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In Dorian’s defense: he had been simply minding his own business.
—
There were many advantages to using the Skyhold library after hours, Dorian had found out during his time in the Inquisition. Peace and quiet, for one thing, the ambience interrupted only by an occasional squawk of a crow but otherwise blissfully serene. Personal space, enough to spread his research out onto multiple tables and over an endless sea of parchment without guilt. Privacy. The freedom to complain about a given author’s atrociously researched thesis loudly instead of grumbling it under his breath. The illicit thrill of sneaking food into the premises, and then eating it, openly and unashamedly. Really, the whole experience was downright decadent, a scholar’s true heaven.
Sadly there were a few drawbacks to it as well, the most pressing of which being the complete lack of personnel, or of anyone capable of deciphering these arcane organizational charts. As Dorian squinted at the explanatory pamphlet and all its myriad numbers, a feeling of dismay started to sink deep in his belly. There was no denying his bleak fate; he would have to go to the other library. The old, musty, creepy library, the one that had been hiding underneath Skyhold for ages before Solas reluctantly shared his discovery with the rest of the class. The one that looked suspiciously like a mad wizard’s dungeon, complete with absurdly huge books bound in leather of dubious origin, among other dark paraphernalia.
And he had to go there after midnight.
With a tremendous sigh that announced his dissatisfaction with the world in general and his predicament in specific, Dorian accepted his fate and got up. Picking up the various pages strewn around haphazardly he secured them under his armpit, summoned a wisp for extra light, and then—oh, the things he did for academia!—made his way down the stairs.
The throne room was shadowy and still at this time of night, the moonlight peeking through the stained glass in hazy stripes. In this atmosphere the place almost looked haunted, crystalized endlessly in time. Had he been in a more romantic mood, Dorian might have even appreciated the scene.
Instead he hurried across with hunched shoulders and rapid steps, and descended through the side door to the bowels of the castle. An absolute blackness swallowed him, his puny wisp barely making a dent as it fluttered a few steps ahead, and the whole situation was setting his nerves on edge. This was going to be a quick operation, he reassured himself as he pushed the library's creaky door open. He'd just identify the book he needed from the glowing, magically hovering list, snatch it out of the appropriate shelf's dusty jaws, and hightail it back to the rotunda. Easy as sin, as they used to say back in the homeland. Nothing to worry about.
That rustling sound was just his imagination, surely.
Dorian perused the list by the entrance with enforced nonchalance. He ignored the noises—the non-existent noises—coming from the depths of the room, back where the illumination couldn't reach. Skyhold was an ancient castle, wasn't it? It was just the walls settling, or whatever it was that old buildings did. Maybe a cute and harmless cat got lost on its way and was making the best of the situation, hunting for prey. The Maker knew this backwater country had problems enough with rodents.
He paused at that thought. What if it was a rat? A rat with sharp teeth and who knew how many diseases, running wild in a library, whetting its appetite on all the precious books sitting there so defenselessly? Unacceptable. His honor as a scholar—as a human being!—would not allow him to let such a crime go unchecked.
Swallowing down his fear, Dorian valiantly approached the source of the rustling, now growing louder. He lifted up the hand carrying the wisp. He looked down.
A monstrously big, feathery lump was shifting on the floor.
Dorian may or may not have squealed like a little nug.
At the commotion the lump suddenly jerked upright, looking—oh dear—disturbingly humanoid as it jumped to its feet, the light glinting on its large bugged-out eyes, inhaling sharply through a mouth surrounded by stubble to—hold on. What kind of monster had stubble? Dorian fed more power to his wisp, washing them both in light.
Alright. So apparently this wasn’t some sort of mutant rat-man as he had feared, but a regular kind of man, with a normal face and a normal body, staring back at Dorian with surprise and defensiveness. He seemed tired, and gaunt, and the feathers that had looked so alarming in the dark were actually part of the man’s threadbare cloak, matching his other equally shabby clothes.
Now considerably calmer, Dorian caught more details. The other man had blond hair caught back in a ponytail, a staff on his back—Maker, was this another hobo apostate, were they multiplying—and a golden ring winking on his ear. By his feet lay a sack that had clearly seen better days, probably containing the man’s meager possessions, and… was that a bedroll?
“Excuse me,” said Dorian, so scandalized he sounded horrifyingly like his own mother, “this is private property. You can’t just squat here!”
The other man’s expression switched from apprehensive to outraged. “Oh really! And what law says that?”
Dorian gaped at him, momentarily speechless. “...Inquisition law?” he tried.
Brown eyes flashed an unearthly blue. “Land is part of nature, and cannot be owned. Any attempts to do so are fundamentally unjust.”
Before Dorian could react to that frankly mystifying statement, he felt a hand fall heavily on his shoulder. This time his squeal was more of a mouse-like eep exclamation. Was that better or worse for his dignity? He decided not to pursue that train of thought any further, and glanced sideways at the owner of the—meaty, strong-gripped—hand.
The face of the Champion of Kirkwall greeted him, displaying an aggressively cheerful smile.
“Why, hello there,” Hawke said, tone dripping with the same upbeat breeziness one would use on a beloved neighbor. “Nice weather we’re having today, don’t you think?”
Apparently, Dorian was doomed to exist in a state of perpetual bafflement. “What?”
“Fancy meeting you here,” Hawke continued blithely. His smile menaced with its brightness. “Who could have guessed this dank little room sees so much traffic.” His grip tightened on Dorian’s shoulder with impressive strength, guiding him backwards. “Well! This was fun, hope we do it again sometime, etcetera etcetera. How about you let me walk you back to your room and we never mention this to anyone else ever again?”
“Now hold on,” Dorian said, in the process of being manhandled by the other—bulky and agreeably muscled—man towards the exit. “Hold on a minute—I say—Wait!” He dug his heels in and rose to his full, indignant height. “What exactly is going on here? This is a library, you can’t just run willy-nilly all over the place. There are rules!”
Hawke’s entire countenance took on an innocently astonished appearance. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s nothing happening over here.” He patted Dorian on the back, incidentally pushing him more towards the door. “Let’s not malign this beautiful friendship by implying otherwise, hmm?”
Dorian opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a sigh from the back of the room. “Hawke, enough,” the blonde mage sighed. “It’s over. I told you this wouldn’t last.”
Hawke pressed his lips together, somehow still smiling. “Anders, I’m handling it.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say 'Anders'?” Dorian asked, and was utterly ignored.
“I shouldn’t have let you talk me into this," Anders—the Anders?—said morosely. "Bad enough that I upended your life! My presence here puts you at risk." An essence of tragic martyrdom dripped from his posture. "You were never supposed to be involved in all this."
“Are we really going to argue about this again?” For the first time since this conversation started Hawke looked serious, eyes intent. “How many times do I have to tell you this? I want to help. So just let me do it! Trust me.”
“It’s not a matter of trust!” Anders shot back, passion in his voice as he pinned the other man with his gaze, and Dorian was really starting to feel superfluous in this whole scene. “It’s about not letting you sacrifice more than you already have!”
“How about you let me decide what I am and am not willing to do? We’re in this together, and you will not push me away this time.”
The mage threw his hands in the air. “So where do we go from here? The ruse is up. What, will the Inquisitor magically agree to shelter a wanted fugitive in her organization, no question asked?”
“Actually,” Dorian interjected, proud to have something to contribute for once, “I’m pretty sure she would.”
The two men stared at him.
—
“Sure, he can stay,” Lavellan said.
Dorian saw the poor Ambassador’s soul leave her body, her expression one fraught, despairing wince. “Inquisitor, please,” she said weakly, “we cannot.”
But Lavellan only hummed, her gaze on the war table beneath her. “The mages are our official allies. He’s a mage. I don’t see any problems here.”
She moved a token on the map as Josephine sputtered. Their Inquisitor’s way of leading consisted of calmly ignoring all protests as she did what she wanted, until the deed was done and those who opposed her had no choice but to accept the new reality. It was shockingly effective, Dorian had noticed. He’d been taking notes.
But some people lived in eternal hope. “Inquisitor!” Cassandra cried passionately, a one-woman army trying to scale an insurmountable mountain. “This is the most wanted man by the Chantry!”
“The Inquisition is not affiliated with the Chantry,” Lavellan responded, with the air of someone who had repeated that particular line countless times and would continue to do so if she had to.
“He is a criminal!” the Seeker insisted, resolutely trying to move the immovable object. “He’s the reason the war between mages and templars happened in the first place!”
Next to Dorian, Anders shifted and opened his mouth, eyes once again blue and outraged. Hawke discreetly but firmly elbowed him in the ribs.
If Lavellan noticed them then she gave no indication of it. “I think the situation was a bit more complicated than that,” she said wryly, “and in any case, this has nothing to do with us. Our goal is to stop Corypheus. All allies that can help us with this are welcome.”
“But what about our existing allies?” Josephine rallied, seeing a faint glimmer of hope in the horizon. “Think of what they’ll say! Their disapproval will cause us to lose so many donations, and even future contracts!”
“There will always be people who disapprove of us, and of me specifically,” said the Dalish elf currently leading this powerful organization, successful despite the odds. “We have managed without them so far, and will continue to do so. I won’t let anyone’s opinions stop me from doing what I think is best.”
The Nightingale, who had been watching the proceedings quietly and with frighteningly clever eyes, finally stirred. “This act will change our reputation, possibly irrevocably. Are you sure you want to do this? Is this man and what he did worthy of your support?”
At that Lavellan raised her gaze, looking at Anders head-on for the first time since this whole thing started. Her stare was piercing, inscrutable and assessing, as if she could flay all pretenses away and peer into one’s soul. The mage squirmed subtly under that weight, discomfort clear in his uneasy expression. Dorian couldn’t blame him.
After an endless moment, the Inquisitor nodded. “Yes,” she said simply.
She didn’t elaborate.
A collective sigh followed that pronouncement, resigned and despondent. Defeat hung in the air as people accepted this new world order.
“Huh,” Hawke broke the silence, sounding both bemused and impressed. “That went well!”
—
“Fascinating,” Solas said, fingers cradling his chin thoughtfully. “I have seen—in my journeys in the Fade—such close cooperation between spirits and Elvhen before, but never with mortal men. Normally any cohabitation for so long a period of time would cause a mingling of the psyches, especially for someone without the ancient knowledge. The fact that the two of you have remained connected for so long, while still remaining stable enough to function, is quite extraordinary."
“Um…thanks?” Anders looked at the elven man with vague suspicion. “Who are you again?”
Dorian knew who he was. Dorian could have made the necessary introductions, and smoothed over the conversation. Instead Dorian was spying on them from a distance, hiding behind an opened book, and stewing in his own unbearable jealousy. Solas never talked to him about magical theory! Also, he found Anders first, surely he had dibs on learning his mysterious posession-y backstory!
But no. No one in this place understood how social rules worked, or had any manners whatsoever. And the esteemed Champion of Kirkwall apparently preferred the company of The Iron Bull and his Chargers, using the excuse of ‘sparring’ to roughhouse with young Cremisius and his team. The vigorous, sweaty physical activity sure looked fun to Dorian from his vantage point, staring wistfully from the rotunda’s second-floor window. He may have been no warrior, but he could have given it a respectable effort, used a few tricks up his sleeve. But had Hawke bothered to extend an invitation, or acknowledge him in any way since his fateful discovery?
No. No he had not.
Perhaps he should just give up, Dorian thought one night as he nursed a mug of disgusting ale at the Herald’s Rest. Hawke and Anders were sitting shoulder by shoulder at a separate, far-away table, heads drawn together as they talked. They made for a pretty picture. Anders had filled out during his stay in the Inquisition, and his features were surprisingly refined when he wasn’t suffering from baggy eyes and pallid skin. His hands were long-fingered and graceful as he gestured, his eyes gleaming in the firelight. Hawke was gazing at his companion with focus, chin resting on his palm, a small smile playing on his lips. It all looked so very cozy.
Dorian sighed deeply. He’d missed his chance before he‘d even realized it. The connection had already sputtered out, as short-lived as a ray of sunshine during winter, never to be reborn again. Now he was doomed to stay in the fringes, forever an outsider, no chance of reconciliation in sight—
He was jarred from his thoughts when a hand fell on his shoulder—would people stop doing that—making him jerk. Varric entered his line of sight, expression entirely too amused for Dorian’s tastes.
“Why so glum, Sparkler?” The dwarf glanced shrewdly at that specific table by the corner. “You know, I could make introductions, if you wanted to make some new friends.”
Aghast, Dorian rose with all the dignity he could muster. “I beg your pardon,” he enunciated, trying to emulate Madame de Fer’s icy hauteur to the best of his abilities, “we’ve met.”
And with that he strode off towards his Legitimate Acquaintances, ignoring the chuckle in his wake. After all, why should he stay in the shadows like that? Didn’t he have a right to approach and exchange polite greetings like a civilized person? Even in the South there was still some semblance of culture.
The pair of them were laughing when he came close, easy and comfortable in each other’s company. His shadow fell on the table and they looked up, a smile still remaining on both their faces.
Dorian’s every rational thought suddenly vanished. “Um,” he said, eloquently, then conducted a mighty internal struggle before settling on a supremely lame, “Hi.”
Really, if the earth opened up and swallowed him in this moment he would be forever grateful. All those etiquette lessons he had endured in his youth were for nothing.
But through some miracle, the conversation rose from the ashes of its untimely death. “Why, hello there,” Hawke echoed with a wink. “Fancy a drink?”
“As a matter of fact,” said Dorian, inwardly congratulating himself for his equanimity, “I would quite like that.”
He sat down at the chair Hawke kicked over. Anders poured him a drink. There were precisely zero sneers, glares, or condescending snubs. Dorian's hopes dared to lift like a tentative sunrise.
“So,” he attempted, making use of the stellar interpersonal skills he’d spent a whole life honing, “how do you two find Skyhold so far?”
“I like the food,” Hawke said immediately. “And the drink. Honestly, any place that comes with its own personalized tavern is a success in my book. If I ever get a castle of my own it’ll be the first improvement I build—provided I can think of a snappy name for it, of course.”
“‘The Champion’s Repose’,” Dorian offered before his mind could berate him for speaking out of turn. “Or ‘The Burly Hawk’, if you’d like something with a certain flair.”
“I do like flair,” the burly Hawke said, with a grin that made Dorian’s insides quiver pleasantly. “Though if we’re going for flattery, I’d also accept ‘The Hawk’s Glorious Balls’.”
“I think ‘The Hawk Whose Head is Bigger Than Any Other Bodypart’ is the most accurate representation of you,” Anders added, smiling wryly. “But listen, this place is about more than just the accommodations,” he continued, leaning forward with a gleam in his eyes, “it’s the whole environment. Mages everywhere, walking free! Valued for their gifts and treated with the same respect as anyone else! This is exactly what I was fighting for."
Dorian, who was acutely aware of how free and privileged his life had been in the past, contented himself with a diplomatic, "Oh?"
"I wish I could go back in time and tell my child self about this." His expression shone with melancholic triumph. “I wish I could tell him that a better life for mages was truly possible, despite what the world screamed at him.”
“Hell, I wish someone had told the kid version of me about it as well,” Hawke said over his mug of ale. “Maybe then I would have actually paid attention to Father’s lessons, instead of learning a grand total of two spells and abusing them in every brawl ever since.”
Dorian choked on his horrible drink. “Wait, you’re a mage?” he asked incredulously. “But you’re so”—a million adjectives flew through his mind, all of them inappropriate—“...buff.”
Anders laughed fondly. “It’s the farmer’s lifestyle. He lifted too many hay bales at a formative age, and now the muscles stuck.”
“Now why would I deprive the world of my many talents?” Hawke flexed his bicep in a mesmerizing way. “Aren’t you the one telling everyone to appreciate their Maker-given gifts? Besides, it makes punching people in the face even more satisfying!”
“Well,” Dorian said with theatrical grandness, “I for one am grateful for your numerous talents. Even if you did have to lead a regretfully pastoral life to gain them.”
“Aw, it wasn’t so bad,” the other man said, waving his free hand. “If anything, those were the best times of my life, compared to what came next.”
“And at least you had your freedom,” Anders added darkly, “unlike the rest of us.”
Dorian hesitated as he glanced at the blond mage. The smart, politically tactful thing to do was to keep silent, and not breach any topics he had no business discussing. But…
But his emotional, troublesome heart was urging him otherwise.
“I must confess, I don’t know much about what life is like for an apostate—or a southern mage,” he said, choosing his words with care. “Do you mind sharing your stories?”
Anders snorted. “It’s a long one, and frankly depressing.”
“And mine is not that exciting, despite what Varric may have told you,” Hawke added.
“I don’t mind,” Dorian said honestly, and topped up everyone’s drinks.
—
Dorian wanted this on the record. He truly had been minding his own business.
The wine cellar had been the scene of the crime this time. His plans for that day called for a quality vintage—with Josephine's permission of course, he'd learned his lesson—and a quiet evening by the fire, safe in his room. Just a self-indulgent little luxury to bolster him up for the unkindly cold southern climate, that was all. Nothing ambitious.
But when he opened the door, he was blessed and cursed with an image sublime enough to burn one's retinas: Hawke and Anders entwined, pressed against the wall, and passionately kissing. There were moans. Tongues made appearances. Shocked to stillness, Dorian could do nothing more than feast his eyes on the captivating scene.
And then shirts were being lifted.
Maybe he made a noise, or maybe the weight of his stare was starting to develop its own gravity. Whatever the reason, the two men jerked once they noticed him, turning to him with surprised expressions. Anders had a delectable flush on his pale skin. Hawke's bottom lip glistened.
Dorian was once again possessed by the spirit of his mother. “Oh, do excuse me,” he said in his most polite diction, and shut the door.
Then stared at his hand resting on the handle, because what the fuck.
The door opened abruptly. Hawke stopped in his tracks when he saw Dorian still standing exactly where he'd been.
"Oh," the other man said, "I thought you fled." There was a small bruise low on his neck, Dorian couldn't help but notice.
"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," he rushed to say, with a commendable attempt at sounding unbothered. "Your secret is safe with me."
"What?" Hawke frowned, and somehow even that looked attractive on him. "Secret? No, it's nothing like that."
"Ah. Right." What a concept, not having to zealously guard one’s private entanglements. Dorian kept forgetting that was how most people lived. "Wait,” he added after a moment, “why were you hurrying after me then?'
“Ah, well, you know…” The esteemed Champion of Kirkwall trailed off, then moved his hands between their bodies in a series of elaborate, arcane gestures. The movements were vaguely cyclical. The man’s eyebrows undulated with gusto. Dorian was completely perplexed.
“Sorry, I don’t speak Pantomime,” he finally said. His eyes kept tracking the—calloused, virile—hands as if hypnotized. “What exactly am I looking at here? Is this performance art?”
A loud sigh sounded from inside the room. “Just bring him in,” Anders called.
They both obediently entered the stuffy little cellar, the place turning cramped with three people squeezed inside. Dorian tried not to think about how close he currently was to two manly bodies, radiating heat and pheromones.The bruise on Anders’s neck was significantly darker, his mind helpfully informed him. It also informed him about the cobweb dangling perilously close to the man’s head.
“Lovely decor,” Dorian sniffed, taking in the whole dismal scenery. “Very romantic. I suppose all that time spent in Kirkwall’s sewers created exciting new fetishes in you, Anders. Perhaps you enjoy showing off to all the voyeuristic spiders? Tell me if I’m getting close.”
Hawke snorted, but all Anders did was cross his arms. “Alright then, Mr. Critic,” he said, eyebrow raised, “what would you do if you were too desperate for a fumble to plan ahead?”
“Well, I’d choose a place with an actual bed, for starters.”
“Hey, don’t knock wall sex until you’ve tried it,” Hawke said with a leery grin. “Besides, Skyhold beds tend to be flimsy. We wouldn’t want to cause any property damage! See, we’re just being considerate of our hosts.”
“You boast,” said Dorian, frantically trying to clear his mind’s eye of all raunchy, tantalizing images, “but my bed is sturdy enough to withstand quite the abuse, I assure you. Some of us have standards.”
Hawke laughed, the edges of his grin sharp and hungry. “Yeah?” He looked over to Anders, who was humming with interest. They shared a look, communicating wordlessly through facial expressions alone.
Then he turned back to Dorian. “How would you feel about showing us that wonderful bed of yours?”
Certain pieces were falling into place, slowly but inexorably, in Dorian’s brain. His heart—and certain other parts—leapt.
“Why,” he said, hardly daring to believe his luck, “I’d love to.”
The two men smiled at him. He couldn’t help smiling back.
—
Dorian threw the door to his room open. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
He cast a quick assessing look at the environment. While nowhere near as luxurious as his private chamber back in Minrathous, the place was pleasantly airy, the furniture well-cared for. And more importantly, it was neat and organized, no dirty clothing or tossed-about boots in sight.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked his guests politely, turning towards his cupboard before he realized he never actually got that bottle of wine. “Or, um, a seat? Some tea perhaps? I could run down to the kitchens and ask for it. One of the servers likes me, he’ll bring it up for us.”
“Hey,” Anders said, voice careful, “are you nervous about this?”
“Because you’re reverting back to your poncy noble way of speaking,” Hawke piped up. “Not that it isn’t cute, but we don’t want to pressure you into anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Cute, Dorian thought with a pout that wanted to turn into a flattered smile. He outwardly scoffed. “Do I look like a blushing virgin to you? This is hardly new territory for me. I am fully cognizant of the situation, and more than willing to participate.”
The two men exchanged another glance, and Dorian felt a flare of impatience run through him. Really, he didn’t need to be handled with kid gloves. “Shall I prove it to you?” he challenged.
Then grabbed Anders and kissed him full on the lips.
After a few seconds of surprise Anders kissed him back, and oh, that was pleasant sensation. More than pleasant. The blond mage had definite skills, slipping his tongue in deftly, licking a scintillating streak behind Dorian’s teeth. Dorian angled his head for better access, looped his arms around the other man’s neck. He chased after that clever mouth with a whine. They were pressed close, so close, chest to chest, no space left between them. How warm it felt, the touch of another person. He wanted to melt into it.
As if his mind wasn’t reeling from the heat of it all already, he felt another body press up close, a firm slab of muscle against his back. Hawke’s beard rasped with each bruising suckle to Dorian’s shoulder, his neck, the underside of his jaw. Dorian could follow direction when it suited him; he tilted his face backwards and accepted the sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, eyes falling shut. Anders grasped this chance to bite at Dorian’s defenseless throat, his palms roaming freely.
“Hey,” Anders murmured in between sharp nips, “how about we use that bed you boasted so much about?”
“Yes,” Dorian gasped out, once he had breath enough to do so. ”Yes, an excellent idea, let’s go.”
Their journey through the room was chaotic, all three of them tossing both their own and each other’s clothing—Dorian threw away the apostate’s feathered cloak with particular relish—as they stumbled forward. Anders, as the man with the least armor or buckles to get rid off, won the unofficial race. He reclined on the bed in an endless expanse of pale skin and lithe limbs, one leg propped open in clear invitation, cock jutting upwards proudly.
Dorian pounced.
His eagerness might have been unseemly, but he was beyond caring. He kissed his way down the other man’s stomach—how warm the skin was, a furnace under his hands—then gave up any pretense of waiting. He took that slender, beautiful cock in his grasp and plunged it deep into his mouth.
The groan from Anders was gratifying, but not as loud as Dorian’s own. Vishante kaffas, it’d been so long. His lips slip up and down the shaft with vigor, his tongue firm against the hardness. He stroked the base as his head bobbed, then palmed the man’s balls with his free hand. He squeezed, ever so gently. The sensitive flesh twitched against the inside of his cheek.
A hand cupped his backside, warm and heavy. Hawke had slid up unobtrusively behind him on the bed, and was now kneading Dorian’s ass with abandon, fingers digging deep into the flesh. Dorian moaned, mouth full of cock, and moved his hips back encouragingly. His own cock was diamond-hard, pulsing with need. Hawke wrapped his free hand around it, his grasp hot and rough, and Dorian saw stars.
He was going to come embarrassingly fast, Dorian realized distantly, pleasure spiking deep in his belly with each stroke. He decided to forgive himself for it. It really had been too long since he felt the touch of another, too busy and nervous ever since he came South to scout for dalliances, and his body’s demands were swiftly becoming impossible to ignore. Besides, what man could have resisted under these circumstances? Didn’t Dorian have a duty, to all aspirants dreaming of being in a similar position, to enjoy this wonderful opportunity to the fullest?
Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t give as well as take. With renewed resolve, he gripped Anders’s hips and increased his efforts, hollowing out his cheeks as he sucked. Anders helpfully rocked into his mouth with a gasp. He pressed a palm to the top of Dorian’s head, kept him firmly in place as he thrust, pace urgent. Dorian’s eyes started to smart. It was rough, but not too rough. It was heaven.
Anders came in a sudden, sharp burst, a loud cry escaping from his lips. Dorian buried his face into the man’s groin and swallowed, the taste and scent of it all overwhelming his senses. He pulled up with a gasp, out of breath and disoriented. His own cock was screaming at him, heat and electricity and pleasure building up to an unbearable pressure, and mere seconds later the orgasm hit him. He spilled, right there into Hawke’s hand, messy and twitching and entirely too-far gone.
When he could focus again, he looked up at Anders. The man’s gaze was heavy, half-lidded. He huffed a small, impressed laugh, and Dorian surged up to kiss him. The kiss was slower this time, tongues sliding luxuriously against each other. He ran his palm freely over all the naked skin available to him, was caressed in return.
An unknown amount of time later, Dorian became aware of rhythmical slapping noise. He looked over his shoulder; there Hawke was, naked as the day he was born, sitting upright on his knees with his magnificent abs on display. Between his legs was the thickest, fattest, most glorious cock Dorian had ever seen. It stood at full attention, ruddy and leaking. Hawke’s hand almost looked small as he stroked himself.
Dorian’s mouth watered. “Now, that is unfair! If I had known such a feast was waiting for me, I would have paced myself better.”
“Don’t worry,” Hawke said with a wicked grin, “you’ll get to have it up your ass later.”
“You’re a brute,” Dorian complained, eyes glued to the body part in question. “A beast. A veritable philistine. I hate you so.”
Next to him Anders laughed, and pushed himself up the bed. With remarkable agility—where was the man getting all that energy from? Dorian wouldn’t have minded taking a small nap right then—Anders reached Hawke on hands and knees, dipped his head, and took the man’s length in his mouth. The way he craned his neck looked uncomfortable, but neither party seemed to care, moving together with the familiarity of long experience.
Dorian sat back to enjoy the spectacle, one hand resting idly on his inner thigh to give his body the right idea. Hawke’s body glistened as he worked up a sweat, his pectorals bulging, his biceps prominent. The black-haired man was surprisingly quiet though, only allowing soft grunts to pass from his lips. His eyes were screwed shut, head tilting back to bare his throat. At one point he brought a fist to his mouth and bit down, smothering his own low groan, and that image alone was enough to make Dorian’s arousal flare from a banked fire to an inferno.
Dorian had recovered enough to start stroking himself quite vigorously by the time Anders stopped, pulling back with a wet sucking sound. Hawke’s cock gleamed with precum, looking painfully erect.
“Alright,” Anders said, voice roughened. “How about we move on to the main event? Dorian, get on your belly.”
“The oil is in that drawer,” Dorian said with a happy sigh, and sprawled on the bed. He placed a pillow under his hips for better access and laid down, cheek resting on his crossed arms.
Anders chuckled. “You really are pampered, aren’t you?”
But it was Hawke who moved, oil-slicked hands back on Dorian’s ass. He pushed a meaty finger in with no preamble, buried it slow and steady right up to the knuckle. He pumped it in and out, relentless, then added a second finger. Dorian moaned, and tried his utmost to be patient.
He was rewarded for his good behavior. The fingers disappeared and were replaced with Hawke’s blunt cockhead, pressing inexorably forward. The stretch was exquisite.
“Look how well you take it,” Anders murmured. He cupped Dorian’s nape, his thumb making soothing circles. “Good. Just like that.”
A flush spread from Dorian’s chest all the way to his ears. Hawke’s cock was only halfway in, thick and hot. Dorian turned his head blindly to the side and was once again rewarded: Anders’s slim fingers touching his mouth, offered like a gift. He sucked them greedily.
“Oh, fuck,” Hawke groaned. He was sheathed in to the hilt by that point, his thrusts slow but powerful. “Oh, fuck. Anders, come on, please.”
Dorian whined at the sudden absence by his side, but he didn’t have time to be too disappointed. Hawke had pressed himself close, chest to back, his weight immediate and all-encompassing on top of Dorian. He could feel the other man’s beard scratch his shoulder, could sense each twitch and hitch of breath as Hawke was penetrated in turn.
Such an unwieldy configuration of limbs and bodies never should have worked, and yet it did. Dorian didn’t care that the thrusts he was receiving were shallow, or that their rhythm stuttered. All his mind could focus on was the heat, and the heaviness, and the pleasure pooling molten in his cock. He couldn’t quite reach to grab it, pressed as he was against the mattress, the friction as it rubbed against the pillow the only relief available.
It was both too much and too little, his orgasm tantalizingly close yet still elusive. He scrambled helplessly, uselessly, for some release.
“If someone doesn’t start fucking me harder,” Dorian gasped out in between moans, “I might actually die.”
Hawke gave a breathless laugh. “Well? You heard the man.”
“This isn’t as easy as it looks, you know,” Anders groused, but increased the pace nevertheless.
Dorian felt the delayed effect of his thrusts at the base of his cock, in his tightening balls. Sparks of pleasure were running over his spine, all through his nerves and down to his toes. He desperately rutted the pillow beneath him until finally, finally his climax hit. He cried out, shamelessly loud, spurting all over his belly.
He laid there for a few endless moments, feeling raw and over-sensitive, trying in vain to catch his breath. Hawke kept pounding away, following the momentum even as his hips started to jerk out of turn. A few thrusts, then a few more, and then he bit Dorian’s shoulder to cover a mighty groan. Dorian could feel the man’s seed spill inside him, stuff him full.
Anders was still keeping up the pace, his stamina seemingly indefatigable. Then he abruptly stopped. “Hawke, love, move,” he said, sounding slightly strained. “I want to look at him.”
Without the heft of a body covering him, Dorian felt jarringly light. He turned his head around just in time to see Anders ejaculate all over his back, semen splattering in long blazing streaks against his skin.
Quiet reigned for a few moments, broken only by the three men’s rapid breathing.
Then Dorian sighed, this time with the deepest satisfaction. “I hope you’re planning on cleaning that.”
“You’re such a brat,” Anders said, but the smile was obvious in his voice.
Dorian hummed, blinking sleepily. The sensation of being wiped down gently was nice, so nice he was half-way dozing, mind and body sated. The voices murmuring over his head was a reassuring background.
Eventually the pair of them settled down, and Dorian negotiated a cuddling position by elbowing his way to the center of the bed. He was surrounded by warmth on both sides, sweaty skin against his own. Someone’s hand was playing with his hair.
“Well,” Dorian started, “this was all rather pleasant. Very pleasant,” he amended when Hawke snorted. “Shall we make this a regular occurrence?”
“Hell yes,” Hawke said immediately.
“I think we’d all like that,” Anders said, trying absent-mindedly to find some space in a bed that was never meant to hold three people. “Any objections?”
“Oh.” Dorian shifted, letting a frown grace his features. “Actually, I do believe I have one.”
“Really?” Anders rose to his elbow, giving him a concerned look. “What is it?”
“That horrid feathered cloak of yours. I’m afraid it will have to go. Perhaps we could ritually burn it?”
“Wha—hey!” Anders spluttered as Hawke burst out laughing. “I like that cloak!”
“We can discuss this tomorrow,” Dorian magnanimously allowed, and settled in for the night.