Author's Note: This was written for a friend to inspire her as she worked on a HawkexFenris comic. She really loved it and wanted it to be shared.
Lowtown Alley
by ClaretAmazon
There were three of them.
Three bodies, three breaths, three cocks. Three men that had been hiding in the shadows of the Lowtown Alley. Three men he had not noticed until too late. They were only indentified by their hands: Long Fingers, Rough Hands and Smelly Palms.
The red token on his wrist had been snatched away, and used to block his sight. Forced to his knees by a kick to the back of them. Hands were bound with metal rings that supressed the lyrium brands, made them hurt even more for it. And through it all, the stripping of his clothes, the rough groping, he couldn't fight back.
The ale... the damned ale at the Hanged Man.
Drugged.
Helpless.
Powerless.
It turned him on. Fire coursed thick and hot through his veins, ecstasy clouding his mind with every thrust, smack, bite... Murmured words about how he was such a good whore, a filthy slut, made his cock harder.
He was still on his knees, Rough Hands had his head, his hair, in a hold as he fucked his throat. Long Fingers was digging into his hips along with Smelly Palms as his cock was sucked voraciously, and his ass was being stretched to it's limits. Three fingers were spearing him as Smelly Palms rammed him over and over and over again.
His asshole was clenching, wanting even more from the human in him. More pain, more strength, more of their cum. It leaked out of him with every thrust. Wet noises that made him moan around the flesh in his mouth. It was on his skin: ass, thighs, chest, face, even in his hair from when they'd made him try to suck off two of them.
Smelly Palms grunted, spewing the drenched passage with more liquid.
Rough Hands was next. He came on the elf's tongue, then his face. Smeared over him and on the red sash. The smell of sex and semen would never truely leave that piece of cloth, a reminder of that night.
Long Fingers forced him to guzzle his own cum.
It continued on for what felt like hours. Even after the drug left his system he let them use his body. He shouldn't like it, shouldn't want it, but since he'd left Danarius behind, since the Fog Warriors took him in, he had awakened some nights throbbing hard and aching to be used, to just be a hole to stick something in. Shameful, delicious remnants of his slavery. Just another mark Danarius had left on him.
Hawke had never been able to scratch that itch, no matter how he had tried to explain it to him.
So he let the three men twist him, force his body into almost unnatural positions as they used him. Each scratch, bite, insult, everything they did to him set that cumpulsion to ease. Yearned for the pain, the ache, the feel of rough stone making his body hurt as the three humans covered him in bruises and spum.
They left him there, only taking the Templar bonds with them. The clinking of coin on the stone was the last acknowledgement they had for him.
Gold and silver was collected, shoved into the pockets of his belt as he gathered his things. He didn't bother dressing again and walked to Hightown just as he was, content and limping, a smirk on swollen lips.