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Alistair remembers soft beds. Clean linen. Roses. Wine. Candles. A warm fire.
And time.
Time to languish. To explore. To draw out the pleasure. To savor every shiver and hitching breath. Time to tease, press kisses against sweat slickened skin, to laugh, and to beg. Time for aching jaws, and weary fingers, and hips that pressed on, seeking just one more… make her come once more…
That is what making love should be. What making love to her should be like.
But a Grey Warden is built for other things.
Now it is hurried, and hushed. A half-shadowed corner. Knees skinned against unyielding stone. Biting back cries that ring in the echoing stillness. Ignoring the smell, and the cold, and the lingering weariness that weaves around their bones. Yet even then, the feel of her beneath his hands gives him breath. And the taste of her is like the sun, warm and sustaining.
They rarely couple. More often he spills into her hands, and offers her the same courtesy.
Even the meager privacy they take for such an act leaves them vulnerable, and bare flesh is unarmored flesh, and the things that stalk them have no consideration for how he ought to be allowed to love her.
Roads this deep are dangerous, and considering the endless supply of Darkspawn… He’s not sure he’ll ever see her entirely naked again.
But tonight…
Tonight there were moments when he thought he might lose her. When the press of enemies swelled and he watched her pushed, quite literally to the far edge. A mere step -- or slip -- away from the heart-lurching emptiness beyond the old Dwarven ruins. But a spirit blade is far quicker than his silverite one -- though more tiring to wield -- and she is not hailed as the Hero of Ferelden for lack of reflexes.
They’ve had far closer calls.
Still.
Tonight he cannot keep his hands off of her.
Alistair drags her breeches down over her hips nearly as soon as they’ve found a small, sheltered outcropping of rock, not too far from their campsite. Presses his face against tight seam of her, taking his fill of her scent and her taste. He can hear her stutter on the barrier spell, swear roundly, and re-cast.
The spells are barely set when his pushes his finger inside her, testing his own restraint, as much as her readiness. She arches, already rubbing back against him, and he works her breeches even lower with one hand.
“Alistair…”
“My love,” He nuzzles at her bottom with a small contented sigh. “You are absolute perfection. I could die here, a happy man.”
“Try not to.” She wiggles her hips against him.
“Of course.” He grins, the shape of his smile against her cunt. “But, if I do, I want a statue of us. Just like this. Right in the central courtyard of Weisshaupt. I think the new recruits would find it quite motivating.”
“Alistair.”
“Oh all, right.” He whispers under his breath. “The small courtyard. Behind the armory. Spoilsport.”
She’s laughing, though she makes no sound. Not until he adds another finger.
And then another.
There is no sweeter sound than the soft noises she makes at he works her with his mouth and his hands. She’s always so responsive, and though quiet, he can feel her body arch and shiver at his touch. And he works her until she quivers, hips writhing beneath him. She’s nearly silent when she comes, bent over on her knees, face pressed against her hands. He can feel her clench rhythmically around his fingers.
Alistair nudges her knees apart even further apart, tongue seeking the flood of her slick. And she groans, softly, angling her hips as his other hand skims up the inside of her thigh and begins to worry at her clit in slow, insistent circles. His restraint breaks before she does, and he pulls away to work at the laces of his breeches. Yet when he slides his fingers out of her slippery flesh, he pushes them into his own mouth, greedy for her taste.
“Divinity.” He gasps.
Once his cock is free he wastes no time, and buries himself in the wet heat of her, sliding up and in with a long smooth stroke. She’s tight. Unaccustomed to such attentions, and he can feel her stretch to accommodate him. The last two inches are harder, but he pushes in, carefully, urgently, until she takes him all.
He can feel the heat of her, the joy of her spread through him. “Sweet Maker, I have missed his.” He groans softly, flexing his hips, jolts of pleasure already shivering down the backs of his knees.
She whispers his name, brokenly, and he wishes he could see her face. Instead he runs his hands down her armored flanks, gripping her hips and seats himself more deeply, grinds himself into her until she is gasping. He doesn’t thrust -- not yet -- just slides his hand between the swell of her buttocks, pressing, breaching her arsehole with his thumb.
She makes no noise, save a startled gasp, but her back arches deeply in response to his touch. He thinks, there is no greater joy than wringing pleasure from her body, and presses the digit in more deeply.
“Yes, my love.” His voice is barely louder than a whisper, tight with emotion and arousal. “Come for me again. Once more.”
He pushes his thumb in and out, wiggles it, increasing the pressure with every stroke. His buttocks flex. The small bare stripe of skin between his breeches and doublet pebbles slightly from the cold, as he grinds himself into her. He can feel her fluttering around him, her cunt and arse tightening as her pleasure builds. She pushes back against him with a low whine, trying to thrust, but he her holds her fast.
When she comes this time she can’t quite keep silent. Soft cries lift and break, until he slides his free hand around and presses it against her mouth to stop the sounds. He works his thumb in and out of her ceaselessly, as she shivers and shakes, the muscles of her buttocks clenching tightly throughout her orgasm.
“Perfection.” He whispers raggedly.
She’s nearly limp when he finally begins to fuck her, thumb still locked in place. He bites his lips to stifle his own sounds as his hips move, slowly at first, but with an increasing vigor. Until his restrained is only held back by the dull clank of their jangling armor. Sweat dots his brow, but he ignores it, savoring the exquisite feel of her. Warm and tight and sweet.
His free hand stroke thes the small of her back now, mapping a path from one freckle to the next. He pulls the hem of her doublet up, just a bit, baring a patch of skin large enough for him to kiss. He does, and she makes a startled sound.
He chuckles.
Were they in a warm, safe bed he’d make her make that sound again. He’d spend all day seeing what noises he could draw from her.
But they aren’t. And he doesn’t.
Instead he rolls his hips in a way that make her shudder beneath him, throws his head back, and for one moment, lets the world around them fall away. The darkness. The dankness. The things in the night that call for their blood. For a moment, nothing exists except his cock, and the wet heat of her. And when she slides her hand beneath herself to tug at his balls, he can hold back no longer.
He bucks into her one last time as he comes. Spilling himself into her with such force his legs tremble. He can feel her clench around him, deliberately tightening in pulses, milking out the last of his come.
He collapses against her briefly, wilting like a flower bereft of its stem. His forehead presses against the sharp outlines of her armor, but he doesn’t care. It wasn’t a lie. He could die quite happily in this very moment.
She wriggles out from under him and he sits back on his heels to prevent falling over on his face. He still can’t quite catch his breath.
The next thing he feels is her mouth along his cock. Delicate flicks of her tongue against his his base. He presses his fist against his mouth when she sucks the still-flushed head of him into hers. He’s sensitive, and the touch of her is edging rapidly towards discomfort. She’s efficient and quick, sucking firmly, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
He lets her carry on as long as he can. Before the sensation shifts into true discomfort, and he says her name, to stop her.
He pushes her back down as she pulls away. Presses her onto her back and raises her legs, shifting her breeches enough out of the way. It would be easier he knows, less awkward, were she back on her knees. But he likes to watch her expression -- likes to watch her watching him -- as he seals his lips over the wetness of her cunt.
He tastes himself. Saltier than her. Muskier than her. Yet he presses his mouth against the spill of their pleasure, and swallows.
It is dangerous not to. The darkspawn see better than they do. Hear better than they do. Smell better than they do. They are drawn, inevitably by the scent of blood… or sex. And, without any spare water for cleaning...
It was just one more thing in a very long list of things things they don’t tell you about being a Grey Warden.
He remembers the first time he did this. Their first night together in the deep, deep roads. Remembers the shock of it, and the furious blush they both wore as he took his first taste of his own spend. It was filthy. Shockingly erotic. And the look on her face, flushed and uncertain, pupils blown wide with unexpected arousal…
He’d made her come again with just his tongue.
Now though, he presses her thighs wider apart, and savors this most intimate ritual, as he takes back what he’s given her. He’s thorough, offering reverent praise to the swollen blush of her most secret places. Kissing away all traces of his seed.
“Maker,” He breathes between strokes of his tongue. Between the row of tiny kisses he dots between her legs. “You are...” A brush of his lips against the tender skin below her cunt, “-- so incredibly,” -- against the opening of her womanhood, “-- utterly,” -- a teasing press against her clit, “--incandescently,” -- another, against the tangled patch of soft brown hair. “-- inescapably,” -- His mouth slides upwards over the softness of her belly. “-- remarkably…” --
“In love with you.” She finishes with a grin, pulling at his ears until he looks up at her.
He takes a moment to re-adjust her breeches, before he leans over and kisses her. Softly, carefully, still a little breathless from his exertions. “Are you sure?” He asks, brushing aside sweat-slicked curl from her cheek.
Her expression shifts, suddenly serious. “Of course, I love you.” She leans in for another kiss, but he pulls back a little.
“No, about the statue. The lighting is much better in the central courtyard. Think about how magnificent your breasts would look.”
“Alistair.”
“Oh, all right. I love you too.”