them from pitching off the desk and onto the floor. But in that moment, he almost didn’t care if they did so long as Cullen kept pushing into him like that.
"Anton…" Cullen panted, over and over, a mantra of the only thing with any meaning in his world. He buried his face against Anton’s neck, overwhelmed by the scents of sweat and desire — and why was it demons didn’t smell like this? But, that thought was gone as quickly as it had arrived, washed away by the taste of salty-slick skin against his lips. The world could end in that moment, and he didn’t think he’d mind at all.
"More," Anton begged, hips rolling of their own accord, desperate for more heat, more friction, more of everything. The wine could wait until they got home. Even if he had to cross town like this. His lip caught in his teeth, tiny, strained sounds of pleasure slipping out around it.
"More, darling damsel?" Cullen managed between thrusts, his every movement desperate, shivery, the movements of someone clinging to the edge. He widened his stance, shifted his grip to hold Anton more tightly with one arm while his other hand slid down and between them, sliding along velvety skin to grasp Anton’s knob. He didn’t bother to tease, not now, not with the slap of skin on skin already filling the room.
"Yes," Anton hissed, bucking up into that hand, into that squeezing warmth.
Cullen couldn’t tell if that was in response to his question, to his touch, or just a general exclamation of pleasure.
Anton writhed, movements losing any sense of rhythm, as he clung desperately to Cullen, pulling him closer. "Cullen — Cullen, please— yes!" he panted, as a drawer finally skipped off its track from the constant jostling. The sound of Antivan sweets and pencils skittering across the floor might not have been heard beyond the door, but the drawer bouncing off the chair and crashing to the floor might have been. And Anton could not have cared less, if he tried — not that he was much capable of trying, in that moment, arched back with his teeth clenched shut, trying not to scream his husband’s name in a poorly insulated office in the back of a warehouse-district gambling club, as he spilled across the callused fingers wrapped around his knob.
Somewhere, there was a comment about villainy or horseradishes that Cullen didn’t have the presence of mind to grasp. Instead, groans and Anton’s name were all that escaped Cullen’s lips as he moved, making what he was sure was a terrible racket and caring even less than Anton. With Anton’s spend on his hand, Cullen finally let himself go, let himself chase that lovely sparkling pleasure pooling between his hips until he lost all sense of where or who he was.
Anton purred as he felt Cullen stiffen, muscles bunching and tightening under his hands, Cullen’s shaky grunts in his ear as he spilled deep into his husband. In the space of a moment, all the frenzy and need ebbed to stillness, to softness, as their heartbeats filled the silence.
"Should go home," Anton muttered, after a moment. "With wine." He let go of Cullen’s back and spilled loosely across the desk. "In a minute. After I find my legs."