Title: Some Enchantment Required
Description: Tongue-in-cheek smut, if mostly veiled. Response to the Cheeky Monkey Impossible Pairing challenge – BRAIN BLEACH MAY BE NEEDED.
Author's Notes: The further I got in writing this, the more convinced I was that I've gone completely around the bend in imagining this pairing, never mind the encounter itself. The original title for the atrocity committed below, which I came to believe might draw the ire of the site administrators, was Liquor in the Front. I had to stretch the premise of the Dark Ritual quest a bit to get the basis for it, but I'm absolutely terrified at the ease with which the rest of the story came to me after I jumped that hurdle. Many apologies to Alistair - I really do love him - but I had to impugn him just a bit to get to our leaping off point. Read at your own risk.
'Tis most distressing, I find, that of all the blatant lies and incomplete truths I would have heard from she who bade me capture the Old God, this would be an element lacking in my awareness. Bumbling fool though he is, I would have expected the future figurehead of this blighted nation to have been engaging in deception on the subject of his purity in an attempt to endear himself to the Warden. Curse the woman, devoting her attentions so to that Chantry tart. More curses still upon that benighted virgin, that in all the time spent traipsing about he couldn't have sufficiently attracted me in some way, so I might not have been required to cast the complete spell, thus sparing myself this supernatural and revoltingly wanton frustration.
Magic being required as it was to activate more than the mere components in play, I would send the Warden again to slay Flemeth for her omission in this regard were such a thing in the realm of possibility. In all her careful instructions, and for all her uncommon patience in imparting this lore unto me, not once did she even hint that my own release would be necessary to complete the circuit of the spell. 'Tis not prudery on her part, of this I am certain. Never has the woman passed the whole of any knowledge to me, and I see now my folly in believing that the gravity of this ritual would see her breaking her custom. The more fool, I, for not realizing that His Virginity would be unable to bring me the end I require.
I cannot say which is worse. First to consider is the notion that – oh, my – I could smell my only remaining option for finishing this spell long before I could see him, for all that he bathed for the first time in our acquaintance this evening. Quite possibly, in fact, for the first time in his existence. Neither quality nor quantity of ablution would be sufficient to clear that alcoholic taint, I am convinced. Then there is the idea that – what has he been imbibing, that tingles so under the ministrations of his tongue? – my magic has been so powerful in its purpose as to render this experience somewhat physically enjoyable. Either of those views would be preferable to thinking I possess even a shred of altruism that would compel me to close this arcane circuit for any reason other than the need to rid myself of this magical… abandon.
Blast. He's retreated from that prickling occupation, when this could so easily have been concluded given another moment. Never before has he been able to take a hint, but of course he would recall me intimating that I might allow him to take his own pleasure from this encounter. Damnation! How awkward it is, his fumbling about now to determine the proper placement of my legs as he rises above me. And yet in spite of this, and of my thoroughly and firmly held belief that passion should be conducted with some sense of decorum, I find that under my enchantment, my body is very nearly begging for his entrée.
Yes. Yes. Now, you vile little dwarf, now! Disgusting, that I would be compelled to feel so. Even more so, aware as I am now that as he situates himself he is ever so slightly keening, a sound that much resembles that made by the hairless, swine-like creatures of his former home.
And now he is moving, finding a surprisingly pleasurable rhythm in direct disharmony with his incessant squealing. Searching for any other concept upon which to focus, I am drawn back time and again to the remarkably enjoyable physical perceptions his experienced movements are bringing within me. At the behest of that blighted spell, I'm even hearing appreciative sounds escaping my lips, even as my breathing quickens after no more than a few equally horrifying and exquisite minutes of his attentions.
Sensing the proximity of my release, his pace quickens, and I am attempting to brace myself against the onslaught of sensation by grasping at the fire-hued braids of his most unappealing facial hair. Even as the magic gripping me compels me to cry out a startled, "Old God! Yes! Old God! Ooooold Goooooooood!" before I can begin to quell the exaltation, I feel my undoing amid wave upon wave of arcane ecstasy.
No sooner than the shameful acknowledgement of the spell's completion has passed my lips, I hear his climax accompanied by the release of his customary phlegmatic, though slightly prolonged, "Heeeeeeeeh."
Saints and sinners, he doesn't even bother to dress before gathering his ragged articles of clothing and informing me on his way to the door that it was his pleasure doing business with me.
Revolting. I shall have to consult the Warden on the morrow regarding a spell to induce amnesia.