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Their camp is quiet tonight - or as quiet as it can be when sleeping in the wilderness. Entharl, their Mabari, snores loudly some paces away from his tent, interspersed between Oghren’s own half-choked noises across the fire pit that really should get checked out by Wynne when they wake up in the morning.
Overall, it’s peaceful, all things considered. No stray darkspawn or even the occasional bandit. The air is cool, but Alistair can barely feel it. His back is warm where Violenne is pressed against him, leeching off his natural warmth on their pushed together bedrolls. Her thigh rests against the back of his in her attempt to twine together their legs in her sleep. At the divot of Alistair’s spine are hands loosely curled together from where she’d been absentmindedly stroking him during their last conversation before bed. He can feel her breath skate over his skin where the tip of her cold nose nuzzles the nape of his neck.
So, it’s a nice night. A good night, even. Better if Alistair could sleep. But he’s comfortable. Maybe too comfortable because-
His cock is hard.
In the dim moonlight, beneath his smallclothes, the ruddy head pushes up onto the seam of his linens, smearing the fabric with pre-cum until it turns translucent against the tip. Heat travels up his body from the balls of his feet to the apex of his legs. His sack twitches, heavy with disuse where they rest against his thighs. Alistair tries to ignore it. Squeezes his eyes in the hopes it’ll die down enough for him to get some sleep. He cycles through his imagination, pulling at pieces that would soften his arousal.
Darkspawn hordes. His damp socks after a week of travel. Oghren. The smell of Zevran’s Antivan leather boots. Morrigan yelling at him. Violenne laughing at his bad jokes. Violenne smiling at him. Violenne’s tongue in his mouth. Violenne, Violenne, Violenne.
Alistair’s hips jerk forward seeking relief where there is none, pulsing as another dribble wets his smalls. He freezes, then, when Violenne snuffs into his hairline.
Her lips are petal soft on his neck and Alistair’s stomach rolls with distant guilt.
His hand moves away from the cushion of the bedroll before sliding under his shirt and over the layer of fat on his stomach. The tips of his fingers are hot brands on his abdomen, burning a path down his body when a digit brushes the coarse pubic hair leading towards the hem of his smallclothes. Dread blankets his shoulders as familiar as the ache in his knees from kneeling at the feet of Andraste’s stone fixture. It curdles in his stomach, a sense of wrongness compounded by years of Chantry discipline stops his hand from wandering further down.
The ghost sensation of a switch hitting his knuckles after getting caught with his hands in his smalls multiple times by the revered mother has Alistair stilling in his tent.
He’s only touched himself a handful of times since adolescence. Each year, the number dwindling as the fear of being hit by the Sisters stopped him from going any further than a few pats and squeezes until his hardness flagged with each threat of being caught. Relief would only come (ha!) in the form of waking up from a particularly embarrassing dream. Sometimes, if he was lucky enough to be alone in the dormitories, he’d let himself rut into his mattress, shoving his face into the bedding to stop himself from making noise lest the other chantry boys and templar recruits hear him whimpering into his goosefeather pillow. Still, his own hypervigilance dimmed any pleasure he found within his sheets until he eventually stopped trying.
However-
Alistair hasn’t been part of the Chantry for over a year now. There’s no Sister peeking at him between the doors of the dorms to stop him and the other recruits from tugging at themselves in the middle of the night. No wooden switches whistling through the air before hitting thin skin over bone. There’s only Violenne with her soft hands and softer body burrowing into his back.
A vision of her cherried lips pulling away from his mottled neck from weeks ago comes to him unbidden. He’d trembled through his orgasm the first time she slipped her tongue in his mouth, how his embarrassment at coming untouched had been eclipsed by the desire he’d seen in the fattening of Violenne’s pupils making her Elven eyes seem impossibly bigger. He hears it ringing in his ears – the schlick sound when she soaked his thigh with each wet grind of her cunt. Sees the way she smiled sweetly at Alistair when he came a second time against the fabric of her undergarments before walking at his side the rest of the day with his essence dripping between her thighs.
He throbs at the memory.
Not now, Alistair reasons with himself even as the tip of his finger brushes the vein at the base. Maker’s breath, she’s not even awake yet.
Crickets chirp somewhere in the woods. Branches sway with the night breeze. Snoring. More Snoring. And Alistair’s hand slides under his smalls pushing the material down his hips.
His cock bobs in the midnight air, heavy against his abdomen. Alistair palms himself, thumb brushing over the spongy tip peeking out from under the foreskin. He’s warm to the touch and getting warmer. Between the dual sensation of Violenne at his back and the heat of his enclosed fist, sweat beads at his temple. With his index finger and thumb, he pushes the foreskin down and glides his hand over his shaft stroking the thin skin of his frenulum. A moan nearly escapes him, but it’s bitten away, trapped between chapped lips and clenched teeth.
He won’t wake her; she has enough trouble sleeping as it is.
It’s only kind he should stay quiet.
The other hand that’d been clenched at his side grabs something nearby – Violenne’s leggings judging by the texture, likely plucked from the pile of laundry in need of washing– and muffles the whimper threatening to leave him.
Oh Maker, her scent, Alistair huffs against the fabric like a dog, breathing in as much of her as he can. It tickles his nose; the seat of her leggings carries the musk of a week’s travel without bathing. The humidity of his mouth makes the fabric damp, the scent more potent. Ripe like dried, soured berries she tucks away in her perfume sachets. Alistair finds it impossible to keep his eyes open, letting them drift shut as he buries his face deeper into the cloth.
He’ll smell like her; he realizes with a jolt that starts at the base of his spine to the glistening tip of his weeping cockhead. The squelch of his hand breaks the quiet in his tent as he pumps himself over. He’s dripping already, pre-cum beading at the slit and trickling over his knuckles onto the top of his hairy thigh. He’ll get up in the morning with the smell of her cunt on his face and go around killing darkspawn, helping villagers, knowing if they got close enough, they’d catch her scent on his face. The thought clouds his brain and Alistair loses himself to it, humping his hand with simmering desperation.
He’s so close, he can feel it building between his legs, balls tightening with every drag over his sensitive head.
Alistair tries to keep silent – he really does, but there’s only so much the fabric can do to soften his whimpers.
Which is why he misses when the soft puffs of breath transition into tempered, quiet exhales as his fist strips his cock. Which is also why Alistair nearly shouts when the leg resting behind him suddenly clamps over his thigh, keeping him trapped in place.
Alistair’s heart pounds against his ribcage, eyes wide and almost dropping the soiled cloth from his face before the realization sets in. He tenses, hand still cupping himself as the once sleeping body behind him shifts towards him.
Through the worn linen of his shirt, he can feel Violenne’s breasts press against the corded muscles of his back. The hand resting at his side skims over his hips before slotting itself underneath his forearm, lying flat against his belly. Every touch of her skin on his is kindling for the fire in the pit of his stomach. Every caress a hot brand marking him as hers. He sucks in a shaky breath when Violenne’s lips brush against the pointed tip of his ear.
“It’s, ah, not what it looks like,” Alistair says, pulling the drool-soaked leggings away from his face. He winces already feeling the raised eyebrow Violenne is most certainly aiming his way. “Okay, yes, bad excuse. It’s exactly what it looks like.”
He can’t see her face from this angle. Every feature of hers shrouded in darkness save for the reflective glint of her large eyes. His ears feel hot, the flush quickly turning to one of embarrassment as he fumbles through his explanation. The incessant arousal, his thoughts of her, of wearing her slick on his face like a poorly kept secret. His blush worsens when she says nothing as he stutters over why she’d found him with his nose in her laundry. White hot shame courses through his veins. It feels worse than being caught by a Chantry sister somehow. At least he knew what to expect from the revered mother.
But this-
His cock, still loosely held in Alistair’s grip, twitches when Violenne’s finger brushes over the hair leading down his navel.
Words die in his mouth, the stutters turning to a hitch in his breath when Violenne gives an open-mouth kiss to his pulse point. Her saliva cools his skin, and he shivers like a caught rabbit under her leg. A whiny, desperate noise leaves him as she sucks a bruise at the juncture of his jaw and neck. He wants to turn to her, to see what she looks like, but the click of her tongue when he tries to move stops him immediately. Maybe Morrigan was right when she called him a dog. Maybe there was something innate within him that made him want to heel and show his soft underbelly to the Elven arcane warrior behind him and beg for scraps of her approval because the whispered “good boy” as he shifts back into her embrace turns his blood molten, burning away the humiliation as quickly as it came.
“Oh, my love,” her voice is thick with sleep but no less gentle, “you couldn’t help yourself, could you?”
Alistair shakes his head.
A sharp nail traces over the protruding vein at his abdomen. “Use your words,” she chides.
“No.”
“Were you close?”
Alistair wets his lips, “yes.”
Violenne hums, the sound reverberating from her chest into his. She noses at his hairline, and he shudders at the contact. “Show me.”
“W-what?”
He can feel her smile, and then, another kiss where his neck meets his shoulder. “Show me how you touch yourself, Alistair.” It’s equally a demand as it is a request and Alistair flounders, face as red as the flush traveling down his chest. His hips jerk into the loose cradle of his palm but he doesn’t go far with Violenne’s thigh keeping him close to her.
Never one to deny Violenne anything, Alistair wraps his fingers around himself and begins fucking his fist.
The pleasure builds more quickly this time knowing she’s awake and watching him. His body is attuned to every place they’re connected, lit up like a poorly made shock bomb from their rogues’ arsenal. The muscles of his stomach contract as her fingers smooth circles over the soft, thin skin between his hip and thigh. Her breath ghosts over his ear and the corresponding words of encouragement turn his spine into liquid. Squeeze tighter, go slower, you’re doing so well, don’t stop until I tell you to. He’s shaking apart, keens when he feels Violenne grinding against the curve of his ass. He can’t bother trying to hide his moans anymore – instead clinging to the leggings or else risk ripping his bedroll.
He needs– He needs–
“Please,” Alistair turns his head as much as he can. Her nose bumps into his cheek. The angle’s all wrong but he needs – “kiss me–?”
Violenne leans forward, slotting their lips together messily. Alistair’s drunk on her, eyes half-lidded as she licks into his mouth. Their noises, Andraste’s tits, their noises. He swallows her little “ah, ah, ah’s,” as he sucks on her tongue, pushing back onto her hips. A litany of nonsense leaving his lips between sobs.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
His limbs grow heavier. Balls drawn tight. He matches the pace of her hips, twisting his hand as he moves up his shaft. At the first sign of Violenne’s hips spasming, lightning courses through his veins as he comes. Thick ropes of it splash against his chest and drench his fist. His mind blanks as she fucks his mouth taking everything from him. His heart. His cock. His spend. Everything is Violenne’s. He’ll do anything she wants. Anything she asks, he’ll give. He’ll want for nothing but her until his end of days, will die with the memory of her taste on his lips. Alistair gasps brokenly into her mouth, unable to kiss her with his mouth hanging open trying to pull in air.
She’s still riding the aftershocks of her own orgasm when Alistair finally manages to let go of her leggings and run a clean hand through his damp hair. He collapses on his back after tucking himself back into his smallclothes and wiping his hand on his shirt before tossing it with the rest of their laundry pile.
The air in the tent smells of sex, musk and humidity wrapped into one. They’re both sweating profusely, slick where their skin presses together. Faintly, Alistair is aware of the growing wet patch seeping through his linens where Violenne rutted against him.
He can see her now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark. Violenne’s black hair is mussed from sleep and curly in random places from when she undid the two face-framing braids right before bed. Only a thin ring of her dark blue irises are visible in the sliver of moonlight illuminating her skin. The splotchy blush on her face slowly dissipates as she returns to her normal coloring. Alistair takes in every detail of her face.
Maker’s breath but she’s beautiful.
He wants to kiss her again, make her bitten lips even redder than the paint she applies each morning, so he does. She kisses him back slowly, a soft sigh leaving her when they eventually part. Without a second thought, he tucks her into his side where they fit together like two puzzle pieces.
“Alistair,” she murmurs softly, catching him before his eyes can fully droop. He almost doesn’t hear her, sleep finally tugging at his bones.
“Yes, my dear?”
“I love you.” She presses a kiss to his cheek where his dimple is and a knot forms in his throat.
“And I love you,” he says back. His heart beats for her and only her. “Always.”