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The tent flap rustled as Morrigan disappeared inside, all long limbs and liquid grace, her cloak sliding from her shoulders like a peeled skin. Alistair hesitated, looking back just once with wide eyes, brows furrowed in that boyish tangle of guilt and duty. "I’ll make it quick," he’d said, voice a low hush, as if promising mercy instead of lust. You nodded. You even smiled.
He ducked into the darkness with her.
You sat down outside on a log beside the fire, armor half-shed, breath already shallow though nothing had happened yet. You told yourself it was the cold. That it was just a ritual. A necessary evil to cheat death. You were a Grey Warden. You’d faced ogres, revenants, even Loghain’s wrath but nothing had prepared you for the way your body betrayed you as the noises began.
At first, silence. The crackle of fire, the distant howl of wind, a Mabari's bark. But then—
"Ahhh... oh, Maker, that’s it..." Morrigan's voice rang out.
You stiffened, heart skipping, thighs tensing as your pulse roared to life. You told yourself it was fake. An act. She was just being theatrical, like always. But then came Alistair's voice. A rough, breathless grunt, not of duty, but of want.
"F-fuck... you feel—gods, Morrigan—"
That wasn’t clinical. That wasn’t a man lying back and thinking of Ferelden. That was your lover losing himself. Giving in.
You gripped your knees, nails digging into leather, but it didn’t stop the shiver down your spine.
Inside, the tent creaked softly with the rhythm of bodies in motion. Morrigan laughed low and wicked, like a cat that’d caught the mouse and then mounted it. "Mmm, poor Warden girl. Sitting out there all alone while her precious prince fills me with ancient seed."
*Slap* Wet and vicious, like flesh meeting flesh with nothing in between. It repeated, faster, louder—*slap slap slap slap*, echoing in obscene cadence, each one landing harder than the last.
"Hahhhn~! Maker, you’re rutting me like a wild animal now. Where’s that noble restraint you promised her, hmm? Didn’t take much to break you, Alistair."
His reply was a strangled moan, helpless and heavy. The kind of sound he'd never made with you, not once, not even when you’d taken him in your mouth and tasted his purity. That noise, throaty, broken, was possession. Submission.
You clenched your thighs tight, but it was no use. Your cunt was already aching, slick, your breath hitching with every slap and gasp. You hated this. You loved this. You imagined it too vividly: Morrigan on all fours, ass high, back arched, Alistair gripping her hips with calloused hands, eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed as he drove into her again and again and again.
"Ahh—yes—yes, fill me up," she cried, voice growing wilder, less human. "Let the Old Gods have you. Let them taste you through me."
The wet, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack became frenzied, joined by the muffled slap of balls, slick and heavy against skin. You could hear Alistair panting now, gasping brokenly with every thrust, his voice a desperate rasp: "I c-can’t—Morrigan, I’m gonna—"
"Do it," she growled. "Breed me, princeling. Give your Warden something to remember."
And then he grunted, a guttural, primal sound that split the silence, dragging your soul into your throat. There was no mistaking it. That was release. That was surrender. That was yours, now buried deep in her.
You sat there stunned, flushed, soaked, your breath catching on the ragged edge between shame and arousal. You'd chosen this. You’d told him to go. But you hadn’t expected to feel it. Every moan, every slap, every gasp of pleasure dragged across your nerves.
And still there was more. Morrigan wasn’t quieting. You could hear the wet churn of her cunt clenching around him as she rode through aftershocks, her voice thick with satisfaction. "Mm, you’ve a king’s cock after all, Alistair. Maybe I’ll keep you a little longer..."
He groaned again, hoarse and wrecked, and there it was: another series of thrusts, the squelch of overspent flesh still eager, the slick smack of thighs, his breath hitched and panting.
He was still hard. Still fucking her.
And your hand was halfway under your tunic before you realized it, fingers already sliding between soaked folds, trembling as you circled your clit with aching need. Every sound from inside drove you deeper. Your moans were silent, bitten down, as your body rocked ever so slightly in time with them. You couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to.
This wasn’t a ritual. This was a ruin and you were wet for it.
The tent's fabric was damp with sweat now, echoing with the stifled heat of a ritual gone carnal. You hadn't moved from your spot, legs trembling, cunt throbbing, fingers sticky with your own shame-soaked need. And inside…
They hadn’t stopped.
If anything, Morrigan had only just begun.
You could hear her voice again, clearer this time, crueler, as if the barrier between you was thinner now.
"Tired already, Kingling?" Her tone was breathless, mocking, thick with a dark honeyed drawl. "Was that all the fire you had? Or did you just never bother to fuck her like this?"
You heard Alistair gasp a low, broken sound, desperate and then the answering slap of hips meeting ass, wetter, sharper this time. He was still inside her. Still going.
"Ahh—fuck, Morrigan—I, I can't—" he moaned, voice husky and desperate, but there was no retreat in it. Only surrender. You could hear it in him. The way his grunts deepened, became less confused and more hungry.
"Yes you can," she snapped. "You will." Another slap, followed by a deep, lewd squelch as she ground her hips into him. "I can feel it in you. That little whimper you make every time you hit my womb."
You could hear her now panting and moaning like a beast in heat, her rhythm fast and frenzied, dragging his cock deeper with every breath. And she was loud, deliberately so, like a woman performing not for her partner but for her audience: you.
"Maker," she groaned, "your Warden never milked your cock like this, did she? All soft touches and blushing kisses? Hah—she’ll never fuck you like I will. She wouldn’t dare. But I—ahhhnn— I want it."
Her words were knives, slicing into you from behind the tent flap, and each one made you arch against your own hand, two fingers now sliding into your soaked heat while your other thumb circled your clit, wet and shameless. You couldn’t help it. Every moan from Morrigan made you burn. Every ragged thrust Alistair gave her was a betrayal you could taste and god help you, you wanted it harder.
"F-fuck—Morrigan, you're so—tight, I—" Alistair was whimpering now, whimpering, like she’d fucked the shame out of him and replaced it with raw, twitching need.
"That’s it," she purred. "Cum for me again. Give me more. The Old God stirs, but he’s not satisfied. Not yet. Keep breeding me, princeling. Keep rutting me like a whore in heat while your precious Warden listens like the pathetic little bitch she is."
Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave and ripped through you with no warning, just a gasp and a desperate moan that you clamped down with your teeth. Your fingers didn’t stop. You kept fucking yourself, kept rubbing that tender, soaked nub while your walls clenched around the emptiness he had denied you. You could almost feel him inside her. Could picture his cock plunging into that greedy cunt, her dark eyes watching you through the canvas as she laughed.
And still, it didn’t end.
"Knock me up, Alistair," she snarled now, her voice ragged with near-madness, hips slamming against his in a wet, savage rhythm. "I want your filthy noble seed leaking out of me when I walk past her. I want her to smell me and know what a real witch can take."
The tent shook with the force of their fucking now—smack-smack-smack—like a war drum, like betrayal. You heard Alistair cry out again, loud and ruined, his voice cracking like a boy breaking into manhood all over again as he poured himself into her.
And still she taunted you.
"Mmm, I think that did it. I can feel him twitching... emptying his soul into me. But one more won’t hurt, hmm? Maybe two. Wouldn’t want to risk failure. This child must be powerful. Are you listening out there, sweet Warden? This is what your sacrifice bought."
You were soaked. Slick and undone. And you couldn’t stop. Your hand moved faster, your body rocked with their rhythm, and the arousal wasn’t just desire anymore. It was something darker. Hotter. You loved how cruel she was. How weak he sounded. How you could still hear every single stroke of his cock inside her and feel it like it was your own body being used.
She was going to ride him all night and you were going to listen to every second.
"Tell me," she breathed between thrusts, her voice so loud now it seemed intentional. "Tell me I feel better than your sweet little Warden."
Alistair didn’t answer right away. You heard his breath ragged, shivering, like his soul was slipping out of him with every thrust. The slap of their bodies meeting was feral, wet, a rhythm that sounded
nothing like control and everything like addiction.
"Say it," Morrigan snarled. "You’re balls-deep in me, cock soaked in my cunt, stuffing me full with that precious, royal seed—say it. Or I stop."
You held your breath.
Then his voice came—hoarse, low, broken. "Y-you... gods... yes. You feel better."
You flinched.
"What was that?" she hissed, and you could hear her tightening around him, dragging a moan out of him like a leash. "Say it clearly. Say I’m better than her. That this cunt—" slap "this body—" slap "is better than hers."
His voice was a wreck, the syllables tumbling out of him with no resistance left, his hips still slapping against her like he was trying to dig his way through her into the Fade. "Y-you’re better. Morrigan—fuck—your cunt... it’s tighter. Hotter. You feel so fucking good I can’t—can’t think."
You bit your lip so hard you tasted blood. That wasn’t just him submitting. That was truth. Or it sounded like truth. And the worst part? It made your cunt throb.
"Mmm, that’s more like it," Morrigan cooed. "I knew you had it in you. All that noble restraint? Just a little pressure, and you give me everything. Gods, you're throbbing. You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Alistair gasped, "Yes. Yes. I can't stop."
"You don't want to stop," she corrected, dragging her nails down his back hard enough that you heard the hiss through the canvas. "You’re mine tonight. Not hers. Not anymore."
And he didn’t argue. No protest. No guilt. Just the obscene smack-smack-smack of skin against skin, faster now, rougher, like he was trying to chase every last drop of sanity out of his cock and into her womb.
"She’s out there, you know," Morrigan continued, taunting, cruel. "Touching herself to the sound of you rutting me like a beast. And she’ll never forget what she hears. Every time you hold her, kiss her, fuck her soft—she’ll remember this. Remember how you begged to stay inside me."
"Please," Alistair moaned, and you couldn't tell if he was pleading for mercy or more.
"Please what?"
"Please don’t stop. I—fuck, I need to cum in you again."
Your eyes rolled back. You weren’t just wet, you were drenched, your fingers plunging into your heat with abandon now, lost to the humiliation and the twisted arousal in your belly.
Morrigan’s laugh echoed, vicious and victorious. "Yes, yes, give it to me again. Fill me. Flood me. Make me pregnant, Alistair. Not just with power but with your filthy desire. Your betrayal. Let her smell it on you when you crawl back into her bed."
His cry this time wasn’t even words, just a growl, animal, as the tent shook with the force of him pounding into her, louder and louder until it was a thunderclap of flesh and shame. You heard him cum again, long and raw, heard the splatter of it, the filthy squelch as she milked it from him.
"Mmm," Morrigan sighed afterward, breathless and smug. "You really do fuck better when you're not pretending to love someone, you know?"
And from Alistair?
"...I think I do."
That was when your orgasm hit you like a warhammer, ripped you open, left you sobbing silently, writhing against your own hand while the two of them were still inside, wrapped in sweat, semen, and the kind of sin no prayer could ever burn away.
He wasn't yours anymore. He was hers. And the worst part? You wanted to hear her break him again.
The moment your hand fell from your cunt, slick and trembling, your breath shallow like you’d run from Ostagar to Denerim, you knew something inside you had snapped.
You'd told yourself you were strong enough. That you were doing this for Ferelden. That it was just one night, one act, one fucking ancient ritual.
But hearing him grunt like an animal while he begged to cum in her again ,feeling your orgasm rip through you while he told Morrigan she was better, wasn’t sacrifice. It was humiliation.
You stood and stormed in.
The flap of the tent slapped back and open and the scent hit you first: hot sweat, raw sex, a stench so thick it clung to the back of your throat and made your knees buckle. Semen, spit, witch's sweat, and the musky heat of a man used up and using still.
Then your eyes adjusted and the reality was worse than the sounds.
The bedroll was a disaster. Drenched through, sodden and shiny, a puddle of seed soaking into the threadbare wool. Morrigan’s thighs were slick with it, her cunt a messy ruin between her legs, glistening like a desecrated altar, thick white strings still clinging to her inner thighs.
And Alistair? He didn’t even look up.
He was on top of her, driving into her hard and fast, his cock glazed and gleaming, splattering with every plunge into the swamp she’d become. His mouth was latched to one of her breasts, tongue flicking against her stiff nipple like a man possessed, eyes glazed, hips jackhammering.
He didn’t see you but Morrigan did.
She locked eyes with you instantly, her grin spreading slow and vicious like a flame devouring dry parchment. Her legs curled higher around Alistair's waist, heels digging into his back, milking him deeper.
"Oh look," she purred, "our little cuckquean couldn't take it anymore. Did you cum out there, Warden? Or were you saving your climax for this exact moment?"
You opened your mouth, rage trembling on your tongue, but she raised a single, semen-slick finger and shushed you.
"Don’t. This is still a ritual, remember? You interrupt it, the Old God might not take. And you wouldn't want that now, would you?" Her voice dripped with mockery. "If you must," she added, arching her back shamelessly as Alistair groaned into her breast, his thrusts still vicious and completely unaware of you, "you may sit in the corner. And watch. Since that’s clearly what you’re best at."
You should have hit her. Drawn your blade. Screamed. Anything.
But you didn’t.
You stumbled back two paces, your foot hitting the ground with a wet squish that told you even the floor wasn’t safe from their fucking. You turned toward the corner, like she said, because she was right.
You couldn't stop it. And you didn’t want to.
Because Alistair's moans were getting louder and deeper. His hands now on both of her breasts, kneading, worshiping, as he fucked her with everything he had. "So tight," he whimpered. "So fucking warm, Morrigan, I can't—"
"Don’t you dare cum yet," she hissed, tightening around him until you saw his knees buckle. "Not until I tell you. Not until she sees exactly what she’s missing out."
And you sat.
You sat in that corner, staring, thighs clenched, nails in your palm, heart in your throat, as your man lost himself, body, mind, cock, everything, in the woman who had always hated you. Who now had him so deep, so broken, he didn’t even remember you.
The heat inside the tent was unbearable now as you crouched in the corner, your thighs slick and trembling, your mouth dry, your fingers twitching on your lap as if they didn't know whether to cover your eyes or plunge between your legs again.
Morrigan hadn’t stopped moaning. Alistair hadn’t stopped giving himself. If anything, they were getting worse. Louder. Meaner. Wetter.
"Enough," she said, her voice rough and commanding, pushing at his chest. "Turn me over," she flipped onto her stomach, arching her ass high into the air, her cunt a glistening mess that dripped onto the stained bedroll beneath her. "Fuck me like an animal. From behind."
She looked at you.
"Give your poor little Warden a better view."
Alistair hesitated but only for a second. His eyes never even found you. His hands went to her hips, fingers sinking into her flesh as if he'd done it a hundred times before, and with a groan, he slammed back into her. The sound *squelch* was so obscene, so wet, it made your entire body lurch.
You saw everything.
His cock stretching her open, disappearing into the slick, ruined heat of her cunt again and again, each thrust harder than the last. Morrigan gasped and moaned, spine arching, head thrown back, her hair a mess. Her eyes stayed on you the entire time.
"Look at him," she spat, voice ragged with triumph. "Look how deep he is. How desperate. He never fucked you like this, did he? Never held you down and rutted you like a beast while you screamed his name."
He was holding her down now, his fingers gripping her hips so hard you could already see the bruises forming, his cock hammering into her from behind with such speed and force he never gave to you before. The entire tent creaked and bounced, the bedroll slapping against the dirt with every savage thrust.
"Morrigan—gods, Morrigan—" Alistair moaned, lost, undone, his voice trembling. "I—I’m gonna—"
"Do it, she hissed, "let her watch the moment you fill me. I want her to see you breed me."
And you did.
You saw his rhythm stutter, hips twitch, breath catch. You saw him grip her harder, slam in so deep it looked like he was trying to disappear inside her. His head dropped back, mouth open in a silent cry as his cock throbbed and jerked deep in her.
And the noise:
SSHHHHLLLUCKK—splurt—splshhh.
The wet, filthy, undeniable sound of him filling her. You heard it. You saw the mess leak out of her around his cock, thick and white and endless, spilling down her thighs and dripping onto the floor. Her cunt clenched around him so tight you saw his entire body shudder.
She moaned like a bitch in heat, raw and victorious. "Mmm, yes—yes, that’s it. That’s what he saved for me. Not you."
Alistair collapsed over her back, panting, hips still twitching, cock still buried in the dripping heat of her pussy. He didn't look at you.
You could see the seed still leaking from her, coating the backs of her thighs, pooling between them and you had never been wetter while your throat burned.
You’d stayed silent so long watching like a ghost, but now, seeing him like that? His body trembling against Morrigan’s back, hips still grinding forward in small, mindless thrusts even as thick, white seed oozed out around his cock?
You broke.
"Alistair..." It came out raw, barely more than a whisper, your voice catching on a sob you refused to let free.
He didn’t respond at first. His eyes were closed, his forehead resting between Morrigan’s shoulder blades. His cock still buried to the hilt in her. Her cunt still twitching, still leaking him onto the bedroll in a sticky, glistening mess. You could hear his breath, shaky, hitched, uneven, like he’d just come back from the edge of something terrifying and beautiful.
So you called him again. Louder this time.
"Alistair. That’s... enough. She’s had enough."
Morrigan lifted her head then, turned it just enough to look at you with a glint of teeth. Her lips were swollen, her eyes gleaming. "You think so, do you?" she drawled, voice breathless, wicked. "Funny. I don’t feel done. And neither does he."
But it wasn’t her voice that gutted you.
It was his.
Alistair shifted, slowly, as if surfacing from a dream. He blinked—his first sign of awareness in what felt like hours. His mouth opened, as if to speak, but no apology came. No shame. No “I’m sorry, my love.”
Instead, voice low and thick and honest, he said:
"I can’t stop."
The words hit you like a blow, but he kept going.
"She’s... she’s so warm. So tight." His eyes fluttered closed again as his hips rolled forward once more, pushing into that mess he’d already made, pressing deep into Morrigan’s soaked heat. "Every time I cum, she just pulls me back in. Gods, Warden, I—" his voice broke on a moan, "I want to breed her again. I need to."
He looked at you then.
And that hurt more than anything else because his eyes were glassy, pupils wide, mouth parted, wrecked, but he meant it. He wasn’t gone. He wasn’t possessed.
He’d chosen.
"I want to fill her until nothing leaks out. Until she’s stuffed with me. Until this Old God is real. You understand, don’t you?" His tone was pleading, as if this was something you could forgive. Something you could share.
And still he thrust.
Slow, now. Deep.
You saw Morrigan’s mouth fall open again, her body curling into the rhythm, back arching like she could feel your heartbreak feeding her pleasure. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Alistair had said it all.
The King had made his choice.
His chest heaved against her back, spent cock twitching, still buried deep in the ruin of her cunt. But Morrigan wasn’t done. Not nearly. She pulled her hips forward, slow and wet, his cock dragging out of her with a deep, sloppy squelch, thick white cream dripping from her gaping folds. She looked down between her legs and smiled.
"Not enough." Her voice was breathy and firm. "But the Old God demands all."
And with that, she rolled, flipping him onto his back, his face slack with exhaustion, eyes glassy, lips parted in a soft moan that trembled between pleasure and pure submission. She straddled him immediately, her thighs streaked with cum, her pussy glistening with his seed as she guided his half-hard cock back into her with an audible schlllck.
"Morrigan—Maker, I—I can’t—" His voice cracked, trembling as she slid down his length inch by soaked inch. "It’s too much—"
"Then break." She hissed the words against his lips, biting his bottom one before grinding her hips hard enough that his head snapped back in a gasp. "You don’t get to stop. Not until I say."
You watched, helpless, frozen, as she rode him mercilessly, the bedroll beneath them slapping with every bounce of her hips. His cock twitched inside her again, somehow still leaking seed, and yet she kept moving, milking him, grinding against him, dragging every twitch of hardness out of him with no pity and no pause.
Her hands planted on his chest, fingers digging in. "You don’t belong to her anymore," she snarled, her rhythm brutal. "You’re mine. This cock? Mine. This seed? Mine." Her voice dropped, smug and low. "I’ll drain you until she can’t even get you hard anymore"
Alistair didn’t fight. He moaned. Bucked. Came. Again.
"F-fuck—!"
The sound was awful. Beautiful. Weak.
Another flood poured into her, audible, wet, that same awful, beautiful splurt as her cunt took him again. You could see his eyes roll back, his lips part in a shuddering whine as he spilled helplessly into her womb for the third time.
And still, she didn’t stop.
She rocked her hips slowly now, dragging his overused, twitching cock through her cum-soaked folds, using him like a toy. She leaned forward, lips brushing his ear, but loud enough that you could hear every cruel syllable.
"Let her see that she lost. That this—" she punctuated it with a slow, filthy roll of her hips that drew a pitiful whimper from him, "is the only cunt your cock remembers now."
You stepped forward once. Reflex.
Her gaze snapped to yours. "No," she growled. "He’s mine tonight. Mine tomorrow. And if I have my way, mine forever. You can sit back and watch."
And Alistair?
He didn’t speak. Just lay there, glassy-eyed, still inside her, his hands on her hips, readily waiting for her to ride him again and take his cum again and again. You felt your knees weaken.
After more filling than Alistair ever gave you during your entire relationship, the ritual was finally finished. The Old God, if it stirred at all, had already marked her womb but Morrigan hadn’t moved.
She lay there, atop the wrecked bedroll, legs splayed shamelessly, body glistening with sweat, her inner thighs absolutely coated in Alistair’s seed. It wasn’t just dripping, it was pouring, thick rivulets of cum rolling in slow, heavy trails from her ruined, gaping cunt, puddling beneath her like a disgusting puddle.
She made no move to wipe it away.
Didn’t close her legs.
Didn’t even shift.
Instead, she laughed a low, dark cackle that bubbled up from her chest and echoed through the tent like thunder in a crypt. "Ahhh," she sighed, one hand stroking her belly, the other lazily between her spread thighs, two fingers scooping up some of the mess just to watch it string between them. "Now that... was a ritual."
You stood frozen. Torn. Between the unbearable ache in your chest and the humiliating throb still pulsing between your legs. Watching her lie there, dripping with your man’s seed, his seed, your future and look glorious in the ruin.
Her eyes met yours. Smug. Daring. "Heartbroken, are we?" she taunted. "Good. It suits you."
You looked past her.
Alistair. He lay there like a man undone. Staring blankly up at the tent ceiling, his cock soft, glistening, twitching uselessly against his thigh. His mouth hung slightly open. His hands were still curled as if trying to hold onto something, the shape of Morrigan's hips.
And when he finally turned his head, when he looked at you.
There was no apology.
No guilt.
Just satisfaction.
You lost him. Not to politics. Not to war but to her. And she hadn’t just taken him. She’d marked him with cum, climax, loyalty and addiction.
He was hers now because Morrigan didn’t just take his body.
She took your future and let it spill down her thighs like a victory banner.