Fic: The Knight-Commander's Favor, NSFW!!
The #swoopingisbad crowd has read this one before, but I hadn't posted it to LJ.
Title: The Knight-Commander's Favor
Author: cjk1701
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to BioWare.
Pairing: Greagoir/mage
Rating: NC-17, NSFW
Warnings: Heavy non-con! Please don't read if this might hit your triggers.
Summary: There are quid pro quo situations, even for Knight-Commander Greagoir. But somebody always has to pay.
He pushes her to her knees, roughly, his robe and his desk hiding her from view; not that anyone would dare to enter the Knight-Commanders office unannounced. She is pliant under his hands, hands already parting his robes and reaching under his armor.
"Did I give you permission to?" he hisses and she stills, her breathing a little uneven, probably from the fear she has not yet learned to hide completely.
Good.
With a jerk he pulls her head back by the hair and reaches for the container on his desk. "This is what you came for, after all, didn't you, mage?"
Her eyes are tracking his hands as he takes a pinch of the red dust from the box. The lyrium is tingling on his fingers, a thousand little explosions.
"Open." His voice, he notes dispassionately, is as even as always.
Her jaw loosens and she swallows thickly. A moment later she opens her mouth and he deposits the dust on her tongue.
The effect is immediate. Her pupils widen and her breath grows even shorter. He waits another moment before releasing her hair. "Now."
Her hands are shaking now as she moves his robes aside, strokes his thighs, unlaces his trousers. He braces himself on the desk when she tilts her head and takes him in, because the lyrium on his fingers was nothing, nothing compared to this. It burns through him, on him, in him, the room narrowing down to the tight wet suction of her mouth, the practiced tightening of her throat as she swallows again and again.
It doesn't take long; with the lyrium it almost never does. The fire burns hotter and hotter, spasming low in his abdomen and he digs his nails into the scarred wood to stay upright, breathing through his mouth. She knows what he likes by now; her fingers brush his balls gently and slip behind, pretending to tease. Pretending, like everything they do, those open demon vessels, so ready and willing to be filled by abominations lurking so very close.
He grips her hair tightly, thrusting in deep. She makes no noise, doesn't look up, but they never do, scurrying past and plotting in the shadows. He thrusts in harder, again, and again, feeling her throat work as she gags on his length.
The fire curls, tenses and his vision swims even as the tension in his balls is almost cramping and everything throbs in synch with his heart. His voice, however, is almost steady. It always is. "Now."
She swallows again and her fingers burn as she plunges them in, hard. Her other hand tightens on his balls, just on the edge of pain. She's learned well, that one, he thinks, and then the cramp spills over into blessed relief and release that liquefies his muscles as she swallows and strokes to make it last and last and last.
He forces his breathing to even out as she tidies him with practiced motions and then raises to her feet stiffly.
When she moves to her proper side of his desk, he pushes the box at her without looking up.
Bowing, she slips it into a pocket. "Thank you, sir." Her hoarse whisper is barely audible.
"You may go," he says, and watches her too-straight back. Oh yes. He will attend her Harrowing himself.
It will be almost a pleasure to cut her down.
A/N: This is an exploration of a power issue that I think could arise all too easily at the Tower. This Greagoir is not one I'd normally write, but I saw a similar situation IRL and wanted to explore it in fiction.
Title: The Knight-Commander's Favor
Author: cjk1701
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to BioWare.
Pairing: Greagoir/mage
Rating: NC-17, NSFW
Warnings: Heavy non-con! Please don't read if this might hit your triggers.
Summary: There are quid pro quo situations, even for Knight-Commander Greagoir. But somebody always has to pay.
He pushes her to her knees, roughly, his robe and his desk hiding her from view; not that anyone would dare to enter the Knight-Commanders office unannounced. She is pliant under his hands, hands already parting his robes and reaching under his armor.
"Did I give you permission to?" he hisses and she stills, her breathing a little uneven, probably from the fear she has not yet learned to hide completely.
Good.
With a jerk he pulls her head back by the hair and reaches for the container on his desk. "This is what you came for, after all, didn't you, mage?"
Her eyes are tracking his hands as he takes a pinch of the red dust from the box. The lyrium is tingling on his fingers, a thousand little explosions.
"Open." His voice, he notes dispassionately, is as even as always.
Her jaw loosens and she swallows thickly. A moment later she opens her mouth and he deposits the dust on her tongue.
The effect is immediate. Her pupils widen and her breath grows even shorter. He waits another moment before releasing her hair. "Now."
Her hands are shaking now as she moves his robes aside, strokes his thighs, unlaces his trousers. He braces himself on the desk when she tilts her head and takes him in, because the lyrium on his fingers was nothing, nothing compared to this. It burns through him, on him, in him, the room narrowing down to the tight wet suction of her mouth, the practiced tightening of her throat as she swallows again and again.
It doesn't take long; with the lyrium it almost never does. The fire burns hotter and hotter, spasming low in his abdomen and he digs his nails into the scarred wood to stay upright, breathing through his mouth. She knows what he likes by now; her fingers brush his balls gently and slip behind, pretending to tease. Pretending, like everything they do, those open demon vessels, so ready and willing to be filled by abominations lurking so very close.
He grips her hair tightly, thrusting in deep. She makes no noise, doesn't look up, but they never do, scurrying past and plotting in the shadows. He thrusts in harder, again, and again, feeling her throat work as she gags on his length.
The fire curls, tenses and his vision swims even as the tension in his balls is almost cramping and everything throbs in synch with his heart. His voice, however, is almost steady. It always is. "Now."
She swallows again and her fingers burn as she plunges them in, hard. Her other hand tightens on his balls, just on the edge of pain. She's learned well, that one, he thinks, and then the cramp spills over into blessed relief and release that liquefies his muscles as she swallows and strokes to make it last and last and last.
He forces his breathing to even out as she tidies him with practiced motions and then raises to her feet stiffly.
When she moves to her proper side of his desk, he pushes the box at her without looking up.
Bowing, she slips it into a pocket. "Thank you, sir." Her hoarse whisper is barely audible.
"You may go," he says, and watches her too-straight back. Oh yes. He will attend her Harrowing himself.
It will be almost a pleasure to cut her down.
A/N: This is an exploration of a power issue that I think could arise all too easily at the Tower. This Greagoir is not one I'd normally write, but I saw a similar situation IRL and wanted to explore it in fiction.