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Nights to Remember

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“It was the right thing to do,” Cullen muttered, pacing in front of his desks. Carding his fingers through the mess atop his head, only for the gauntlet to catch on coarse blond hair. With a grunt and a pained grimace, he pulled his hand free and unbuckled the gauntlet to throw it carelessly into the corner of a room. Heaving a breath, he turned sharply to face the Tranquil he’d ordered to his office. “A choice had to be made, and I was the only one who could make it.”

“You made the right choice, Knight-Commander,” Adaar tried to reassure him. It only made the knot of guilt in his chest tighten. He looked at the once proud man standing slouched before him to appear smaller, to appease. They had sawn off his once magnificent horns, that used to curl dangerously and enticingly around his head, now mere stumps at his temples. The sight distracted him for a little while from the sunburst on his forehead.

“I made the only choice that could be made,” Cullen corrected gently, stepping forward to caress Adaar’s cheek. The Vashoth stared blankly at him, the face that used to openly display awe and anger, joy and grief reduced to an impassive mask. He remembered those eyes shining brightly, those lips falling open in prayer as the mage reached his orgasm. Remembered the satisfaction and accomplishment he used to feel, that he could bring the man such simple pleasures.

A demon, trying to trick him. Desire, lusting after a mage. It never ended well for him. The temptations of an abomination- he had to act. The demon already had all of the Inquisition wrapped around his little finger, and he was their Commander, he had sworn to protect. He had withstood temptation, at great personal cost. But taking lyrium again was the only way to ensure his Smite and Silence would hold the powerful creature.

The Tranquil didn’t reply. Cullen let his fingers rest on his lips for a moment, yearning for something that could not be had. Tranquils couldn’t say no – couldn’t consent. He knew not all templars let that hold them back, but the Knight-Commander wasn’t that far gone. He had to be an example to the men under his command, no matter how tempting the man before him was. With a huff, he stepped back and turned back around, laying his hands flat on his desk.

“Your last kiss still lingers, an echo of what once was,” Cullen confessed, staring down at the papers before him, eyes unfocussed. Didn’t think of what ifs, didn’t think of could have beens. Didn’t think of the green magic still sparkling on Adaar’s hand, a testament of his fate. It had been the right choice. It had to be. “Just like you are now.”

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Anders hummed disapprovingly, then turned and searched a small chest for the right potion. Isabela fidgeted on the cot, hands twitching to cover her naked form. Usually, she didn’t mind much, being naked in a bed, but usually it was dark and her companions were more than drunk enough to not notice anything… off between her legs.

“You should be more carefully with your binding,” Anders admonished as he turned around and pressed a potion vial into her hand, “Drink this. And use this salve twice every day for a week, that should help with the bruising.”

Isabela nodded mutely, slipping back into her smalls and sighing in relief as the… thing was covered again and hidden from sight. Anders knew, of course, and she had told Merrill but… she didn’t like thinking about it. Her boobs jiggled as she hopped in place to pull the tight breeches up. Anders frowned, as he usually did when confronted with the results of blood magic, but he didn’t say anything.

He hadn’t said anything about her unusual problem at all, even gone so far as to laugh her regular visits off as results of her prolific night life. Isabela wasn’t sure how to show her gratitude, to him or to Merrill, who was researching blood magic to help with changing her intimate areas. Her boobs had been the forepayment for a discrete shipment. A shipment of slaves, as it turned out. Isabela was no slaver, even if it had been hard to turn her back on a full transition.

“Tell me when Merrill thinks she’s ready for the… ritual. I’d like to be present in case anything goes wrong,” Anders was still frowning, but it was more concern than disapproval this time. Isabela threw him a salicious grin, jiggling her boob to catch his attention. He blushed furiously, while she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Slipping on her shirt, she stood up and opened the door leading into the clinic from Anders’ private chamber. He always made sure she had the most privacy possible, especially after the incident where Hawke nearly walked in on them with her still mostly naked. She paused, not looking back at the mage, her heart beating heavy in her chest.

“I will,” she promised in a low voice, finally glancing up to catch the healer’s eyes. “And… thank you, Anders. For everything.”

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Dorian closed his eyes as he choked, saliva dripping down his chin. He tried to relax his muscles around the big Qunari cock shoved down his throat and whimpered. A huge hand came to rest against his adam’s apple, carefully massaging his throat, and Dorian couldn’t help the reflexive swallow. The Inquisitor groaned brokenly, hips shifting restlessly as he thrust shallowly.

He tried taking a deep breath through his nose, and then another. The musky smell of sex filtered into his brain, and his own erection was weeping painfully, hanging heavy between his legs. Bull’s other hand held him aloft by his hips, Dorian having turned a boneless mess early on in the proceedings. He could feel Adaar’s dick move in his mouth, the light pressure against his throat highlighting and stimulating.

A sharp thrust pushed him back onto Adaar’s withdrawing cock, causing him to choke in surprise. Dorian moaned, having almost forgotten the Iron Bull’s gigantic manhood was splitting him wide open with how still he’d been holding these last few moments. Dorian had lost all sense of time, suspended between these two Qunari fucking him from both sides. His head felt empty, floaty, similar to the feeling being tied up tightly in ropes gave him.

Adaar pulled out to give Dorian a moment to gulp down sorely needed breaths, patting his sweaty hair. His glazed eyes traced over the red vitaar patterns across Adaar’s chest, hazily remembering that Bull was wearing a different design in black on his shoulders and arms. He didn’t know why it turned him on so much - maybe it was the reminder of decades of propaganda stuffed into his brain, but the thought of being fucked so thoroughly by two ox-men had Dorian moan wantonly, eyes slipping shut and mouth dropping open invitingly.

He heard Adaar and Bull chuckle, the Iron Bull thrusting into him slow and deep, while the Inquisitor lined himself up again and thrust into Dorian’s mouth, stopping short of his throat by a precarious inch. The mage whimpered, his tongue caressing Adaar’s dick in lieu of begging for more. Bull leaned over him, sinking in deep, and kissed his shoulder. The press of teeth had Dorian groan, choked off because Adaar chose that moment to fill his throat again.

Bull laughed, licking the bitemark teasingly, before leaning up to kiss Adaar. The Vashoth bend over Dorian, whose nose was shoved against dark curls, cock filling his throat to the fullest. There he hang, suspended and almost forgotten between his two lovers as they busied themselves with making out, both their dicks shoved fully into both his holes, a hand patting his hair carelessly, the other caressing his throat with a thumb.

He’d never come so hard in his life.

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Anders’ cot, Fenris decided as he eyed the so-called bed critically, was too small for even one person, let alone three. It was no wonder the mage slept badly, truly, because the cot was hard and small and creaked. It also doubled as a patient bed - Anders probably slept more often at his desk than in his bed, at this point. Fenris kept his mouth shut and earned himself a kiss from Hawke for his efforts.

Hawke’s bed was bigger and mostly sufficed for cuddling and …other purposes, but it was not expansive enough for all three of them to settle in peacefully. Not that they didn’t try - and Fenris had laughed when Anders stumbled off the bed in the middle of sex that night - but it wasn’t comfortable to rest, with the abomination’s bony elbow in his side and Hawke drooling on his chest.

With a resigned sigh, Fenris gestured Hawke and the mage to follow him as they left the Hanged Man that evening. He had left Danarius master bedroom alone, prefering one of the smaller but still spacious guest bedrooms for himself. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and while the room itself was dusty, Fenris thought he had some sheets they could exchange the current ones with.

At least it was big enough they could all sprawl across it without touching, if they so wished.

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Bull and Dorian return to Skyhold exhausted and worried sick. One of Leliana’s ravens had reached them halfway back, a small note informing them that the Inquisitor, Morrigan, Solas and Cassandra had made it back to Skyhold due to Ancient Elven Magic. It was the first sign of life from Mahanon since their battle against the Red Templars and Darkspawn at Mythal’s Temple.

Dorian was so furious he burnt the note. Now he wished he hadn’t, only to have something to hold onto during the long march home. Bull had just watched him carefully impassive, then returned to fussing over his chargers. Skinner had lost half an ear, and Dalish was still knocked from mana exhaustion. Krem and Grim were both limping about, while Rocky was the ‘lucky’ one with only a concussion.

The Iron Bull had been just as worried as Dorian over Mahanon leaving to fight without either of them, but the Inquisitor had asserted his authority. Bull had led his men into the fight, while Dorian had helped Fiona corall the rebel mages. They hadn’t spoken much, after the Battle, clinging to each other in their shared tent, but snapping irritately during the day. Dorian understood, in a way, that they both were just worried and frustrated.

It did not help cool his temper.

So now they stood waiting outside the War Table Room, Bull leaning against the wall inspecting his axe, Dorian with his arms crossed and glaring holes into the door. He wondered if burning it down would move things along, but restrained himself. Barely. Mahanon was inside, discussing the events at the Temple and what to do next with his advisors… and Morrigan. The jealousy flared at the thought alone- Dorian should have been the mage at the Inquisitor’s side, he should have been there to keep him safe, to-

Bull took his clenched hands into his and slowly pulled one finger after the other back, until the palm laid open. Dorian stared curiously at the halfmoon shaped gouges that had started bleeding. Huh. He hadn’t even realized he’d broken the skin. The Iron Bull leaned down and licked over his palm, tongue swirling around the small wounds. Dorian sighed, relaxing further.

That, of course, was the moment Morrigan shoved open the doors, the Inquisitor following after her, the three advisors still in a heated discussion. The witch stopped, quirked an amused brow at them and then sauntered off, leaving an apprehensive elf behind. He carefully shut the door behind him, Dorian looking his over - no obvious injuries, but neither Morrigan nor Solas were competent healers. He and Bull would have to check him over later, in the Inquisitor’s quarters.

Bull was the first to move, pinning Mahanon to the wall. Dorian watched as the Qunari kissed the elf savagely, his cock stirring in his breeches. He had to swallow, ignoring the heat stirring low in his stomach. He stepped forward, and Bull neatly pull aside, his ear twitching as the mage approached. He pulled Mahanon close, one hand on his lower back, the other up his neck.

“Never do that again. I- We thought you you were dead,” Dorian murmured, forehead pressed to his elven lover’s. Bull wrapped an arm from behind him, pressing his lips to his hair. He could feel him nod. Mahanon closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into them. Dorian let his eyes fall shut as their lis brushed chastely, before the elf pulled back.

“I promise.”

Dorian kissed him again in reward, before moving to make place for Bull to do the same. The arm around his waist didn’t let him go far, tugging him back against the two. His hands wandered aimlessly over a muscled back and a slender arm, Mahanon turning his hand to caress Dorian’s palm.

“Then I suggest we move this to somewhere more …private,” Dorian declared, pulling free and whirling around with a dramatic cape flip to lead them on. He heard Bull’s dark chuckle and Mahanon’s hurried steps behind him. Fingers reached for his hands, and he allowed the elf to entwine them, squeezing his hand in return. Reassured his lovers were both there with him and healthy, and the whole gruesome situation behind them.

Never again, he thought.

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Lavellan stared at the Eluvian. This was no normal mirror, even though the magical artefact had lost its power two centuries ago with the fabled Death of the Dread Wolf. Carefully, he touched the brittle glass, his magic humming in response to the remains of whatever spell or enchantment used to be embedded in the Eluvian. They didn’t know much - theories ranged from ranged communication to teleporting devices - but Lavellan was captivated by something else.

When the researcher touched the glass, a hazy image appeared before him. A human male, with dark skin and hair of the North, handling a staff with such precision and grace, slaying his foes and raising them from death to fight their former comrades. Mahanon was enthralled by his beauty and a yearning he could not place. He pressed his palm firmly to the glass.

“I wish…” he murmured, eyes not leaving the man as he laughed and joked with his companions. “I wish I’d gotten the chance to know you. Centuries divide us, many decades of change has been wrought and yet…”

Mahanon sighed darkly, thumb caressing as the image zoomed in on the mage’s face. What wouldn’t he give to meet this alluring creature!

“Every time I look into this mirror… I see you and I wonder, who is this wonderfully handsome, smart mage? Why can’t you be here or I be there, for I wish nothing more but to touch you once. Such fancies occupy my mind while I should be working and yet, I cannot help but wonder.”

He stepped back, hand dropping to his side and clenching, the image wavering and vanishing. Still he kept his eyes trained on the surface as if he could recall them by will alone. But his break was almost over and he should return to his desk.

“We’ve never met. Still, I feel like I know you. And I want to know the caress of your hands, your sking on mine- the touch of your lips,” Mahanon fantasized, bringing his fingers to his lips as he talked quietly in the empty dusty room. With a sigh and a shake of his head, he leaned forward to kiss the glass- which went from solid to liquid within seconds, causing the elf to overbalance and tip forward. With a shout, he fell through, landing hard on a stone floor.

Confused, he looked up to see a woman tied up and held aloft, guarded by men in Grey Warden armour and an abomination approaching. Dazed, he caught the greeen orb that was flung his way only by instinct. Then, he only remembered pain.

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Krem watched carefully through half-lidded eyes as Pavus stepped up close to him. The man had undressed with a finely cultivated nonchalance and self-assurance that the soldier could never hope to match. The Chief, meanwhile, was still wearing his trousers but had gotten rid of his harness and shoes. Krem himself felt a tingle of uneasiness at the thought of removing his own clothes.

He didn’t have much time to think about it, as Dorian dipped his head down and brushed their lips together. Bull’s large hands came to rest on his hips, and Krem felt himself melt into the kiss, the tension slipping slowly from his shoulders. One arm wrapped around his waist from behind, and the Iron Bull pulled him flush against a muscular chest.

The Altus followed without missing a beat, mouth trailing down to nip at Krem’s jawline, and then teeth grazed his throat. The soldier could feel his heart skip a beat, but Dorian was already suckling on his skin, and the sensation was so foreign it took a moment to register. Krem moaned, arching his neck and pillowing his head on Bull’s plentiful bosoms. The man in question chuckled, thumbing one of the many belts holding Krem’s outfit together. Slowly, he pulled the strip of leather free from the buckle, leaning down to kiss the soldier’s temple.

Krem swallowed, but nodded barely noticeable, leaning back against the Chief and closing his eyes with a sigh. Dorian pulled away to observe him critically, an eyebrow raised in question. Lips pursed, Krem nodded again, more forcefully this time. Bull’s huge hands had started on his lower belts, and soon gentle, long-fingered hands joined him in exploration. The Altus took charge of the belts on his arms and chest, deftly loosening the armour that kept Krem bound. Soon, all the buckles have been taken care of and both of his lovers paused.

Krem opened his eyes, catching Dorian’s gaze. He’d thought about this long and hard but- he trusted the Chief. And, in his own strange way, the Altus was more than trustworthy as well. They both knew of his issues with his body, and neither of them would make fun of him. Indeed, Krem felt vaguely amused by the pure determination they exhibited to make this one hell of a pleasurable memory for him.

Krem smiled and shrugged out of the plate and leather armour. He reached up and tucked off the cloth binding his breasts close to his chest. Taking a deep breath, he relaxed back against the Bull and beckoned Dorian close. Krem grabbed the mage by the hair and pulled him in for another kiss, while the Chief stroked his flank with one hand, the other stretching over to explore Dorian’s sun-kissed skin.

And Krem was almost surprised by the excitement spreading between his ribs, wanting what would come next.

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Fenris leant against the crates and watched the sailor kneel down next to the little elf girl, explaining in calm tones how to knot the rope securely so the sail would catch the wind just right. Lianni was literally vibrating with excitement, her small hands flailing through the air as she imitated the sail blowing away and ended with a questioning noise. His lips twitched upward as he pushed off the cargo to saunter over where the little girl was tying the rope into a knot like the woman had shown her, tongue poking out the side of her mouth.

“Like that?” she asked, presenting a messy knot to the sailor’s inspection. The woman laughed and placed a hand on Lianni’s head. Fenris rolled his tense shoulders and let his own hand drop from the hilt of the sword. Nonetheless, it was time to intervene.

“Lianni,” he called, approaching them. The little elf girl looked up and smiled brightly.

“Fenris, Fenris, look! I dids this!” She ran over to him, holding the piece of rope aloft. He gave her a small smile, ruffling her hair before picking her up.

“Well done, child. How about you go find your Daddy now?” He pressed a kiss on her cheek, and then put her back down as she started to wriggle her way free.

“OK!” she yelled, running off with enthusiasm. Fenris looked after her for a moment, chest feeling tight and warm. The sailor picked up the piece of knotted rope lying forgotten on the floor, before coming to stand beside him. He acknowledged her with a dip of his head, but didn’t turn to face her.

“If you don’t mind me asking- are you related?”

“…it’s complicated.”

The woman gave him an unreadable look but shrugged noncommittally. Shaking his head, he followed more slowly after the hyperactive child to make sure she actually found Anders and didn’t get distracted again. They were mostly safe aboard the ship, but there was no sense in letting his guard down – especially when he had to look after an apostate and a little elven girl too trusting for their own good.

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“So, this is awkward,” Alistair said afterwards, clearing his throat and tugging the blanket a little higher. In contrast, Morrigan stretched languidly, arching her back sinuously. Alistair blushed, averting his eyes.

“‘Tis only as awkard as you make it, is it not?” she replied, eyeing him with a grin. “My, how pretty the virgin blushes.”

“I’m not- That is- I didn’t-” Alistair stuttered, dragging his hands over his face and willing the heat in his cheeks away.

“Eloquent, as always,” Morrigan commented with a little laugh, turning onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow. She surveyed Alistair haughtily, one brow arched. “‘Twas not that awful, much to my surprise. And remember, after tomorrow, you won’t have to put up with me any longer.”

Alistair frowned, turning to face her. “You mean, if we survive the Archdemon.”

“There is that,” Morrigan conceded.

“And you’ll just… what, vanish into the night while everyone is busy celebrating?”

Morrigan hummed, letting herself fall back to stare at the ceiling. “Perhaps. What does it matter to you? It’s done, and you get to keep your lives.”

“Well, maybe I’m just worried about the mother of my child,” Alistair threw out there, trying to sound lighthearted. Morrigan turned to give him a disbelieving look. “What? It’s a valid concern. You being a Witch of the Wild and everything. The world’s dangerous.”

“You worry too much,” Morrigan said, shaking her head. She flinched back, surprised, when Alistair reached out to brush her hair behind her ear.

“Maybe. But just know that if you need help, I’m here for you okay? We might not get along well on most days-” Morrigan snorted. “-but at least allow me that.”

She stared at him and his earnest face for a long moment, before a smile tugged her lips upwards. He smiled back at her gently.

“I’ll consider it,” she promised vaguely, resting her hand on his.

“Well, that’s something,” Alistair sighed, before grinning boyishly up at her. “At least I can say I achieved something in my life, even if I die tomorrow.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” Morrigan asked teasingly. Alistair’s grin softened.

“Made you smile at me.”