Chapters: 2/3
Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Lucanis Dellamorte/Emmrich Volkarin, Spite/Emmrich Volkarin
Characters: Emmrich Volkarin, Lucanis Dellamorte, Spite (Dragon Age)
Additional Tags: Unresolved Sexual Tension, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Non-Consensual Touching
Summary:
Emmrich and the other Lighthouse mages devise a make-shift plan so Lucanis can get some sleep. Lucanis is grateful, Spite is jealous, and Emmrich just canât help himself.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Cullen/Carver Hawke
Characters: Carver Hawke, Cullen Rutherford
Additional Tags: Gore, Trauma, Hurt/Attempted Comfort
Summary:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age, Dragon Age - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Blackwall/Dorian Pavus, Blackwall/Male Inquisitor, Blackwall/Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus
Characters: Male Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan, Dorian Pavus, Blackwall | Thom Rainier
Additional Tags: Unresolved Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Rivals to Lovers, Threesome - M/M/M, Polyamory, Why Have Love Triangles When You Can Have Poly, Mutual Pining
Summary:Â All of Skyhold can see the way Blackwall looks at the Inquisitor, even if the Inquisitor himself can't. Dorian comes to realise there are better ways to handle such a situation than petty jealousy.
Excerpt:
The bottle the Inquisitor had been cradling hit the carpet with a dull thud; it didnât smash, instead rolling harmlessly under the nearby sofa, but it was enough to break the kiss and with it the atmosphere. It felt as though someone had opened a window and all the air came rushing back into the room, pulling them all back into the here and now. Dorian approached the couple, entwined as they still were; he slipped behind Enansal and fished the bottle from under the sofa, sitting it on the small table beside it instead. He then turned and reached for Blackwallâs broad hand where it was still curled in the fabric of the Inquisitorâs uniform, using it to pull himself closer and trap the smaller man between them. The elf gave a little burr of pleasure as Dorian dipped down to lick a wet strip along his ear, his eyes locked onto Blackwall the entire time.
EDIT: oh my god, look what has been rotting in my drafts for literal months. anon, i am so sorry if you are still here, iâm a moron.
44.
âI got the mirror so you could see yourself while Iâm fucking you.â
Andersâ fingers froze on the cool, cracked surface of the looking-glass. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as he suppressed a shiver at Fenrisâ tone. He glanced over his shoulder at the figure in the doorway, his already clenched gut tightening a little further.
âYou get too far into your own head sometimes. I want you here, I want you present. I want you to know what youâre doing, who youâre doing it with,â Fenris went on as he approached. For someone who spent most of his time trying to shrink himself down, trying to be invisible, his presence could fill the room when he let it. Anders swallowed thickly as Fenris circled him like a shark in bloodied water, coming to a stop behind him, âAnd what you are. What are you, mage?â
âA mage, apparently,â Anders said without thinking, because sometimes a smart mouth just couldnât be beaten out of some people. Fenris grabbed him by the ponytail and twisted hard, making Anders gasp and cringe towards him, âAâ a mage slut! A stupid mage slut.â
Fenris grunted and loosened his grip, seemingly satisfied by the answer. Anders could see his eye-shine in the mirrorâs reflection, and though the candlelight cast heavy shadows on both of them, he could tell he was smirking. Fenris pressed up against his back, slipped his strong slender arms around him to part his robe.
âYou let someone who hates you touch you like a lover, because you are that desperate. Because no-one else will,â he said, his gravelled voice lowered to a growl in Andersâ ear. He lifted the hem of Andersâ threadbare undertunic to palm at his growing arousal with little care and less gentleness; Anders couldnât help the noise that escaped him, âPathetic.â
âPathetic,â Anders echoed because he didnât feel like being snatched bald by the elf. What he really wanted to do was to ask if this made him pathetic, then what did it make the man who touched people he hated like lovers. He swallowed that thought down because really, it was too much effort to snark when sweat was beading at his temples and a hard cock was rubbing against his ass.Â
That wasnât what this dance was about anyway. Anders could easily find a fuck who probably despised him a little less; looking the way he did, he was sure Fenris could too. The difference was that for all they tore lumps out of each other, there was no-one in Kirkwall he could trust with his life like Fenris and the rest of their crew.
No-one that wanted to fuck him silly several times a week, anyway.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character, OFC/OFC
Characters: Original Characters
Additional Tags: Red Templars, Established Relationship, Angst, Transformation, Corruption, Body Horror, Memory Loss
Summary:
Behemoth, they called her. Towering, terrifying. Where was Jess, under all that red? A twist of metal helm to mark where her head had been, two flat eyes that glinted in the low light. She was still there, Ruby knew it. She responded to her name, or at least to Rubyâs voice. Not any voice, just hers. Only hers.
ay yo so i wrote some sad lesbian templars if thatâs anyoneâs thing.
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Some people took to court life like a duck to water, gliding through the pomp and the ceremony without so much as a second thought, coming out the other side smelling like roses and gold. Some people even enjoyed all the airs and graces, the gossiping and the falseness. The power-play, the rumor mill â it was intoxicating. Bethany shifted from one foot to the other, grimacing as her shoes pinched her toes and her dress-robes were tight enough to cut her off mid-breath: she was definitely not one of those people. Her brother, however-- he was on the far side of the ballroom pressing the hand of some dusty matron to his lips with a winning smile. She could hear her piercing explosion of fey laughter even over the music and struggled very hard to not pull a face.
Instead, Bethany swirled the last mouthful of wine around her glass before swallowing it; this was his hunting ground, the Champion of Kirkwall. He was all but made for court life â certainly more than she was, at least. Her shoes didnât fit, her robes didnât fit, she didnât fit. No-one wanted to talk to her, the mage sister of some jumped-up thug, on leave from the Circle for her good behaviour (nevermind the half-dozen Templars than stood sentinel around the room), beyond a cursory greeting - the jumped up thug himself at least had some interesting stories to tell. If anyone did want to speak to her, there was invariably only one topic of conversation, and there were only so many times she could tell semi-scandalised nobles about the time Garrett wet himself at the Chantry in Lothering because he was too embarrassed to leave during Chant. The band struck up a jaunty tune and she sighed as much as her robes would let her.
"May I have the honor of this dance, my lady?"
Bethany half-turned with a frown that melted seamlessly into a laugh, âIsabela!â
âWho? âTis no-one but I, the infamous and devastatingly handsome Captain Revaud of the Felicisima Armada,â the Rivaini said in an exaggerated purr as she dipped into a deep bow. Bethany had to stop herself from giggling - she certainly looked like a proper captain: her hair was pulled up and under a charming tricorn which was tipped low to hide her face, and instead of her dress she wore a smart tailcoat of navy blue with bright brass buttons and white leggings. She made a handsome sight.
"Oh Captain, my mistake. It would be my pleasure," Bethany simpered, knowing the part she had to play. She extended her hand which Isabela grabbed and in a fit of passion, kissed her hotly on her knuckles, then again on her palm, her wrist. She smiled and Bethany could feel her pulse flutter under those lips.
"Oh no my lady, the pleasure will be all mine...â
Anders was sitting on the bed with his bony back pressed against the cracked wall where a headboard should have been. He was lost in thought as he was more often than not in recent weeks, worrying a ragged thumbnail between his teeth, his knees held to his bare chest. When he looked up his eyes were bruised by a lack of sleep, a lack of food, a lack of peace.
"I'm not of a mood for your jokes, Hawke," he muttered.
"I'm not joking," Hawke said. As if I joke any more. It had been a long time since either of them had laughed. He missed the little creases at the corners of Anders' eyes when he smiled, "Marry me."
Anders dropped his gaze with a humourless snort, "Do you think me a maid? Would you have me wear a frock on the Chantry steps?"
"I think you a man. I think you my man, my lover, my everything," Hawke knelt on the edge of the narrow bed. Under his hands, the mage's legs reluctantly parted to let him settle between them, "Who needs the Chantry if we're joined in the eyes of the Maker, just you and me."
"You don't believe in the Maker."
"I still believe in you."
Something like hurt or anger passed across his face and Hawke chased it with soft feathered kisses. Anders resisted him with half-formed objections, his arms braced in front of him, his face turned pointedly away, but Hawke would not be spurned.
"Marry me, Anders," he whispered, threading his hilt-calloused fingers through long blonde hair as he pressed their foreheads together. He ghosted an open mouthed kiss along his jaw to the corner of his tightly-drawn lips, stubble rasping on stubble, cheek to cheek. There were tears there, he could taste their salted tang but he couldn't tell from whom they fell, "I'll buy you a ring when we get to Llomeryn."
"Don't," Anders protested weakly. His voice cracked and his hands shook as he grasped Hawke by the shoulders, "Don't say that, please."
Hawke held him close and held him tight, one hand on the back of his neck, "I'll buy you a ring, and a comb of gold and pearls to match it because your hair will be longer then. We'll live on the waterfront, and we'll never want for coin or a bed or something in our belly ever again. We'll eat bread and honey and we will be safe. Safe."
"You cruel man," the whispered response lost against Hawke's shoulder, "You sweet stupid fool."
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: The Last Court
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Marquis of Serault/The Wayward Bard
Characters: Marquis of Serault, The Wayward Bard
Additional Tags: UST, First Time, Mild Blood/Injury Mention
Summary:
The Wayward Bard takes a knife in the back to protect the Marquis. The Marquis wants to know why.
âWhy did you do it?â âhe rolled the bandage across his neck, under his arm, up over his shoulderââWhy didnât you tell me, instead of this nonsense?â
The Bard was silent for a moment. He seemed to be watching the fire, his head cocked to the side like he was thinking. He gave a one shouldered shrug as the Marquis tied off his bandages, âWell, to gain my Lordâs attention.â
The Marquisâ heart gave a little jump. He let his hands drop to his lap, felt the slow burn start in his cheeks. The Bard had dimples on the small of his back, just above the waistband of his britches. He wanted to put the pad of his thumbs on them, to see how well they fit, âYouâve had my attention since the day I met you. You made sure of it. Donât play the fool.â
Rating: T+
Words: 757
Summary: While Hawke is in the Deep Roads, a heatwave hits Kirkwall.
Kirkwall was sweltering. A slow, sluggish heat had settled over the city, the sort of heat that leeched life from your bones and brought whole districts to a simmering, half-smothered stop. Â It was a chore to move or even eat, and sleep was almost impossible. It had been like that for days and there was no promise of respite any time soon, neither a single breath of wind from the sea nor a drop of rain from the mountains. It was suffocating.
Isabela was lying in her bed at the Hanged Man, one arm thrown across her face and the threadbare sheets curled about her knees. At a glance she looked to be sleeping but when careful fingers traced a line over the sweep of her hip and came to rest upon her thigh, she shifted her arm an inch and cracked one eye to look at Bethany.
âCanât sleep, sweetness?â
Bethany shook her head, but then again sleep was scarce in Kirkwall at that moment. Isabela closed her eye again and hummed in sympathy, for there wasnât much she could do about that. The hand didnât rest upon her thigh for long however, as it slowly moved up the sweep of her flank and around to cup her breast. That was a little harder to ignore.
âLooking for something, are we?â
âI think found it,â Bethany said. A thumb brushed across her nipple and she felt goosebumps appear despite the heat. She gave in and rolled towards her, pushing back a lock of hair from her face; behind it, Bethanyâs smile seemed as sweet and earnest as ever. Isabela knew better.
âNo, thereâs something else,â she said softly, âI can tell. What is it?â
There was a beat of silence, âYouâre leaving soon.â
âI might grab a drink from downstairs later but Iâm notââ
âIâm being serious, Isabela,â again another pause, like she was so used to being interrupted, âYouâre going to take me with you when you do.â
âYou sound like your brother when you speak like that,â Isabela grumbled, ignoring Bethanyâs pointed look, âAlright, say I do leave; what do I want from a mage? Youâre bad luck on ships, and Iâve learnt that the hard way. Youâre one bad dream away from sinking the whole thing.â
âIâm not. I can summon wind when we get becalmed, I can heal. I know about smuggling. I can sink other ships,â Bethany said. She let her hand trail to Isabelaâs shoulder where she pushed her onto her back, leaning over her, âAnd I know exactly what you want from me.â
âI liked you better when you were all red cheeked and innocent,â â a lie, of course. She liked flowers just fine, but the serpent under it was something special, âShouldnât you be heading home soon? I donât want to be the one to explain to your mother why youâre coming back smelling like a whorehouse in the middle of the afternoon.â
Bethany shrugged and settled her head on Isabelaâs chest; one arm loosely draped across her waist, fingers tracing lines idly back and forth. She can never keep her hands to herself, âShe thinks Iâm at work.â
âWork?â
âShe doesnât know about the jobs we do. I made Aveline promise not to tell, for my motherâs sake,â she said, âI told her I found a position in a hat shop that treats me well and pays me fairly. I give her the coin she thinks I make and save the rest, in caseâwell, just in case.â
âIn case he doesnât come home,â Isabela finished. She pretended the idea of it didnât make her stomach twist â they had been gone for some long, longer than they said they would be, and words on the wind said Bartrand was surface-side again but no-one could reach him - Â and instead she reached up to tangle her fingers in Bethanyâs hair, âHe would kill me, you know.â
Bethany leaned into her hand like a cat, eyes half-lidded and heavy, âBut you would take him with you if he asked.â
There was no accusation in her voice, nothing petty or mean. She said it like it was a fact and this too made Isabela feel off balance. She tucked a finger beneath Bethanyâs chin and tilted it up so she could meet her eye.
âIâm not going anywhere,â she said, craning her neck to kiss her lightly, once on the nose, her cheek, her lips that parted so easily in a sigh, âNot with him, and not without you.â
Rating: Explicit
Words: 818
Summary: Anders has put on a little weight since moving to Hightown; Hawke loves it.
Anders had put on weight since he had moved in. It had only been months, but Hawke could see it in the new gentleness of his once sharp face, in his hidden shoulder blades and blunted elbows, the soft sweet swell of his stomach. Hawke watched him from the bed as he sat at the writing desk in just his breeches, the laces loosened so they wouldnât pinch his belly when he slouched. His hair was thicker, shinier; his eyes clear and unbruised. He was glowing. He was beautiful.
âLove, come to bed.â
Anders glanced up from his work. Hawke wore his hunger openly, and it was all he needed to see. He came to him with ink-stained fingers and a coy smile, let Hawke pull him onto the bed by his hips and roll him onto his back. Hawke kissed his lips, kissed his chest and his collarbones, let his hands squeeze and pinch and stroke. His breeches were stripped away and he squirmed as strong fingers kneaded his backside.
âWhatâs gotten into you lately? Youâre insatiable,â Anders said, but it wasnât a complaint. He was smiling as he threaded his fingers through Hawkeâs hair, scratching his scalp lightly. Hawke nuzzled against his stomach, kissing lazy circles around his bellybutton. He beamed up at Anders, eyes hazy and looking so smitten that the mage couldnât help but laugh.
âI love you,â Hawke mumbled as he nosed a line down Andersâ hip. They didnât stick out like they used to, there were no edges and valleys anymore, âAnd you love me, and now that we live togetherâah, the more of you I get, the more of you I want.â
Hawkeâs palmed Andersâ hardening cock, pulling a low lazy moan from behind his smile. The fingers in his hair tightened minutely and he spread his legs a little further, inviting and wanting. Hawke loved how easily he settled between them, how perfectly he seemed to fit. He stroked him leisurely, a slow and comfortable pace that made Andersâ hips lift and the colour rise in his cheeks. When he pressed forward and took him in his mouth, the breathy gasp he made had Hawke wishing he could live between his thighs forever.
With one hand he firmly gripped the base of Andersâ cock, twisting his wrist on every downward stroke of his bobbing head; his other hand had crept up to paw at his small belly again. He marveled at how it had went from practically concave to something squeezable so quickly, but he was glad. Since moving to Hightown, he looked so much healthier and happier. He could eat and sleep and work at his leisure, a luxury ill afforded in Darktown, and if that luxury brought about a certain fullness of figure â well, Hawke certainly couldnât complain. He loved Anders at any size, but heâd always been a firm believer that you could never have too much of a good thing.He savoured every inch of him, and every inch that pressed itself down his throat as far as he could take it without choking. Anders gasped as he spilled himself in Hawkeâs mouth and over his teasing fingers; Hawke swallowed it gladly and wiped his hand on the bedsheets.
He mouthed his way back up his stomach and chest, and wrapped his arms tightly around him, rolling onto his back so Anders was on top of him. Anders laughed and sat up, his hands splayed on Hawkeâs broad chest to balance his he straddled him. His hair had come loose from its tie and fell sweetly about his face; Hawke reached up and tucked some of it behind one ear. The mage caught his hand and pressed his lips to the palm, holding it to his cheek. He studied his face for a moment his long fingers caressing his wrist. He looked thoughtful, and Hawke wanted to kiss the little creases at the corners of his eyes.
âThinking about something nice?â he asked, rolling his hips a little for emphasis. He was still hard and Andersâ solid weight pressing down on his lap made it difficult to think, especially when he wiggled his backside in response.
âI just realisedââAnders began, stopping momentarily when Hawkeâs rough hands crept up his sides to grope his chest. Clever fingers lightly pinched his nipples, making him shudder and grin, âI donât think Iâve ever been this happy.â
Hawkeâs hands froze for a moment, the slightest hesitation that didnât go unnoticed by Anders. His lewd smirk took on a bashful edge; there was a jolt in his stomach like he had missed the last step on a flight of stairs, and he could feel the tips of his ears turning red. He pulled Anders down to kiss him so sweetly it might have been chaste if he couldnât still taste himself on his lips, âWell, I must have been good.â
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Rating: Gen
Words: 505
Summary: The Inquisitor makes Dorian a thoughtful gift. Dorian isnât amused - Bull definitely is.
He hadn't realized how cold it was going to be until he stepped out the door.
Then again, he never really did and it was something he desperately wished he didnât have to get used to. Every time he went outside and wasnât greeted by the kiss of a hot Minrathos sun was almost a surprise - the sort of surprise a disgruntled mabari might leave in his masterâs shoes, to borrow some suitably Ferelden imagery. A snowflake drifted serenely past the tip of his nose; he scowled at it.
"Might help if you wrapped up for a change," came a voice behind him, but before he could shoot back a smart reply he was cut off by a heap of cloth dumped on his head. Dorian scrambled to escape from the surprise swaddling, and held up the offending article to inspect it. It was a great flappy circle of carefully knitted wool in shades of orange and brown that reminded him of a puddle outside a tavern after hours. It was trimmed with fur and he wasnât sure with the lump in the middle was a hood or an abandoned attempt at a sleeve.Â
"Thatâs rich, coming from you. The only clothes Iâve ever seen you wear are your ridiculous circus trousers and half a leather bra,â Dorian sniffed in distaste.
"Iâm not the one turning blue at the tips. Iâm also not the one whoâs going to bitch all the way from here to coast and back about it," Bull said. He paused and smirked, "Besides, the boss gave it to me. Said Iâve to look after you."
"The boss saidâ the Inquisitor said no such thing, you great lump.â
There was an awkward cough at Dorianâs other elbow where the Inquisitor had appeared, wearing a similar knitted nightmare in matching shades of orange and brown. He had the good grace to look adequately sheepish when Dorian gave him a withering glare, âWell, not just you.â
"Arenât you going to put on your poncho, Dorian?" Bull asked, amusement dripping from every word. He laid a plate-sized hand on the Inquisitorâs shoulder, "He spent hours knitting it just for you. You donât want to seem ungrateful, do you?"
Dorian looked from the Inquisitorâs hopeful little face to the fur-trimmed abomination and back again. His resistance crumbled entirely at the earnest flutter of lashes, âKaffas, away with that face! Look, Iâm putting it on right now. Andraste preserve me, it smells like wet dog. How is that possible? We donât even have dogs in Skyhold.â
He crossed his arms sulkily but it didnât quite have the same effect when hidden by a swath of lumpy cloth.Â
"Ah. Hoods up, itâs going to snow," Bull said. He reached down to gently pull up the Inquisitorâs hood, careful not to catch his ears. He ignored Dorianâs death-stare as he did the same to him. He stepped back and beamed at them, "Aww, you match. Thatâs adorable. Youâre both adorable. Come on, I have to show Blackwall."
Rating: Explicit
Words: 1797
Summary: Fenris is his General on the field; but behind closed doors, heâs so much more.
Also available on AO3
It was dark and warm in the room; the curtains were drawn against the last light of a late summer evening, the only illumination coming from copper braziers in the corners. They burned low and fragrant â sandalwood, Sebastian assumed; it was a favourite of Fenrisâ. His bare feet made no sound on the carpeted floor, but by the twitch of his companionâs ears as he approached he knew he had been detected. He leaned against the back of the chaise-lounge where Fenris was elegantly sprawled with a book in his hand and a bowl of grapes in his lap, and kissed the crown of his head.
âWhat are you reading?â Sebastian asked, nuzzling into soft white hair. It was still slightly damp, fresh from a bath, âSomething nice?â
âThe History of the Elves of Arlathan,â Fenris said, checking the cover. He closed it and tossed it on the floor where it joined a heap of others, a sight that gave Sebastian some small glow of pride â he considered it a mark of progress, of how far Fenris had come, âSurprisingly boring considering itâs almost pure speculation.â
âThatâs unfortunate. Perhaps...this will be more interesting?â Sebastian said as he pulled a delicate chain of silverite out of his pocket. It was as fine as silk and imbued with charms of strength and protection, and when he draped it around Fenrisâs neck it caught the light and glittered like the ocean. The elf touched it thoughtfully and gave a hum of approval.
âA special occasion?â
âYou deserve to be spoiled,â Sebastian said, half teasing. He leaned forward and plucked a grape from the bowl, letting his lips brush one of Fenrisâ sensitive ears as he did, âShowered in gifts, wrapped in finery, fed fruit from the vineâŚâ
Fenris tilted his head back, opened his mouth and let Sebastian press the grape to his tongue. He followed it with a kiss that was a little shy of chaste and laughed, low and airy. Sebastian released him, walked around the chaise-lounge and carefully knelt among the scattered books. The prince placed a hand on one of the elfâs bare foot and paused. Fenrisâ brows twitched in amusement but he nodded, allowing Sebastian to continue.
âThe Maker is good, and I am a man blessed many times of over,â Sebastian mused. He cradled Fenrisâ foot in his lap as he began to gently massage it, âYou remind me of that every day, and I would thank you for it in any way I can.â
Fenris watched with mild interest as strong archerâs fingers kneaded and stroked, always mindful of the lyrium lines. He flexed his toes against the laces of Sebastianâs breeches, and when blue eyes flickered up to meet his gaze, he smirked and ate another grape. Fenris was only wearing a short white robe of material so soft and fine that it was almost completely sheer, and it took real concentration for Sebastian to hold eye contact and not stare at where it was centimeters away from sliding off his shoulders, or how he could see the tattoos on his thighs glinting invitingly.
âI read the progress reports you sent me. Our army is the envy of nations, love, Starkhaven has never been stronger than with you as my general. We could march--â
âNo. I donât want to talk business in the bedroom, Iâm not of a mood for it,â Fenris said, raising his leg to rest it playfully on Sebastianâs shoulder. Â From where he was kneeling, the prince could see the outline of the elfâs cock, nestled against his hip and not at all hidden by his robe. He swallowed thickly.
âOf course. Out there youâre my General; in here, youâre my companion--â he said, moving the leg and taking the foot in hand again. He pressed a kiss to its fine arch, ââmy friend,â -- traced a line to his ankle, ââmy confidant,â âpushed forward to chase kisses along his calf, ââmy lover,â and finally settled with his mouth on his inner thigh, teasing with just a hint of teeth, ââmy equal.â
Fenrisâ eyes were dark and hooded; he carefully set aside the bowl of grapes and raised his hands to the silverite chain around his neck, then lightly dragged them down his chest to the silk sash that held his robe in place. He undid it slowly, agonisingly slowly, and parted the sheer fabric to reveal his arousal to Sebastian who sighed with want at the sight of it. However, when he leaned forward to eagerly take the length into his mouth he was stopped by strong fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him back slightly. He looked up, pleading for permission; Fenris smirked, giving it. He loosened the grip of Sebastianâs hair, guiding him down until wet tongue touched the tip of his cock and then let go.
Sebastian lavished every inch of him with attention, as thorough in sucking cock as he was with anything in his life. He kept his hands on Fenrisâ thighs, holding them apart as he nuzzled down the side of the length, lapping wetly. He licked his way back up again to swirl his tongue almost teasingly around the head, before slowly and carefully taking as much of it into his mouth as he could. He pushed down, down until Fenris hit the back of his throat and he breathed through the urge to gag and cough, focusing only on firm flesh and velvet skin. It was almost intoxicating, it was so easy to simply close his eyes and let Fenrisâ pleasure be the only thing in the world to think about; no armies, no wars, no politics, just the roll of his tongue and the faint tang of salt.
There were hands on his head again, forcing him to look up; he couldnât help the strangled moan that escaped him when he saw the hazy expression on Fenrisâ face. His neck and cheeks were flushed, his chest fluttered with each heavy breath he took, his parted lips were wet where he hid licked or maybe bitten them. Sebastian wanted to kiss them until they were red and swollen, wanted to fuck him or be fucked by him, wanted everything at once because Maker he was beautiful andâ
âSlow down, Sebastian,â Fenris said softly, in that deep gravelly voice that went straight to his cock. He forced himself to slow down, to let the hands in his hair â not pulling, just holding â control the pace. He was rocked in deep, languid strokes that pushed as far down his throat as possible until his nose was crushed against the elfâs hard stomach and gradually pulled back again. Sometimes Fenris would hold him there, unable to breathe until he could feel his own pulse beating against the inside of his skull and tears pricked at his eyes, but he always knew when to let him go before it ever got too much. As a reward for his trust and service, a dexterous foot squirmed its way between Sebastianâs legs like it had earlier, pressing firmly against his neglected erection; he ground against it desperately, nearly choking as the groan that escaped him interrupted his pattern of breathing.
âUndo your laces, pull them down.â
Sebastian had already done it by the time Fenris had even finished giving the command, taking himself in hand, almost shaking with relief. Fenris chuckled and pushed his hand away with his foot; he rubbed his sole against his leaking cock, carefully, slowly, and Sebastian had to bite his tongue to stop himself from moaning out loud. It should have been impossible for someone who never wore shoes to have skin so soft, but so little about Fenris made perfect sense and it was just another thing to love about him. Â He let his lover toy with him with as much patience as he could muster, though it was certainly no chore to lean back and savour the short languid strokes. He bit his lip to stop the embarrassing whimpers that threatened to spill from his throat, and screwed his eyes shut.
âYouâre close,â Fenris said, and it wasnât a question. Sebastian exhaled sharply and nodded, his hips twitching after a particularly firm grind of his foot, âFinish yourself, then finish me. Take your time.â
Sebastian gave an unexpected huff of laughter at Fenrisâ casual, nearly flippant tone but didnât hesitate to obey him. He stroked himself quickly, firmly, holding Fenrisâ elegant foot against himself to use almost as he wanted; for anyone else it might have been degrading but for him it was nothing but pleasure - bright, hot and reverent. With a few pulls, he came over his clenched fingers, careful to not spill a drop on his loverâs clean bronze skin. It took him a few moments to gather his wits again as he breathed through the sensation of suddenly unravelling, his eyes closed and his mouth slack and shuddering.
When Sebastian blinked back into focus, Fenris was waiting. Fingers twitched, beckoning him forward, and Sebastian didnât hesitate to go to him. His hands slid up strong, lean thighs again but Fenrisâ stayed where they were, not guiding him this time; Sebastian almost missed it, but didnât let that feeling show as he swallowed him to the root with relative ease. With his edge of desperation tempered it was easier for him to control himself, coaxing every low bitten-off noise of pleasure out of his lover that he could. Fenris rocked his hips with every low rumbling moan, shameless and open as Sebastian stopped trying to match his rhythm and simply let him fuck his mouth. In a few thrusts, he grabbed Sebastian â not by the hair, but by the hand resting against his thigh â and came in waves down his throat.
Sebastianâs soft cock gave a half-hearted throb of interest as he swallowed everything; he almost wished he had met Fenris in his wild youth so a night spent rutting was a promise, not a wistful memory. Still, he knew better than to want that for real; had he met Fenris then, he wouldnât have appreciated him for what he was. He would have let him slip right through his fingers for little more than a memorable evening. Above him, Fenris made a lazy come-hither motion with his hands, encouraging Sebastian to crawl up onto the chaise-lounge with him. The furniture certainly wasnât made for two, but the slightly discomfort was worth it to take advantage of Fenris in a rare pliant mood. After a few ungainly moments of readjusting their positions, he finally settled with his head resting on his chest, fingers carding through his hair in a steady rhythm, and thanked the Maker for every heartbeat he counted.
Fenris was stretched out on the bed, languishing on his hands and knees amid heaps of cushions and blankets. His head was cocked to the side, drawing the eye down the graceful sweep of his neck and bare shoulder where a heavy leash and collar were. His back was arched like he was presenting himself, his eyes lidded and his small smile somewhere between predatory and satiated. Hawke wet his lips; he was screaming at himself to stop staring but he couldnât look away from the fluffy tail that curled around a strong slim thigh. Dogs are a Fereldenâs best friend, the script beneath the picture declared cheerfully.
âWhat did you say these were called again?â
âKirkwall Bibles,â Isabela said as she thumbed through another small pamphlet of smut. A dozen or so were scattered across the table, âAll the rage from Cumberland to Antiva since you beat the Arishok.â
Hawke hummed in acknowledgement, too busy studying the print to really pay attention (âjust appreciating the art!â is what he would have told anyone but Isabela). Blatant obscenity â and some occasionally generous creativity â aside, the resemblance in most of them was uncanny. He glanced up to make sure he wasnât being watched as he slid the picture towards his pocket, but froze. He frowned.
Another night, another argument. No dinner together, no resolution; no tears either this time. Anders leaned back in his chair and traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes. His head hurt again, a distant ache he could almost ignore like a long healed broken bone or thunder on the horizon. He didnât want to ignore it, he wanted to grab it and grow and hold onto it, to fan it into something hot and sharp and bigger than he was â anything to distract from the emptiness in his chest. The absence had a weight of its own; it left a space in him he couldnât remember being filled by anything else.
He stood up slowly, silently. He hovered there in the center of the room like he didnât know what he was doing. For a moment he thought he might float away entirely. He smoothed his feathers and tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hated himself for not being able to leave like this when that feeling was bright and new and dangerous, before he had dragged him down with the city. When at least one of them had still been young and whole.
Cassandra had spent much of her life secretly dreaming of being swept off her feet in a whirlwind romance. She longed for strong arms to wrap themselves around her waist, to be drawn passionately against a broad and heaving chest; images of searing kisses and heartfelt confessions filled her mind for days after she finished whatever new novel sheâd pulled them from. Never once - until she brushed an errant strand of hair from Josephineâs face, fingertips grazing against her cheek, and watched pretty lips part in surprise and desire - did it occur to her that she might be the one to do the sweeping.
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Sera lowered her bow and turned around with an incredulous look, âIâd say that target begs otherwise.â
âI didnât say you were doing badly,â said Leliana placatingly, âJust that youâre not doing it properly. Seven out of ten on target is good, ten out of ten is better â no?â
âAnd Iâm about to get a lesson, am I?â
The quirk of Lelianaâs lips was an answer in itself, and there was a long moment before Sera jutted her chin and shrugged like it was nothing. She returned to her relaxed stance, raising her bow again easily but she kept an eye on the spymaster, and to her credit she didnât flinch when a warm hand found itself on the small of her back.
âDonât hunch over so much. Chest out and shoulders back,â another touch, this time at her elbow, âLift your arms a little â yes, like that, good. How are you going to shoot if you stand like wet bread?â
âWatch who youâre calling wet bread,â Sera muttered but there was no malcontent in her voice, and Lelianaâs laugh was breath on the back of her neck as she lightly pressed against her. With her height advantage, she easily slid her arms around to place her hands on top of Seraâs, re-adjusting her grip.
âTreat your bow as you would a lover,â she said, drawing her hand back steadily, taking the bowstring and Seraâs hand with it, âWhen you draw, donât be afraid to push her as far as she can go. Feel the tension; bring her all the way to the brink of breaking point before you release.â
Sera tried to turn to look at Leliana but the body pressed against hers was steadfast. She swallowed thickly, âAnd what if I do break her, then Iâm down a bow in the middle of a fight.â
âYou practice. You get to know your bow intimately, to the very last millimeter. Speed is fine and well, but what is speed without power and accuracy?â Leliana carefully let the bow go slack in their shared grip, but her grasp lingered a little longer than necessary, âI shall let you return to your target, Sera. Just remember: treat her as you would a lover.â
And with a half-smile and a half-curtsy, she was gone, leaving a very confused and pink-faced elf in her wake.
âI think Iâm going to need more lessons,â she mumbled, notching another arrow.
There was a particular window on the route between Josephineâs office and Lelianaâs rookery â glassless, an unremarkable arrow-nock of a portal barely more than a foot wide, but from just the right angle, it did give a decent view of a certain corner of the courtyard. Josephine passed that window several times a day â which, if anyone was paying attention, was a little odd considering she used messengers for nearly everyone else and the route by the window was by far neither the quickest or most direct path to take to Leliana. She was quite sure no-one had noticed so far, since she had gotten really quite good at suddenly looking very busy and absorbed in whatever she had on her scribeâs board any time she passed someone on the way.
Quick glance around her let Josephine know she was alone in the narrow corridor and she slowed a little, tilting her head to the side as she listened intently. A sudden flush of warmth swept over her as she heard what she was hoping for  - the sound of metal on metal, a womanâs accented voice raised among the others â and she rushed to the window, abandoning all subtlety as she rocked onto her tip-toes to half lean out of it.
Cassandra was there in the sparring ground, instructing a small group of recruits. She was wielding only a short sword and a look of determination; she had no armor on and her shapely arms were bare in the high mountain sun, glittering with sweat each time she swung and flexed. Josie was not above lifting one of her feet behind her so she could get a better view â in fact, she quite wished she had her opera glasses with her.
Even from a distance, Josie knew Cassandra looked as handsome as ever. The tousled hair, the chiseled cheekbones, the roguish scar, that commanding air! Oh, if there was ever a woman to stroll right out of a Randy Dowager approved novella, it was Cassandra Pentaghast. The cultured warrior, the reticent noble, champion of the Makerâand biceps, and triceps, and deltoids! Arms made for sweeping a girl off her feet, Josephine was quite sure, and rested her chin in her hands with a deep sigh as she pictured herself being that very girl.
âEnjoying the view?â a voice behind her nearly sent her poor clipboard frisbeeing out the window as she startled. Josephine turned to face Leliana with a reproachful glower.
âI was just coming to see you,â she said, smoothing down the front of her dress that definitely didnât need smoothing, âI thought I heard a commotion in the yard.â
âA commotion is one way to put it,â Leliana said, and her knowing smile heated Josieâs cheeks. She placed a gloved hand on her arm, leading her up the staircase, âDonât worry, Josie: your knight in shining armor will come some day.â