nehraa kadan [ ashaad/saemus. PORN PORN PORN ]
\o/
totally nsfw, and takes place IN MEDIA RES during nehraa asala. ohhohohohoho.
A violent storm on the shore forces them into a cave, and the secluded darkness brings out a desire that he's been suppressing for what seems like forever. Saemus can smell the sea, can smell the lingering scent of bakhoor on his friend's skin, and he can't hold back any longer.
"You're amazing," he breathes, and impulsively grabs Ashaad's horns to hold him still. He kisses him again and again, trailing his hands down along pointed, gold-tipped ears, and threads his fingers into his hair.
Ashaad does not encourage, but does not resist.
Saemus takes this as an open invitation, and shifts into Ashaad's lap, straddling his waist. The qunari are massive, and it's not so much like embracing a lover as mounting a horse. He laughs a bit darkly at that - how many back home would see them as simply beasts? - but nothing could shake his resolve now.
"I've wanted this so much," he sighs, and Ashaad says nothing. It's unnerving, as if he's talking to himself, or to a brick wall, but the resigned acceptance in the qunari's eyes is all he needs for encouragement.
Ashaad permits Saemus to climb atop him, clutching at his broad shoulders, stained red with dye that could be blood. Vallaslin, he thinks, recalling the what little he knows of the Dalish. Perhaps he should mark himself, too, and forever give himself to the Qun, in body as well as soul.
For far too long, the affection is one-sided, with Saemus greedily touching so much painted skin and powerful muscle. When Ashaad at last lifts his hands to run along the human's back, it's as if everything is in its right place.
Saemus is all energy and arousal, and Ashaad grips his shoulders as the boy grinds against his leg. He wants this, all of this, and does not possess the same disciplined patience.
"Please," he begs, his lips on Ashaad's neck, lost in the scent of his sweat.
In time, Ashaad will teach him to wait, but not today.
He is quickly sheathed in the qunari's massive grip, stroked by the same hand that so often wields a sword into battle, strikes down kabethari by the dozen. It is all he can do to stifle his cries, to bite his lip until it draws blood. He will not show weakness, no more than he already has.
With his breeches bunched around his thighs, it's difficult to get the right leverage. Ashaad moves just enough to free himself, and keeps a firm hand on his partner's lower back, urging him to stay still. Saemus' breath catches in his throat, the hard press of Ashaad's erection unexpected against his, larger and thicker than his own.
"Shit," he gasps, and he immediately wants to correct himself to vashedan. He wonders what language Ashaad shouts in, if at all.
He supposes he'll find out.
Saemus' hips move of their own accord, aching for release, to somehow meld impossibly closer. Ashaad accommodates him, his hand curled deliciously around the both of them, jacking them off gradually. The lethargic pace is maddening, and Saemus distracts himself by kissing him again, seeking the flat of the soldier's tongue against his own. He stares at him with half-lidded eyes, clouded with lust.
Ashaad pushes against the small of his back, forcing him against his chest, against his hips. It's not quite enough to hurt, but the sheer strength behind that muscled arm is intimidating in of itself. The qunari speeds up, the increase imperceptible if not for Saemus' sole focus on every slight variation, every measured movement.
Saemus lets out an involuntary whimper, his forehead resting on Ashaad's chest. He can hardly breathe, hardly think, and cries out in pain when Ashaad sinks his teeth into his shoulder, spilling rivulets of blood into the embroidered fabric of his clothing.
The qunari's grip tightens almost viciously, and with a strangled shout Saemus reaches orgasm, torn between collapsing against Ashaad or flinching away from the assault. He looks up, wide-eyed and honestly afraid, all too aware that his life is at this creature's mercy.
Ashaad is utterly unconcerned about his own release, and stares back at him in a way that borders on studious.
"This is not the way of the Qun," he says, his voice low but remarkably calm, as always.
Saemus glances away, ashamed of himself. "I know."
The next few minutes are spent in utter silence, awkward and uncomfortable. He cleans up as best as he can, perturbed by the damage to his shoulder -- how is he supposed to explain this away? -- and sits near the entrance to the cave, watching as the storm rages just a short distance away.
To his surprise, he feels Ashaad lay a ridiculously oversized hand on his uninjured shoulder, and lets out a sigh of genuine relief. The qunari briefly pets his hair, as one would reward a dog, and then pulls away entirely.
"You will learn," he adds, the words barely audible above the pounding rain. "I will teach you."
Saemus smiles out at the grey sea, and knows he's made the right decision.
crossposted to dragonage-slash
totally nsfw, and takes place IN MEDIA RES during nehraa asala. ohhohohohoho.
A violent storm on the shore forces them into a cave, and the secluded darkness brings out a desire that he's been suppressing for what seems like forever. Saemus can smell the sea, can smell the lingering scent of bakhoor on his friend's skin, and he can't hold back any longer.
"You're amazing," he breathes, and impulsively grabs Ashaad's horns to hold him still. He kisses him again and again, trailing his hands down along pointed, gold-tipped ears, and threads his fingers into his hair.
Ashaad does not encourage, but does not resist.
Saemus takes this as an open invitation, and shifts into Ashaad's lap, straddling his waist. The qunari are massive, and it's not so much like embracing a lover as mounting a horse. He laughs a bit darkly at that - how many back home would see them as simply beasts? - but nothing could shake his resolve now.
"I've wanted this so much," he sighs, and Ashaad says nothing. It's unnerving, as if he's talking to himself, or to a brick wall, but the resigned acceptance in the qunari's eyes is all he needs for encouragement.
Ashaad permits Saemus to climb atop him, clutching at his broad shoulders, stained red with dye that could be blood. Vallaslin, he thinks, recalling the what little he knows of the Dalish. Perhaps he should mark himself, too, and forever give himself to the Qun, in body as well as soul.
For far too long, the affection is one-sided, with Saemus greedily touching so much painted skin and powerful muscle. When Ashaad at last lifts his hands to run along the human's back, it's as if everything is in its right place.
Saemus is all energy and arousal, and Ashaad grips his shoulders as the boy grinds against his leg. He wants this, all of this, and does not possess the same disciplined patience.
"Please," he begs, his lips on Ashaad's neck, lost in the scent of his sweat.
In time, Ashaad will teach him to wait, but not today.
He is quickly sheathed in the qunari's massive grip, stroked by the same hand that so often wields a sword into battle, strikes down kabethari by the dozen. It is all he can do to stifle his cries, to bite his lip until it draws blood. He will not show weakness, no more than he already has.
With his breeches bunched around his thighs, it's difficult to get the right leverage. Ashaad moves just enough to free himself, and keeps a firm hand on his partner's lower back, urging him to stay still. Saemus' breath catches in his throat, the hard press of Ashaad's erection unexpected against his, larger and thicker than his own.
"Shit," he gasps, and he immediately wants to correct himself to vashedan. He wonders what language Ashaad shouts in, if at all.
He supposes he'll find out.
Saemus' hips move of their own accord, aching for release, to somehow meld impossibly closer. Ashaad accommodates him, his hand curled deliciously around the both of them, jacking them off gradually. The lethargic pace is maddening, and Saemus distracts himself by kissing him again, seeking the flat of the soldier's tongue against his own. He stares at him with half-lidded eyes, clouded with lust.
Ashaad pushes against the small of his back, forcing him against his chest, against his hips. It's not quite enough to hurt, but the sheer strength behind that muscled arm is intimidating in of itself. The qunari speeds up, the increase imperceptible if not for Saemus' sole focus on every slight variation, every measured movement.
Saemus lets out an involuntary whimper, his forehead resting on Ashaad's chest. He can hardly breathe, hardly think, and cries out in pain when Ashaad sinks his teeth into his shoulder, spilling rivulets of blood into the embroidered fabric of his clothing.
The qunari's grip tightens almost viciously, and with a strangled shout Saemus reaches orgasm, torn between collapsing against Ashaad or flinching away from the assault. He looks up, wide-eyed and honestly afraid, all too aware that his life is at this creature's mercy.
Ashaad is utterly unconcerned about his own release, and stares back at him in a way that borders on studious.
"This is not the way of the Qun," he says, his voice low but remarkably calm, as always.
Saemus glances away, ashamed of himself. "I know."
The next few minutes are spent in utter silence, awkward and uncomfortable. He cleans up as best as he can, perturbed by the damage to his shoulder -- how is he supposed to explain this away? -- and sits near the entrance to the cave, watching as the storm rages just a short distance away.
To his surprise, he feels Ashaad lay a ridiculously oversized hand on his uninjured shoulder, and lets out a sigh of genuine relief. The qunari briefly pets his hair, as one would reward a dog, and then pulls away entirely.
"You will learn," he adds, the words barely audible above the pounding rain. "I will teach you."
Saemus smiles out at the grey sea, and knows he's made the right decision.
crossposted to dragonage-slash