IN YER BRAIN.
I just wanted very badly to contribute to the evening flood of stuff that I whipped this up in record time. It's tame with a pretty G-rated blowjob thanks to the fact I'm at home and sitting next to my dad watching a shoot 'em up, ahar. Better smut later stfu. Hanyway, to complicate matters is the fact I haven't written anything fantasy, like, ever, since scifi's more my genre. Enjoy my awkward writing and, if you would please, rip it apart. Cheers!
Title: Dinner and a Shave
Rating: A pretty sad M
Notes: I felt pretty cool writing this while wedged between both my parents. Felt even cooler when they asked what thesis I was working on. Also, there's no shave. Not even a close shave. Includes a slight mention for Redcliffe choices, but nothing definite.
(LJCUT, DON'T FAIL ME NOW)
The warden had made mistakes before, of that there was no question. She was as imperfect of an individual if ever there was one. Illusions to the contrary were probably commonplace by now (admiring glances from denizens she had never seen before greeted her arrival), but she herself held no such delusions- especially when faced with her own fallacies. And now, Alistair was in her face, arms moving in pointed gestures, angry words spilling from his mouth. All she could do was clasp her hands over her mouth and wait for a crack in the warden's verbal waterfall to wedge herself into, to defend her actions, to explain what she'd been trying to do. Even as Alistair halted momentarily to draw a deep breath, all she could do was rub her temples in a vain attempt to alleviate a pounding headache.
"You aren't even listening!" her senior accused, his eyes blazing with thinly-veiled contempt. Her mouth opened to refute his claims, to inform him she'd been hanging on every word, that she had and always would hone in on his voice if he did so much as mutter, but all that she had time to say was "Alistair," and the accusations were back in the air. He was starting to repeat himself by now, so carried away with the emotion of his being that she doubted he was even aware of what he was saying any more. It was probably cathartic for him, she knew, but she hardly deserved to be on the receiving end of the beating. Finding herself unable to summon any kind of defense in the face of his rage, she simply turned on her heel and walked away.
His voice faltered, and he reached out to grab her arm-- but the warden turned squarely to face him. The moment he looked like he was about to speak, her free arm pulled back and struck him. It was an unexpected gesture, to say the least; a complete turn from her "I would never do anything to hurt you!" expression two months ago, and it served its task well. Alistair cut off mid-sentence, leaving a deafening roar of silence between them as his left cheek began to swell and bruise from gauntleted force.
The fire crackled. Her lips snarled. "I have only ever done my best," she hissed. Somehow, her voice grew even quieter, deadlier, more poisonous as she whispered. "Do you believe it was my wish to murder a child?" Avoiding his petulent gaze, she turned her eyes to the miniscule cityscape of Redcliffe, angry tears threatening to well up in her eyes. She clenched her jaw and turned away. Had she been given the chance to set up her tent before Alistair's confrontation she would have enclosed herself within its canvas walls and occupied herself privately, but instead she collapsed into a logged-seat next to Oghren, who had already kicked off his boots and broken out a canteen that smelled suspiciously fermented.
For his part, Alistair also had no tent to conceal himself within. With the warden having claimed a position by the campfire-- he spared himself a glance in her direction, his chest constricting oddly as she peeled the pelt off of a hare. She glanced up to meet his eyes, flashing him a glare harder than dragonbone. Even more upsetting was the way his stomach opened in a rush of confused desire. He wasn't in the mood for this, to wrestle with feelings and hormones and the audacious hand of cards the Maker had felt fit to deal him. No-- instead, he slinked his way towards Wynne, who had not only set up her tent, but had also managed to forage a collection of wild vegetables for tonight's stew. She looked up when she heard him approach.
"If you are here to nibble away at the pickings, I am quite afraid you will have to wait," she said evenly, her voice characteristically pleasant.
"No," Alistair said quickly, "no, I just... do you... think I could borrow your soap again? To wash, I mean. Myself. To wash myself."
"Come the next village," Wynne replied, "I shall buy you your own, and I will not need to worry about your habit of losing them to the currents." She gave a gentle nod to her tent, indicating the position of her cleaning supplies. Alistair murmured an embarassed word of thanks, and in moments, was making his way down to the Lake Calenhad tributaries.
The roaring of the waters was strong, with small waterfalls assisting the river in its mission to cut its way through the earth and rock of Thedas. There was an oxbow lake which was nearing the end of its lifespan, draining back into the earth, its water putrid and still, buzzing quietly with late-season insects. He wrinkled his nose and followed the sounds of running water. The tiny lake-- now more of a cold, boggy pond-- was useless, but its parent river was nearby. Frigid and whitecapped, the waters were hardly ideal for bathing, and upon removing his clothing, it took him several tries before he managed to get his entire foot submerged. It took him an equal amount of time to submerge the rest of himself, teeth chattering impossibly fast, and rub the goosebumps which inevitably followed. The soap made it impossible to gain any friction, and he worked swiftly, sure that this was to be the swiftest, most numbing bath he'd ever have taken.
"We need to talk."
Alistair sat up straight at the voice, hands instinctively falling between his legs to hide his modesty. The warden's voice was icier than the water which flowed around his knees. He blushed-- not becuase she had never seen him naked before, but rather because she was clearly in a dominant position, standing on the bank, fully-clothed, arms crossed, lips drawn into a thin, straight line.
"Whatever about?" he sputtered, twisting uncomfortably as he edged towards the dry grass of the bank where he had left a towel-cloth and a change of clothes which Wynne had so thoughtfully washed during their stay in Redcliffe. The warden beat him to it, Maker damn her, her long, nonchalant strides closing the distance much faster than his contracted muscles would allow him.
She didn't answer for a long while, her eyes fixed upon his flushed cheeks, occasionally flickering in the most unladylike manner. "About... respect," she finally answered, though it was without much conviction.
"Yes, respect," Alistair repeated, "I would respectfully like to reach my clothing." He moved forward, but was stopped by the warden's clenched fist pressing against his chest.
"I offered you this position of authority," the warden began, her voice's granite tones rapidly eroding into something equally distant. "You refused. But," she drew in a slow breath, "but what would you have done in my place?" Her last word came out as a jagged sob, a harsh noise she hadn't intended to sound.
Alistair's reply was immediate. "I would have gone to the mages. I wouldn't have slaughtered a young bo--"
"There aren't any left!" the warden interjected loudly, angrily, the bloodstained armor of templars flashing in her vision. "What then? The boy or the wife, Alistair? The boy or the wife?" her voice rose shrilly, her brows furrowed angrily, and her stance ever more aggressive. Alistair didn't give her a response, though something was clearly working in his mind. Her other gloved hand moved to grip his shoulder, her grasp so tight he was sure it would bruise, her eyes peering into his as if she were attempting to peel away his very soul. "Which one?" she roared, shoving him backwards into the river.
And then she was pinning him in the shallows, her armored form hovering above his drenched, bare skin, dark and threatening, the jagged metal cutting into his flesh as the eddies jostled her balance. She grabbed his chin to force him to look at her, to meet her eyes, to read her lips as she reiterated "Do you honestly believe it was my wish to butcher a child?" but her words were lost to the sounds of the water. She didn't care.
Neither did he, who, between the crushing weight of her armor and the chilled water which lapped at his skin, found it hard to breathe deeply enough to give her an answer. He slowly shook his head, his short hair plastered against his scalp. "N-no," he mouthed.
Something melted in her expression. Relief, perhaps, that he didn't honestly believe she'd done it for fun; or maybe it was her self-control, as her eyes moved down to his lips and leaned forward slowly, taking the soft skin into her mouth and sucking gently, her hands holding him in place, escape impossible. He made an ambiguous noise-- it could have been a sound of defiance, the warden didn't care. If anything, it propelled her forward, pushing him deeper into the water, her mouth covering his so completely, it was a wonder he could breathe at all.
"Ahn," she whispered into his mouth, fingers curling around his neck, scraping his skin, her breastplate's nicks and holes digging into his chest as she pressed herself against him mercilessly, her tongue slipping between his lips and forcing its way around his mouth. He struggled in response, though he was in an improper position for any leverage, naked, numb, and rapidly becoming posessed by traitorous hormones.
It was improper for a dead child to rekindle her feelings in this way; if she cared, however, she gave no notice of it and pushed against him even harder, submerging his head underwater, herself becoming as drenched as he. He now fought, breaking the surface to gasp, to catch his breath. The warden pulled away, cradling him in her arms in the most violent manner. His lips trembled with cold and desire and a need for warmth not provided by the cold metal armor which clad her body. He shivered her name in an undertone and she took his calloused hand to press it to her cheek. "He was as good as my nephew," he whispered.
She exhaled heavily. She couldn't counter that, and let go of his wrists, dropping her arms to the pebbled riverbed. His remained at her cheek, hesitating to stroke but refusing to leave. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice heavy with languishing submission. She dug her plated fingers into the rocky dirt, gripping the silt violently to keep her from grasping onto his abused arms.
He whispered something with no real meaning which ended with a moan as the warden's gauntlet stroked down his chest, avoiding the wounds she had inflicted upon him but a half of an hour ago. The more delicate his flesh, the harder she brushed. She inhaled shakily and pushed him back once more-- gently, this time-- to the dry grasses of the bank. Her lips followed her hands, soothing the abrasions with a warm suction. "I can't bring Connor back," she susurrated, the heavy tones lust filling her voice as she delved into the unmistakable heat between his legs.
Alistair grunted and turned his head, drawing long, gasping breaths as he felt his blood drain from his flushed face to deeper, secret portions of his body. He should be used to this by now, the way she lodged her thumbs in just that place and how her hot breath raced over him, and how she could lean forward to take him into her mouth, how it always took her several tries to envelop all of him, how her awkwardness reinforced her claim of him being her first, how her remaining fingers spread over his hips, and how at just the right time her hands travelled to the small of his back, to cup his rear as he instinctively thrust forward causing her to gag and shudder. She drew her head away, keeping his between her lips, trying her best to sheathe her teeth as she bobbed down again, her nose nestling in his curly, fair hair until she pulled back. He shuddered, his body jerking at the most inconvenient times, their engagement of love slowly twisting into something more carnal as her movements picked up and as his sighs and groans grew more pronounced.
He finally wrapped his legs around her shoulders, pushing himself in deeper, his bare fingers grasping at her dripping hair. "I-- I--" he stuttered before he tensed a final time and peaked. She growled something as he slipped from her mouth, trying to hide her distate for what he deposited onto her tongue. He sat up, prespiration and release pooling between his thighs. He looked to the warden quickly, the flush returning to his cheeks at the realization of what the he and she had partaken in, and she caught his gaze. The steely glint was gone, the pooled depths once again empathetic.
"Alistair?" she asked tentatively, in that same voice she used every time the two copulated. He looked down at her slowly, lazily, an arched an eyebrow. "I'm to tell you that the stew is done," she murmured, examiming her gauntlet, sticky with fluids. Alistair let his head fall back onto the dirt.
"Stew is easy to reheat," he answered, eyeing her soiled, chinked armor. She bit her lower lip and followed his gaze downward. It was easy to admit that she was in need of a washing herself.
Title: Dinner and a Shave
Rating: A pretty sad M
Notes: I felt pretty cool writing this while wedged between both my parents. Felt even cooler when they asked what thesis I was working on. Also, there's no shave. Not even a close shave. Includes a slight mention for Redcliffe choices, but nothing definite.
(LJCUT, DON'T FAIL ME NOW)
The warden had made mistakes before, of that there was no question. She was as imperfect of an individual if ever there was one. Illusions to the contrary were probably commonplace by now (admiring glances from denizens she had never seen before greeted her arrival), but she herself held no such delusions- especially when faced with her own fallacies. And now, Alistair was in her face, arms moving in pointed gestures, angry words spilling from his mouth. All she could do was clasp her hands over her mouth and wait for a crack in the warden's verbal waterfall to wedge herself into, to defend her actions, to explain what she'd been trying to do. Even as Alistair halted momentarily to draw a deep breath, all she could do was rub her temples in a vain attempt to alleviate a pounding headache.
"You aren't even listening!" her senior accused, his eyes blazing with thinly-veiled contempt. Her mouth opened to refute his claims, to inform him she'd been hanging on every word, that she had and always would hone in on his voice if he did so much as mutter, but all that she had time to say was "Alistair," and the accusations were back in the air. He was starting to repeat himself by now, so carried away with the emotion of his being that she doubted he was even aware of what he was saying any more. It was probably cathartic for him, she knew, but she hardly deserved to be on the receiving end of the beating. Finding herself unable to summon any kind of defense in the face of his rage, she simply turned on her heel and walked away.
His voice faltered, and he reached out to grab her arm-- but the warden turned squarely to face him. The moment he looked like he was about to speak, her free arm pulled back and struck him. It was an unexpected gesture, to say the least; a complete turn from her "I would never do anything to hurt you!" expression two months ago, and it served its task well. Alistair cut off mid-sentence, leaving a deafening roar of silence between them as his left cheek began to swell and bruise from gauntleted force.
The fire crackled. Her lips snarled. "I have only ever done my best," she hissed. Somehow, her voice grew even quieter, deadlier, more poisonous as she whispered. "Do you believe it was my wish to murder a child?" Avoiding his petulent gaze, she turned her eyes to the miniscule cityscape of Redcliffe, angry tears threatening to well up in her eyes. She clenched her jaw and turned away. Had she been given the chance to set up her tent before Alistair's confrontation she would have enclosed herself within its canvas walls and occupied herself privately, but instead she collapsed into a logged-seat next to Oghren, who had already kicked off his boots and broken out a canteen that smelled suspiciously fermented.
For his part, Alistair also had no tent to conceal himself within. With the warden having claimed a position by the campfire-- he spared himself a glance in her direction, his chest constricting oddly as she peeled the pelt off of a hare. She glanced up to meet his eyes, flashing him a glare harder than dragonbone. Even more upsetting was the way his stomach opened in a rush of confused desire. He wasn't in the mood for this, to wrestle with feelings and hormones and the audacious hand of cards the Maker had felt fit to deal him. No-- instead, he slinked his way towards Wynne, who had not only set up her tent, but had also managed to forage a collection of wild vegetables for tonight's stew. She looked up when she heard him approach.
"If you are here to nibble away at the pickings, I am quite afraid you will have to wait," she said evenly, her voice characteristically pleasant.
"No," Alistair said quickly, "no, I just... do you... think I could borrow your soap again? To wash, I mean. Myself. To wash myself."
"Come the next village," Wynne replied, "I shall buy you your own, and I will not need to worry about your habit of losing them to the currents." She gave a gentle nod to her tent, indicating the position of her cleaning supplies. Alistair murmured an embarassed word of thanks, and in moments, was making his way down to the Lake Calenhad tributaries.
The roaring of the waters was strong, with small waterfalls assisting the river in its mission to cut its way through the earth and rock of Thedas. There was an oxbow lake which was nearing the end of its lifespan, draining back into the earth, its water putrid and still, buzzing quietly with late-season insects. He wrinkled his nose and followed the sounds of running water. The tiny lake-- now more of a cold, boggy pond-- was useless, but its parent river was nearby. Frigid and whitecapped, the waters were hardly ideal for bathing, and upon removing his clothing, it took him several tries before he managed to get his entire foot submerged. It took him an equal amount of time to submerge the rest of himself, teeth chattering impossibly fast, and rub the goosebumps which inevitably followed. The soap made it impossible to gain any friction, and he worked swiftly, sure that this was to be the swiftest, most numbing bath he'd ever have taken.
"We need to talk."
Alistair sat up straight at the voice, hands instinctively falling between his legs to hide his modesty. The warden's voice was icier than the water which flowed around his knees. He blushed-- not becuase she had never seen him naked before, but rather because she was clearly in a dominant position, standing on the bank, fully-clothed, arms crossed, lips drawn into a thin, straight line.
"Whatever about?" he sputtered, twisting uncomfortably as he edged towards the dry grass of the bank where he had left a towel-cloth and a change of clothes which Wynne had so thoughtfully washed during their stay in Redcliffe. The warden beat him to it, Maker damn her, her long, nonchalant strides closing the distance much faster than his contracted muscles would allow him.
She didn't answer for a long while, her eyes fixed upon his flushed cheeks, occasionally flickering in the most unladylike manner. "About... respect," she finally answered, though it was without much conviction.
"Yes, respect," Alistair repeated, "I would respectfully like to reach my clothing." He moved forward, but was stopped by the warden's clenched fist pressing against his chest.
"I offered you this position of authority," the warden began, her voice's granite tones rapidly eroding into something equally distant. "You refused. But," she drew in a slow breath, "but what would you have done in my place?" Her last word came out as a jagged sob, a harsh noise she hadn't intended to sound.
Alistair's reply was immediate. "I would have gone to the mages. I wouldn't have slaughtered a young bo--"
"There aren't any left!" the warden interjected loudly, angrily, the bloodstained armor of templars flashing in her vision. "What then? The boy or the wife, Alistair? The boy or the wife?" her voice rose shrilly, her brows furrowed angrily, and her stance ever more aggressive. Alistair didn't give her a response, though something was clearly working in his mind. Her other gloved hand moved to grip his shoulder, her grasp so tight he was sure it would bruise, her eyes peering into his as if she were attempting to peel away his very soul. "Which one?" she roared, shoving him backwards into the river.
And then she was pinning him in the shallows, her armored form hovering above his drenched, bare skin, dark and threatening, the jagged metal cutting into his flesh as the eddies jostled her balance. She grabbed his chin to force him to look at her, to meet her eyes, to read her lips as she reiterated "Do you honestly believe it was my wish to butcher a child?" but her words were lost to the sounds of the water. She didn't care.
Neither did he, who, between the crushing weight of her armor and the chilled water which lapped at his skin, found it hard to breathe deeply enough to give her an answer. He slowly shook his head, his short hair plastered against his scalp. "N-no," he mouthed.
Something melted in her expression. Relief, perhaps, that he didn't honestly believe she'd done it for fun; or maybe it was her self-control, as her eyes moved down to his lips and leaned forward slowly, taking the soft skin into her mouth and sucking gently, her hands holding him in place, escape impossible. He made an ambiguous noise-- it could have been a sound of defiance, the warden didn't care. If anything, it propelled her forward, pushing him deeper into the water, her mouth covering his so completely, it was a wonder he could breathe at all.
"Ahn," she whispered into his mouth, fingers curling around his neck, scraping his skin, her breastplate's nicks and holes digging into his chest as she pressed herself against him mercilessly, her tongue slipping between his lips and forcing its way around his mouth. He struggled in response, though he was in an improper position for any leverage, naked, numb, and rapidly becoming posessed by traitorous hormones.
It was improper for a dead child to rekindle her feelings in this way; if she cared, however, she gave no notice of it and pushed against him even harder, submerging his head underwater, herself becoming as drenched as he. He now fought, breaking the surface to gasp, to catch his breath. The warden pulled away, cradling him in her arms in the most violent manner. His lips trembled with cold and desire and a need for warmth not provided by the cold metal armor which clad her body. He shivered her name in an undertone and she took his calloused hand to press it to her cheek. "He was as good as my nephew," he whispered.
She exhaled heavily. She couldn't counter that, and let go of his wrists, dropping her arms to the pebbled riverbed. His remained at her cheek, hesitating to stroke but refusing to leave. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice heavy with languishing submission. She dug her plated fingers into the rocky dirt, gripping the silt violently to keep her from grasping onto his abused arms.
He whispered something with no real meaning which ended with a moan as the warden's gauntlet stroked down his chest, avoiding the wounds she had inflicted upon him but a half of an hour ago. The more delicate his flesh, the harder she brushed. She inhaled shakily and pushed him back once more-- gently, this time-- to the dry grasses of the bank. Her lips followed her hands, soothing the abrasions with a warm suction. "I can't bring Connor back," she susurrated, the heavy tones lust filling her voice as she delved into the unmistakable heat between his legs.
Alistair grunted and turned his head, drawing long, gasping breaths as he felt his blood drain from his flushed face to deeper, secret portions of his body. He should be used to this by now, the way she lodged her thumbs in just that place and how her hot breath raced over him, and how she could lean forward to take him into her mouth, how it always took her several tries to envelop all of him, how her awkwardness reinforced her claim of him being her first, how her remaining fingers spread over his hips, and how at just the right time her hands travelled to the small of his back, to cup his rear as he instinctively thrust forward causing her to gag and shudder. She drew her head away, keeping his between her lips, trying her best to sheathe her teeth as she bobbed down again, her nose nestling in his curly, fair hair until she pulled back. He shuddered, his body jerking at the most inconvenient times, their engagement of love slowly twisting into something more carnal as her movements picked up and as his sighs and groans grew more pronounced.
He finally wrapped his legs around her shoulders, pushing himself in deeper, his bare fingers grasping at her dripping hair. "I-- I--" he stuttered before he tensed a final time and peaked. She growled something as he slipped from her mouth, trying to hide her distate for what he deposited onto her tongue. He sat up, prespiration and release pooling between his thighs. He looked to the warden quickly, the flush returning to his cheeks at the realization of what the he and she had partaken in, and she caught his gaze. The steely glint was gone, the pooled depths once again empathetic.
"Alistair?" she asked tentatively, in that same voice she used every time the two copulated. He looked down at her slowly, lazily, an arched an eyebrow. "I'm to tell you that the stew is done," she murmured, examiming her gauntlet, sticky with fluids. Alistair let his head fall back onto the dirt.
"Stew is easy to reheat," he answered, eyeing her soiled, chinked armor. She bit her lower lip and followed his gaze downward. It was easy to admit that she was in need of a washing herself.