Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6607981.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Dragon_Age_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Anders/Templars, Otto_Alrik/Anders
  Character:
      Anders_(Dragon_Age), Ser_Otto_Alrik
  Additional Tags:
      Watersports, Urophagia, Humiliation, Angst, Non-Consensual_Oral_Sex
  Series:
      Part 3 of Pissing_Games
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-04-20 Words: 3130
****** P is for Punishment ******
by JuokasKurvas
Summary
     After Anders attempts multiple escapes with three successful
     breakouts the Ferelden Templars devise a creative punishment to
     encourage the wayward mage to toe the line in the future. A visiting
     Ser Otto Alrik from Kirkwall's circle decides to join in on the
     discipline.
Notes
     I've tagged this as underage but have not specified an actual when
     this takes place (other than pre-harrowing, post third escape
     attempt) so it doesn't necessarily have to be read that way. My
     stories tend to be a bit grey on the consent at times but this is
     100% non-consensual so do avoid if that makes you uncomfortable.
See the end of the work for more notes
He had just been brought back to the tower for the third time, his third
successful escape. Even Anders had lost count of the amount of times he had
tried to escape since they’d ripped him away from his family what seemed like a
lifetime ago. Likely they would have branded him already if he hadn’t shown
such a strong aptitude in creation magic. Wynne had even suggested that he may
potentially prove to be a spirit healer, though he was still too young and
untrained to say for certain. Still, it was a rare enough talent that the order
was hesitant to perform the rite and resorted to alternative punishments in
order to curb his unruly tendencies. Yet all they did was ensure Anders was
that much more determined to be free, and knowing the threat of the brand
wasn’t hanging over his head, Anders had no qualms about waiting until after he
was harrowed to attempt his escapes. If only he could find his phylactery,
destroy it, but for now he knew they would always find him. He also accepted
the fact that unless he made it to Tevinter, – an unlikely trek and one he
wasn’t likely to find any help in managing – the circle was the only place he’d
be able to finish his training. So he never made too much effort to stay
hidden. Determined to show those outside the circle and outside the chantry the
good magic could do, to hope one day he might be instrumental in inspiring
change. Ser Rheiner was leading him to the dungeons; clearly it would not be
cleaning duty this time around. Perhaps it would be a lashing; other mages had
been beaten for less. Though other mages weren’t as important to the First
Enchanter and the venerated collective of circle healers as Anders knew he was.
Would corporal punishment really be his fate after only three cheeky escapes?
            “Greagoir has given us leave to be more creative in our punishments
this time, in the hope that we might motivate you to understand why it is in
your best interest to follow what are very simple rules,” Rheiner chastised,
pulling Anders down by his ponytail.
            “Right, never see our families, never form families and never leave
the circle until the day we die, having no say in what we will do with the rest
of our lives. Simple,” Anders shot back sarcastically. Rheiner sneered but said
nothing else as he shoved Anders into a small room at the bottom of the stairs.
Inside two other Templars were waiting, though with their helmets on Anders
wasn’t sure who they were, if he even knew them. He probably knew less than
half of the Templars in the circle, and probably only as many as he did because
of all the times he’d been punished for one infraction or another. Friendships
between mages and Templars were neither common nor encouraged.
            Rheiner shoved him toward the other two Templars before leaving the
room; apparently creative punishments didn’t interest him. Despite his
enquiries the two left behind refused to give him a name or even tell him what
they were going to do to him. One just shoved him roughly onto his knees while
the other locked him into the manacles protruding from the wall. As soon as
they were closed Anders sighed heavily, realising they were suppression cuffs.
He hated the feeling of having his magic cut off, even if this was the worst of
tranquillity – and it certainly wasn’t – Anders didn’t think he could stand
life feeling this way. For however much magic had tainted his own life, it was
a part of him, a part he loved, and a part he’d die to protect. Still, a few
days in cuffs wouldn’t kill him, and the nearly 9 days he had spent free from
the circle would still be worth it. They wouldn’t break him this easily.
            Once secured the two silent Templars left, still without a word
about how long they would be leaving him here. Anders hated to be locked up,
hated to be alone. Even as a child he had always been uncomfortable when left
alone. At least then he had the cats, they would follow him whenever he wanted
and he’d never felt alone. And his mother was almost always around; he’d been
quite close to her before the Templars came. There’d always been a rift between
him and his father, Anders had never had the same aptitude for swordsmanship
that his older brothers displayed. Of course now he knew that his talents were
elsewhere, not that that had endeared him to his father any, a devout man who
had no use for barn burning or cursed children. Anders was almost starting to
get depressed with his own thoughts when a Templar entered the room, helmeted
so he was unsure if this was a new one or one of the two that had chained him.
Maybe it was Rheiner although he looked a bit too tall to be the surly Knight-
Captain. “Punishment done then?” Anders joked, doubting that a few hours in
magic suppressing cuffs constituted creative.
            The Templar said nothing as he walked over to Anders, nothing as he
unfastened his armour – and Anders humour started to subside as he worried
where this might be going – nothing as he unfastened the breeches he wore
underneath the metal skirt and still not a word while he pulled out his flaccid
cock. Anders started to protest, which ended up being a poor move as it just
made it all that much easier for the Templar to shove said cock into his mouth.
Anders wasn’t unfamiliar with the sensation of a cock in his mouth, having one
forced in without his permission was, however, something entirely new for him.
He thought about biting the man, but knew that would probably only make things
worse. The man was insane if he thought Anders was going to do anything for him
though, keeping his jaw determinedly slack and his tongue still. It was only a
few moments later that Anders realised that wasn’t what the Templar was after,
a few moments later when he felt the familiar sensation of fluid trickling down
his throat. Anders tried to spit the man out but the Templar simply fisted
Anders ponytail and forced his head back, held him place while he finished
relieving himself. When he finished he roughly removed his gauntlet from blond
hair, ripping the hair tie and tearing out several strands of the mage’s hair
before tucking himself away and leaving the room. Anders’ hair fell lose around
his face as the mage tried and failed to choke back humiliated tears.
            The next few days were torture, Templars coming in, silently
voiding their bladders, and retreating without a word to the mage no matter how
much he begged, cried or screamed at them to stop, to at least tell him how
long they were leaving him here. He thought they’d have to let him go from the
wall at some point, but soon realised that wasn’t to be the case. On the second
day he lost control of his own bladder, soaking himself and forced to now add
the acrid smell of his own shame to the seemingly shrinking room. After that he
gave up on trying to hold it when he needed to go, there was no longer a point.
He tried to calculate how long it would take him to starve to death as they
showed no signs that they were planning to feed him anytime soon. Dehydration
would have been faster, but with Templars pissing down his throat on a regular
basis he knew that would not likely be how he was going to go, as unrefreshing
as his drinks may be. The hunger pains were uncomfortable, but by the fourth
morning they seemed to subside, he got used to not eating, and he had more
distracting vexations to focus on. The Templars came at all times of day and
night, and while he was able to drift off to sleep while suspended by the
chains he never got more than a few hours before another Templar showed up to
take his turn. Anders felt like the whole tower was visiting, but he knew it
was just eight. He hated that he knew, that he was becoming familiar with the
taste, smell and feel of eight distinct phalluses. It was in the afternoon of
the fourth day that his routine was finally broken up, though not for the
better.
            Anders almost didn’t glance up as the door opened once more,
pulling him from his doze and his blissful retreat into the fade. The Templar
entering the room was different than the ones before, he was sure of it. The
man wasn’t wearing his helmet and Anders didn’t know who he was. He may not
know all the Templars in the Ferelden circle, but he knew he’d have remembered
this man if he was stationed here. A new visitor and that couldn’t be a good
thing. The man was tall, bald – and Anders had to wonder if that was
intentional as he didn’t seem quite old enough to have naturally lost all his
hair. More striking were the piercing blue eyes, cold and filled with
arrogance, condescension and a hatred Anders had never seen cast his way
before.
            “Good afternoon Anders,” the Templar greeted him familiarly, his
voice as cold as his gaze. Four days ago Anders would have had a witty remark,
not today though; today he just stared silently at his new visitor, wondering
what exactly this man was going to do to him, why he was talking to him. “No
greeting for a poor Templar? Or a witty remark even, I’ve heard you are famous
for those Anders. I’ve heard a lot about you since I arrived yesterday evening,
in case you weren’t aware why I might seem unfamiliar. I’ve come from Kirkwall,
an emissary sent to Greagoir. He doesn’t seem to know what’s going on down
here, I doubt he’d allow this which is a shame, this seems a very fitting
punishment for a thing like you doesn’t it? Maybe I should take you back to
Kirkwall with me, we’re much more adept at dealing with difficult mages.”
            Kirkwall, the man was from Kirkwall. Communication between the
circles was limited, but from what little was known Kirkwall was easily
regarded by the mages as the worst circle in which to reside. More mages were
made tranquil there than anywhere else, more were executed and more were
accused of blood magic. Maybe they really did fall to blood magic; given the
rumours Anders couldn’t exactly blame them. Seeing the blue-eyed Templar,
listening to his iced diatribe, Anders could understand what might tempt them.
For the past few days Anders had begged for someone to just speak to him, to
look at him. Now he’d give anything to be alone again, to be far from this
Templar and his cruel stare.
            “My name’s Alrik, you should know that Anders, you should remember
it. Think of me every time you think of disobeying in the future, think of me
anytime you feel you aren’t being treated exactly as you deserve, anytime you
feel mages, a blight upon our very world, deserve anything. We have far more
tranquil in Kirkwall than you do here; frankly I see no reason to keep any of
you the way you are. Too dangerous, too broken, such an offense to our Maker –
better to strip you of your sins and find a useful place for you, but thus far
I haven’t been able to get the right people to agree with me. No matter though,
I am persistent, you can relate to that can’t you Anders? You are the perfect
picture of persistence from what I hear. Let’s see if we can change that.”
            Alrik moved forwards and began to divest himself of his bottom
layers, after days of this Anders shouldn’t feel the trepidation that he does,
but this is different. He doesn’t know why, or even quite how, but he knows
that it is. Alrik moves forwards and Anders just stares at him, he won’t open
his mouth, he never does. It’s the only thing he’s had, the only manner in
which he can refrain from acquiescing to the whims of those who would hurt him.
However, this doesn’t bother Alrik, he doesn’t want Anders mouth. He points his
member at Anders face, right between the eyes, and releases a steady stream
onto the mages face. Despite the room wreaking with the scent of Anders own
repeatedly voided bladder the assault offends his nostrils, and he flinches,
eyes shut as he feels Alrik move his stream down from his face, to his throat,
to his chest before lifting himself up again to ensure he finishes in Anders’
loose tendrils. Anders can’t help but tremble, horrified to find that there
were still new ways for them to demean him, to make him feel less than human.
Alrik demands that Anders open his eyes, and for some reason he does, afraid of
what might happen if he tried defiance with this man.
            “What a good little mage you are, so obedient, perhaps the others
weren’t quite right about you after all hmm? Let’s prove them wrong why don’t
we, open your mouth Anders,” Alrik orders, placing his semi-hard cock between
Anders’ pliant lips when he complies. Anders can taste the last few drips of
salty urine as the head of Alrik’s penis slides across his tongue. Anders
should know what Alrik wants next but his sleep-deprived brain, surging with
fear induced adrenaline, is not able to process his own thoughts, only waiting
for Alrik’s next order. Orders Alrik does not give, as the Templar merely
indulges himself in plunging slowly into Anders mouth, his cock stiffening to
full hardness with each languid thrust. After several minutes of Alrik slowly
teasing himself with Anders lips and tongue, the mage finally responds. Not out
of enjoyment, but because he wants this to end. Alrik was clearly in no hurry
to end Anders’ torment; this left the young apprentice in the uncomfortable
position of ending it himself, even if that meant submitting to the last person
in Thedas to whom he would want to be vulnerable. He relaxed his throat and
swallowed the whole of Alrik’s length, using his throat muscles to pleasure
both head and shaft.
            “Mmm, that feels nice Anders, what a good little mage slut you are,
why I think you are enjoying this aren’t you?” Alrik taunted as he continued to
thrust, moaning as Anders deftly swirled his tongue around the head of the
Templar’s cock, sliding the tip of his own tongue into the Templar’s slit and
just lightly working his teeth against the retracted foreskin. He was not
enjoying this, the only thing Anders had left to be grateful for. He couldn’t
say that Alrik’s member was entirely unpleasant, the Templar has no strong
odour or taste, and attached to anyone else Anders most certainly could enjoy
performing this act. But he was still drenched in the fear and humiliation he’d
felt earlier, could still feel Alrik’s cooling urine trickling down his cheeks
and chin, so everything about this moment was perfunctory despite the fact that
Anders’ skill might suggest otherwise.
            Alrik may have been determined to draw this out, but with Anders
responding too readily he found he was unable to maintain his slow pace. Awash
in bliss from the mage’s deft ministrations Alrik quickly found his release in
the back of the tight throat engulfing his length. He pulled back near the end
of his climax, spurting the last of his ejaculate onto the tip of Anders’
tongue, wanting to ensure the mage would remember his taste long after he’d
left. “Good boy,” Alrik gasped, a bit breathless after such a shattering
orgasm, “maybe you don’t need to be tranquil after all. The tranquil are so
mechanical when you put them on their knees, you certainly have a few talents
that may justify sparing you from the rite.” Anders glared at Alrik, awash in a
new fury that displaced his earlier panic and disgrace as the Templar tucked
himself back into his clothing. Alrik either didn’t notice or ignored the
glare, turning heel he exited the room, leaving the mage alone with his anger
and grief.
            The Templars left Anders in the room for another two days. Six of
them continued to make use of him in the same manner as before, but two had
clearly been inspired by Alrik, deciding to seek their own pleasure from the
mage’s gifted tongue. Anders gave it to them; he saw no reason not to anymore.
He’d lost, and while he wasn’t quite broken he knew on this occasion justice
wouldn’t be his. Alrik had said Greagoir didn’t know what was going on here,
but Greagoir probably wouldn’t believe him, or would at least pretend that he
didn’t, even if Anders could find the words to explain what had happened.
Anders was still determined to escape, but he wouldn’t be able to go through
this again anytime soon, so he’d behave for now. He’d give them what they
wanted no matter how much it pained him to do so.
            When they let him out it was during a mealtime, and so he was able
to bathe alone, able to try and put together the brave face that would allow
him to hide what happened from the other apprentices. He’d burned the robes
he’d been wearing before throwing them in the bin, wishing it was as simple as
that to rub the unclean feeling imbued in his skin. Over the next few days he
looked at each Templar and wondered if they were one of the eight, and part of
him couldn’t help but fear that underneath one of those helmets he’d find Alrik
was still here, waiting in the corners for his next misstep, another chance to
put him in his place. Just over six months later he escaped once more, success
four. This time he wouldn’t make it so easy for them to find him, they would,
that damn phylactery, but he wanted more than a week or two. He’d earned more
than that. Although part of him was tempted to make his way to Kirkwall, there
was a Templar there he never wanted to see again, and would never be able to
let go until either he or Alrik breathed no more. If it was the last thing he
ever did Anders vowed he would kill Ser Alrik, maybe not on this escape, but
one day vengeance would be his.
End Notes
     Thanks for reading. Apologies for any errors, terrible side
     consequence of being my own beta. I have disabled anonymous
     commenting, I am sorry but I've had problems with people using
     anonymity to be cruel rather than constructive so from now on I won't
     be allowing them on any new fics. For those who have wanted me to
     follow up Seven Minutes in the Void I promise I haven't forgotten it,
     but still a bit shattered from some of the hostility so I'm afraid I
     am going to keep putting that off until my thesis goes away
     (September is the aim/deadline) and/or I feel overwhelmingly inspired
     to continue. Hope something completely different will do for now.
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