This is something I wrote a good few years ago and uploaded to my old fanfiction accountand it was based on my first Amell play through of DA:O. It doesn't apply to the current story I'm writing as that applies to a second play through with the same character. But I liked this enough to upload it again with a few alterations and corrections.
And to be fair, the world could do with more Alistair inspired smut. :B
Alistair swore under his breath, he rubbed the back of his neck where it ached, slumping further over on the log he sat upon. He had been grunting, groaning and moaning for most of the evening. Angry, frustrated with himself; with the entire situation.
Camp had been set up outside Redcliffe, they were to be making their way to Denerim the next day to seek out this Brother Genitivi mentioned by Bann Teagan. Hopefully they would find him and be able to get to the Urn of Sacred Ashes before it was too late. Arl Eamon was not long for this world, that was for certain they had to move quickly.
He had made his feelings clear to his fellow Grey Warden, about how she had handled the whole situation, and now felt like a complete ass. She had done all she could, done her best. The Tower of Magi was no longer, since the Rite of Annulment had been invoked so that meant any ritual involving many mages was out of the question. Then that blood mage, Jowen had suggested blood magic. It involved a sacrifice.
Isha Amell, a Circle mage-turn-Grey Warden, had not answered immediately, in fact she had refused to give an answer for some time. She had been visibly shaken by the options before her. Either to kill Isolde as a sacrifice to save her son, Connor. Or kill Connor himself to kill the demon possessing him.
She had left the main hall, and Alistair had found her later in a secluded room crying. He had not disturbed her, only returned to the main hall to speak with the Arlessa and Bann Teagan about the situation with the Arl himself – how long he had been in the comatose state, what they had heard from the other Knights of Redcliffe, anything.
Isha had returned after regaining her composure, though her cheeks were tear stained and her eyes blood shot. She had opted for the blood magic, Isolde was the sacrifice. She had entered the fade and defeated the Desire Demon alone. Connor lived but Isolde... Isolde had sacrificed herself. And Alistair had confronted her at camp in an angry rage.
He had accused her for being no better than the blood mage Jowen, that she should have found another way. That no one should have had to die. That he would leave her to explain the situation to Arl Eamon when he awoke, why the wife he adored was dead. He had been so angry, furious. He had owed the Arl more than the death of his wife, even if it had spared their child.
"What did you want me to do?! There was nothing else we could have done. The Circle is no more! There were no other mages for me to call on!" Isha had shouted. She had thrown her staff on the ground out of frustration. Irritated and enraged by the Templar before her. "It was not an easy decision. If there had been another way I would have taken it!"
"You should have tried harder!" Alistair had argued back. "You should have found a better way. Resorting to blood magic, of all things?!"
The party they traveled with were trying ardently to not listen to the argument, everyone awkwardly tried to keep themselves occupied, but the noise of their fighting was carrying throughout the camp reaching even Morrigan's secluded place of refuge. She had ventured a few feet closer, curious. She had become firm friends with the Grey Warden mage. Her disdain towards Alistair had been apparent from their first meeting so long ago in the Korcari Wilds, and she now immensely disliked how he was accusing Isha for not trying.
"She was willing, Alistair." Isha snapped, "you may have been fine with the blood of an innocent child staining your hands, but I would not have been."
He had been shocked by that – that she was implying that he would have preferred the death of the Arl's son Connor, to that of his wife. That had made him all the more angrier. "I would have preferred no death at all!"
"As would have I!" Isha's chest was heaving, her eyes were brimming with tears and one found its way to trickle down her face. She quickly wiped it away with a gloved hand and remained stone faced. Alistair felt a pang of guilt. He had not meant to upset her so. He hated to see her unhappy. She had been distraught when the Templar Commander had ordered the death of all remaining mages in the Circle. "You think you are the only one to feel remorse? I am not so inhuman to feel nothing for my actions. Had there been another option, any other option, I would have taken it. But there was not." Isha explained fiercely. "Perhaps next time instead of judging others, you can step up and make a difficult choice like that."
"Isha-"
"Enough!" She had swatted his hand away with her own crossly. Tears were running freely down her face now, and Alistair wanted nothing more than to apologise. To wrap the smaller woman in his arms and never let go. She had scooped up her staff and turned away from him, trekking the short distance to Morrigan. Leliana had followed and the mabari Argor, who had snarled at Alistair as he had passed him.
Alistair's shoulders had sagged. He truly felt like an ass.
Another grumble escaped Alistair's lips. It was his turn on watch and for the most part everyone else had turned in, all except the Antivan elf, Zevran. Even Isha had disappeared into her tent uncharacteristically early. Alistair wished she had not, that she was still awake and that Zevran was asleep, so they could get a chance to talk.
He hated just how much he currently loathed himself for becoming so angry with her, it had not been her fault that nothing could be done. They had been faced with two options, and neither were preferable. But she had made an extremely difficult choice, one Alistair's doubted he would have been able to make himself. He would apologise for losing his temper at her, she would understand. He had explained how Arl Eamon had raised him, and how much the Arl meant to him – even after their less than amicable departure from one another.
In the morning he would embrace her in his arms and kiss her like he meant to. As he had done some weeks ago in camp; it had been a bold act on his part not one he thought he would be the first to make. But after she had called for him during a nightmare he had been unable to stop himself. The memory of her lips moving against his was one her savored and it replayed in his mind near on constantly. They had been soft, welcoming; despite her initial surprise from the intimate gesture. Her fingers had meshed through his blonde hair urging the kiss deeper. He had obliged. He would have thrown her down on the ground and torn her clothes off there and then. Made love to her as if their lives depended on it; but the thought of doing so made his blood run cold.
He wanted to.
Maker knew he wanted to.
Feel her skin against his, sweat slicked; have her writhing underneath him, reacting to each thrust. Moaning his name on breaths stolen between heated kisses. Just the thought of it make his cheeks flare red, and blood rush to his loins.
He had been sheltered by the Chantry while being brought up, thoughts such as the ones he had regarding the dark haired Grey Warden were frowned upon. And had he still been in the Chantry, having illicit thoughts about naked bodies, unbridled passion and carnal pleasures – with a mage no less – he would have been told to chastise himself. To beg the Maker and Andrastre for their forgiveness.
"Oh..." Alistair groaned, dipping his head further; his neck still ached intently.
He had argued with women before, he did so with Morrigan on a daily basis, but had never felt quite this guilty for it. Never wanted to throw himself on a woman's mercy and ask forgiveness of his pigheadedness, so why did it matter so much with Isha Amell? Why did he effect him so? Why was it when those baleful eyes caught his, he felt like the wind had been knocked from his chest. And when she graced him with a rare, warm and heartfelt smile his knees went weak and it felt like he could no longer stand.
The answer was clear, and it was one he had been trying to avoid. He was falling slowly and steadily in love with her. He had been since their first meeting in Ostagar. Since she had walked in on him arguing with a mage from the Circle and timidly introduced herself. They had teased and taunted one another from day one. She had teased him about dressing up, about his hair and his love of cheese. He had made fun of her attire and her staff – though he had taken to calling it a stick after Argor had run off with it once and had resulted in a game.
That was all that could be made sense of, that somehow amidst everything, the death, the dark spawn, the Blight. With the looming civil war and the knowledge that they were the only two Grey Wardens remaining in all of Ferelden he had enveloped her into his heart.
And how now probably destroyed any chance of happiness with her.
"Maker... Alistair you fool." Alistair sighed to himself, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. He heard a shifting from a short distance away and glanced up, Zevran had moved towards him, leaving his weapons on the floor. The elf sharpened them near on constantly – saying that when a Crow allowed their weapons to dull, they had lost their assassin sense.
"You seem anxious my friend," Zevran spoke with his foreign drawl. He had long phrasing on his words, and eyes that were constantly half-hooded. He always appeared to be undressing the women of the camp with his amber eyes; something that Alistair hated. He despised the elf when he looked at Isha, made a comment which had her blushing and giggling. He did not consider Zevran a friend. "Perhaps Zevran can help you, no?"
Alistair shook his head, "its fine, Zevran. I'm just tired."
"Oh now, that is a lie." Zevran replied, he sounded almost playful. "I bet I can guess what it is that plays upon your mind."
Alistair groaned.
"Our Grey Warden, no? Your thoughts dwell on her, and the argument that passed between the two of you today?"
Bloody elf. Of course that was what he was thinking about, he didn't have to pretend he didn't know.
Still, Alistair was slightly appreciative of Zevran's company, and thought to himself that talking about what he felt might be helpful in some way. And who else could he speak to. Oghren? No, he was so drunk all the time he was lucky to ever get a sentence from him that made sense. Plus if Oghren's display while trying to woo Felsi at Lake Calenhad was anything to go by – his advice would be to insult her. A tactic that appeared to work only on Dwarven women.
Sten was as stoic as a rock and twice as sturdy. Just looking at Sten gave Alistair the shivers; he hated how Sten's eyes pierced through everything as if trying to burn through them. And his way of speaking... he would get no sympathy from the Qunari – in fact he doubted sympathy was in the Qunari vocabulary. And lastly there was Shale; the golem they had rescued from Honnleth who had a penchant for crushing pigeons and speaking to his pet rock. The thought of trying to discuss issues of the heart with Shale almost made Alistair burst out laughing. Besides he wasn't even sure if golem's had a gender.
Zevran was the best option – as much as Alistair hated to admit it. He had more experience with the fairer sex than he, and while he seemed over eager to bed every woman he saw, there was no denying the elf's prowess and ability to read women. Resigned, Alistair sat up and faced the elf, who sat on a tree stump close to him.
"I feel like an ass." Alistair admitted – it seemed to be his word of the day. "I wasn't angry with her, not really. I know she did her best. I was angry with the situation. That there was no other option to save them both."
"Of course." Zevran spoke, nodding his head, Alistair assumed in an attempt to be sympathetic. "And what of the Warden?"
"What do you mean?" Alistair asked.
"Your feelings towards her? If you do not mind my saying so, you seem... frustrated, my friend." The elf arched a fine blond eyebrow. Alistair stared at him dumbstruck. His mouth opened and closed once or twice as he attempted to find the words to explain himself. "May I be blunt?"
Alistair exhaled heavily. "I... suppose." This was not the way he had expected the conversation to go. But he should not have been surprised. It appeared all Zevran thought about was killing and sex.
"You were raised by the Chantry, no? Sheltered? Therefore I am guessing you have never been with a woman?"
"Not as such, no." Alistair admitted. There had been chaste kisses with women at fares when he had been in the Chantry, and failed fumbling after his admission into the Grey Wardens; but those had all ended in disaster. He was, in layman's terms, still a virgin. And from what he could understand of Isha, so was she.
"But you are fond of her, yes? So far as to say you love her?" Zevran inquired innocently enough, though his mouth had drifted into a half smirk.
The Templar struggled and cleared his throat, there was no point in denying it, Zevran was fully aware of the truth in his question. "Yes, I suppose I do."
"Then why do you not act on this love?" asked Zevran. Alistair looked at him puzzled. Zevran smiled and laughed to himself, the only way the man had ever heard the elf laugh, entirely mirthful, full of noise and character. The way he laughed was as ostentatious as his accent and hair. "My friend, you are both passionate. Extremely so – the argument this evening proves that. I suggest acting on that passion. You have kissed, yes? And yet you have not kissed her since, you have not dared to delve deeper into her wants and desires. My friend, were I the owner of a heart such as hers, I would make all the effort I could to kiss her every day, to lay with her every night until there was no energy in me left to expend." Zevran's eyes became dark, his tone serious. "If she was to consider me as more than just a friend, then I would not hesitate to make her mine."
Alistair inhaled and glowered at the elf understanding what it was he was saying, implying. That if Alistair did not 'claim' her soon, then he would. And he could do it too. Isha had made it clear that she saw Zevran as nothing but a friend. But the elf was a tricky character, and could easily worm his way through her defenses. Alistair could not allow that to happen.
"What do you suggest?" Alistair asked fervently, "I'm a Chantry boy, I can't just jump in head first to something so intimate. Just thinking about it makes me feel like a fool, like I would ruin everything."
"You think far too much," Zevran commented with a wry smile, "no one is expecting you to throw her down on the ground and make love to her, though I imagine she may want that in her dreams. But women are more sensitive than you may understand. Simple touches and caresses can illicit such wonderful sounds; and can be more intimate and pleasing than the act itself."
He couldn't believe he was talking about this with the Antivan. Zevran was perfectly at ease, he smiled and spoke easily about this, he had done it so many times. Alistair however found his throat growing parched at the mere thought of doing anything except kissing the fiery mage. Zevran was waiting expectantly for Alistair to comment, he would not expose the secrets of how to please a woman without some prompting and interest from the Templar.
Alistair swallowed, "what would you do?"
"Me?" Zevran laughed again, "we are not talking about me. My fingers are nimble and have a mind of their own when it comes to pleasing women... or men for that matter. We are talking about you. Tell me what you like about her? Where do your eyes wander when she is near?"
Alistair thought for a moment, picturing the young woman in his mind. She no longer wore the long robe from the Circle, not since they had come across a Chastened robe on the corpse of a dark spawn. The robes made of soft buck skin leather and a marsh green colour, with shoulder patches made of the soft fur of a wolf. The robes were cut down the front, open from the neck to the navel. And were cut up the sides at her thighs, split down both sides. It was a robe unlike any other he had seen, most robes draped and covered all signs of femininity. But these robes accentuated curves, clung in every place acting almost like a second skin. When speaking to her, Alistair at times found it hard to concentrate and when she wasn't paying attention, either deep in conversation with another of their party, or studying a tome, his eyes would wander freely.
At first he had spent much time concentrating on where the robes were cut down the front, how her breasts were still kept secure. He had studied her legs, how long they were, the tone of her skin; a milky white colour free of blemishes. But he found his eyes mostly went to her navel, where her skin was taught and toned behind the clothing.
"Her stomach..." Alistair admitted, "her thighs, her breasts." He added. "I look at all of her, Zevran."
"But you mentioned three specific places." Zevran pointed out, "those places are where you should concentrate your ministrations to begin with, until you grow bolder than is."
Alistair was puzzled, "and how do I do that, exactly?"
Zevran sighed, though he was amused, "kisses. The skin is a very sensitive thing, more so in a heighten state of passion. Kisses, touching, my friend; listen to her voice when you do something, it will tell you all you need to know. For now though, I will retire." The elf rose from the tree stump and bid Alistair a peaceful good night. Alistair felt that would be the last thing he would be getting now he had the thoughts of touching Isha in his mind.
He sat there, on the log with his hands templed and his head down for who knew how long. He poked the fire occasionally with a stick he had left on the ground. His mind was awash with images that made his blood run faster, his pulse quicken. Images of Isha in a state of unbridled rapture – the kind he had only ever read about in books late at night in the Chantry.
Thoughts of her hair down, billowing around her shoulders, the dark tresses complimenting her ivory skin as he traced his fingers down across her body. Moving to fondle her breasts, to feel their weight and size fit perfectly in one hand. How his fingers would trail down her torso, to her navel, all the while he would be kissing her throat leaning over her in total control – not giving her what she so desperately wanted.
In his mind he could feel her fingers holding his back, hear the sound of her breathing. Heavy, littered with pleasing moans. The feel of her lips against his was one he savored, one he wanted to feel once more. He could imagine it all, how he would tease her with his fingers, bring her to the brink of ecstasy and leave her unfulfilled until he was willing to let her have what she craved. How he would hear her pant, trying to say something – his name, what she wanted, how she wanted him. Then finally, when he was ready and not before, he would ease himself into her, muffling her voice with kisses that left them gasping for oxygen.
No doubt it would be awkward at first, they would struggle to find a rhythm that suited their inexperience; but they would eventually. Then he would move into it, rolling his hips against her, his pelvis slotting into place with each subtle movement. Long legs would wrap around his waist, her hips arched off the bedroll, welcoming each pulsating thrust.
They would move at alternating ways, complimenting each other. Her hips would be raised to greet him, he would pull out almost all the way before thrusting back into her waiting womanhood almost piercing her. They would move and grind, moan and heave, roll and kiss until they both met the height of excitement-
"Maker's breath!" Alistair jumped from the log he sat on, his mind had conjured many things but nothing as graphic as that. He felt an uncomfortable tightness in his groin, held in place by the leather britches he wore. He roughly pulled his hand through his hair. He needed to deal with this, he would be able to when he was relived from watch; he would have to be quiet, he did not want to wake the others in the party. He would do what he had been doing now for some time, and bite down on his bedroll when the moment came.
Alistair sighed loudly and sat back on the log, he had to move slowly. Too fast and he felt he would cause himself some damage. His neck ached from where it had been bent so far forward. He heard a rustling from opposite him, he would be being relived from watch now.
Though it would have to be her who was the relive him. She crawled out of her tent with her hair loose from its usual bun; tendrils fell over her shoulders and framed her face exquisitely. She had changed from her night things into her Chastened robes, though was without her gloves and the boots, the fire light reflected off her hair, littering it with orange glows. She seemed to be unaware of him for the moment, as she dug around her pack for a tome – one she had been reading for some time.
After his conversation with Zevran, Alistair felt more frustrated than ever; now as Isha was there to take him from watch duty, he did not want to go. He wanted more than anything to dispel the pressure that was uncomfortable in his groin, but at the same time he so much wanted to stay with her and have some time where it could be just the two of them. He examined her in her robes, his memory had done little service to the way they hung upon her, yes they were like a second skin – they moved and adjusted as she did. The leather was suede and soft, it curved when she moved, rising up in places. The robes left so little to the imagination, Alistair admired his fortitude to not take her there and then.
Her figure was fine, slender shoulders with amble bosom – not too much, but enough to be pleasing to the eye. Her waist cinched in at the smallest part, giving way to attractive swaying hips and then her legs.
Alistair groaned and cleared his throat, the pressure which had been slowly reliving was back. Isha stood straight, a tome clasped to her chest surprised by the noise from Alistair. He glanced up to see her, she looked uneasy and troubled. She chewed her lower lip as if debating whether to come over. He did nothing, he would not put pressure on her, he imagined she was still angry with him for the things he had said.
However, he heard the sound of the leather material moving, and her shadow cast over him as she stood before him. She placed the tome to one side on the log on which Alistair sat, and squatted.
"Are you in pain?" Isha asked; her fingers tentatively crawled along Alistair's face to his chin, brushing the stubble he had not shaved off; with little force she tilted his head up. She had cleared her hair onto one shoulder, leaving the other exposed. Her pulse vibrated in her neck, Alistair could see that clearly. Her lips were slightly parted, damp where she had licked them moments before. "Alistair?"
Maker she was stunning in light such as this. She was beautiful all the time, but in the low light of the fire which illuminated only half her face, she was almost ethereal. She swallowed and Alistair noted the moving of the throat as she did so. Alistair moved his hands from his lap, placing them over Isha's smaller ones. His fingers were calloused from where he had trained with a sword and shield his entire life, but he could still feel the smoothness of her skin beneath the digits.
"I'm sorry." He said slowly, not daring to raise his eyes to meet her own. He felt ashamed for the way he had spoken to her earlier, and more so the way he had thought about her minutes ago. She was a person – one he loved – and not something to be thought of in such a manner, "for the way I spoke earlier. It was out of turn... I know you did your best." He paused, twisting his head and brushing his lips across the palm of one of her hands, "I was more angry at the situation... I took it out on you, that was wrong of me. And weak."
Isha sighed softly, her fingers stroked along his cheeks and she coaxed his head up to see his face more clearly, to meet his soft honey gaze with warm green one. "Dear Alistair..." she murmured, she placed a soft kiss on his forehead, and followed that with others that he could barely feel on his eyelids and mouth. "It is not a sign of weakness to get angry. The Arl is important to you, I understand that. You had every right to be angry – it was an unfair situation for us all."
"I should have been more understanding."
Isha shook her head, "no. You dealt with it the only way you knew how; and I do not hold that against you."
"Isha..."
"Hush." She leaned forward placing her mouth over his. Alistair's hands moved from where they covered Isha's, round to cup her face. Her over fingers traveled back, running back through his short hair. The kiss was insistent, hungry; like she was purveying all her desire and need into that one action. Alistair's hands moved from her face to her waist, where he grasped it in a strong grip, yanking her roughly towards him, between his legs. Isha's arms encircled his neck, she was almost sitting on his lap.
Alistair breathed, "Maker..." he muttered, littering kisses across Isha's eyelids and cheek bones. Isha's mouth delved lower as she began to lay soft kisses along his chin and neck; one of her hands had drifted to his chest and had burrowed beneath his shirt, her fingers were drawing sensual circles on his skin. He rasped and his head drifted back as she bit gently on his skin.
Letting his head fall back had been a bad idea, immediately his spine was wracked with a sharp pain and he swore. Isha fell back on her heels, observing the Templar as he winced and rubbed where the pain was.
"What did you do?" she rose to her feet, standing between Alistair's legs, she moved her hands onto his shoulders.
"It's just stiff." Alistair explained.
"Here, lean your head forward." Isha instructed. Alistair did as she asked. He felt the tips of her fingers and her nails gently scratching at his skin, into the back of his hair and down again in a rhythmic way, while he felt at the same time a warmth spread through his skin from her finger tips, easing the tension he felt.
Isha was first and foremost a Primal mage, but she had Spirit Healer abilities that she rarely used. Alistair wondered why as she had very skillful hands. The hair on the back of his neck was standing upright like soldiers, and his skin had turned to goose flesh where she touched. The pain had disappeared for the most part, but still she continued to stroke his neck. Involuntarily, a satisfied moan tumbled from Alistair's lips.
The significance of their position was not lost on Alistair as he viewed the situation. She stood between his legs, partly bent over him to view his neck better, his hands were in his lap. Inches from his face was the exposed flesh of her navel, and he could easily reach for her thighs and haunches from where he was. His mind thought back to the conversation he had had with Zevran, one phrase the elf had said particularly circled his mind.
"The skin is a very sensitive thing, more so in a heighten state of passion. Kisses, touching, my friend; listen to her voice when you do something, it will tell you all you need to know."
Alistair breathed deeply, the other members of the party were asleep, and when Isha's watch finished, she would go to wake up who was next – so the likelihood of interruption was not high.
Their kiss before had been heated and passionate, why should he not follow on that. He listened to his gut and grasped Isha's hips. As he had expected the ministrations on his neck stopped immediately, he didn't dare look up, one glance into those questioning eyes and he would lose all nerve he had.
He kissed the skin of her navel first, softly, his mouth partly open. Her skin was soft, like the finest silk Alistair had ever felt, his mouth moved over her flesh so easily and his tongue traveled across it without issue. He gently bit on the skin around her exposed navel, Isha inhaled sharply but did not complain. Her fingers had drawn back into his hair, where they twisted and tangled in the short locks, keeping a firm but gentle grip. A sign to Alistair that she was enjoying what he was doing.
Above him, Alistair heard a soft sigh of pleasure; his kisses were growing lower down her torso, though he was firm in the mind that he would not venture below her hips with his mouth; not for now. He moved his hands carefully, slowly and with care so not to alarm the mage, slipping from their place on her hips and sliding beneath the back of her robe. He grasped with his large hands the flesh of her buttocks, kneading with his fingers, parting them and then squeezing them back together in slow circles.
Isha's breathing was hitching in her throat as she moaned softly. It was like a kind of music to his ears; he listened carefully to the sounds which came from her throat, all sounded good; but he discovered quickly, the breathier her breathing, the more she enjoyed what he did.
He dared to ventured lower, leaving her backside for the moment, teasing his hands down, stroking the insides of her thighs where he could reach around. Isha's hands went to his shoulders, clenching down on his skin. She leaned forward, her legs opening slightly, enough for Alistair to get his hands all the way around to the very inside of her leg.
"Oh Maker..." Isha murmured. Alistair felt her legs quivering in his grip, she was struggling to stand and was now applying more weight to her arms to stay up right. Her head dangled by his ear, she occupied her mouth by taking the lobe of it with her lips and beginning to suckle. Alistair groaned to the act.
He responded, scratching his fingers down the inside of Isha's legs. She bit down on the fleshy nub; Alistair repeated the action, using his finger nails; Isha trembled like a frightened rabbit.
"Alistair." Isha breathed, laying her forehead in the crook of his neck, "Maker! – Alistair..." her voice turned guttural and descended on a groan. Alistair had dared to move his fingers over the cotton of her underwear. He had found it damp and probed further, causing the pleasing noise to illicit from the younger Grey Warden.
With nimble fingers Alistair pushed the soft material to one side. He felt passed a patch of coarse pubic hair to the wetness he sought. Isha practically vibrated against him with eagerness. His other hand had returned to her buttocks, clenched and unclenching; feeling the flesh with hard keen fingers.
He was tentatively feeling his way around her, touching and probing with his finger tips in to the moist confines he had discovered. Isha twitched and arched her body, tempting him to press the digits further; but he would wait. He wanted to enjoy, to explore her now, to listen and feel the reactions to everything he did.
Isha's body tingled under the sensations she was suddenly accosted with. How could this be the same Templar, the one who gave chaste kisses, who had been raised by priests. How could he be doing this; making her feel like her mind had given over and her body was going to explode. Where had he learned such things? And why had he waited until now to demonstrate his prowess.
Suddenly, she moaned louder than she had meant to, and buried her face into Alistair's cotton shirt. He laughed beside her ear.
"You liked that?" he asked, his voice husky.
"Mhm-hm..." Isha replied through the cotton she was biting on.
Again Alistair's fingers shifted, and pinched the small nub he had found that had gained that reaction hoping for it again. Isha groaned but was muffled by the fabric, her body tensed though; he had obviously found a good spot for her. His fingers were slicked by her own juices betraying her enjoyment and excitement. His member undulated painfully in the leather confines he wore, he would need to release himself soon.
He ran his middle finger over Isha's slit and she quivered. His large hand cupped beneath her; his thumb resting against the sensitive nub he had found, rubbing and teasing it with urgent movements. Her body jerked in response to the ministrations he showed. He carefully teased the entrance to her body with tip of his finger, working his way into her gently and slowly, letting her adjust to the intrusion. Her body was tight around the single digit as he worked it; pulling in and out slowly and deliberately. Isha was rocking back, meeting the movements of his finger, rolling her hips into his hand. He flicked his thumb over her clitoris causing violent trembles to break out across her body.
Alistair grunted, his hand on her backside had moved around to her hip, gripping to her tightly. Isha breathed heavily beside his ear; he reached up and pushed her head towards him, kissing her mouth fiercely. Her tongue pushed passed his lips invading his mouth, clashing with his, her fingers dug into his skin. She pulled away for air, saliva hung from her lips.
"I'm going to put another in." Alistair explained, "is that...?"
Isha nodded, "mhm." She held still for a moment, the ring finger on his hand joined the middle one. Isha whimpered softly, relaxing her muscles trying to accept the change. The Templar kept his fingers still for the moment, letting her become accustomed. He waited until Isha kissed his mouth hotly, her fingers now gripping to his shirt.
Now the two fingers began to move, thrusting slowly and deliberately into her; while Alistair continued to rub and tease her. Isha moaned deeply; her hips rocking back and forth, the muscles clenching around his fingers drawing them deeper, penetrating further.
"Oh Maker..." Her head dropped back, Alistair kissed and nibbled her throat. "Alistair-!" Isha moaned again, her movements becoming more erratic and tempestuous.
"Isha-!" One final thrust of his fingers, Alistair simply continued to flick his thumb across her clitoris. The rolling and grinding against his fingers persisted. Her muscles tightened around him and she breathed out raggedly.
"Ah.. Ah-!" A final grind and she bit down on Alistair's shirt, muffling her cries of ecstasy as waves rolled over her. She contracted around him, liquid gushing from her entrance, dripping down Alistair's fingers onto his hand.
Isha breathed deeply, heavily and in gasps as she recovered against the Templar who held her in place. She winced as he withdrew his fingers. He shifted her so she sat upon his lap, her arms around his neck, her head placed on one shoulder. She was starting to breathe normally now; she had a glazed expression across her face.
Alistair nuzzled her hair, "are you... all right?" he asked carefully.
She nodded, "yes..." Her head rose from his shoulder and she turned to look at him, "I thought Chantry boys were innocent." She teased.
"Oh, we are." Alistair admitted, "some books are not, and cannot be hidden from rambunctious boys – no matter how hard the priests try." He grinned for a moment and was then serious again, "I hope I didn't over step my bounds."
"No." Isha murmured, "but what about you?"
"I'm fine." He lied, in truth he was bursting. He had a terrible pain in his balls that needed to be released quickly. He had a feeling he would only need to touch himself before his excited was expelled.
Isha sighed softly, "so... what now? You do that but... I sense you are not yet ready to sleep together?"
Alistair felt himself blushing, it was so strange to hear it put so bluntly. "No... not yet. I don't want to rush this, is that... alright?"
"Of course." Isha smiled, she kissed the corner of his mouth, "I will be ready when you are." She rose to her feet now able to stand and reached for her discarded tome. "You should go to bed. We have a long walk ahead of us in the morning."
"Ah yes... Denerim." Alistair muttered, "you remember I told you about Goldanna, my sister?" he asked, turning and facing Isha.
"Yes, I remember." He went to speak again, but she silenced him, kissing his mouth fervently, "we will visit, as I promised. Now go to bed."
Alistair planted a final kiss on her lips before getting to his feet and crossing the short distance to his tent. Once he had climbed passed the canvas flap, safe in the darkness within he reclined, untied his britches and released himself. He was swollen, and pulsating. He knew the ideal release would be with Isha – but what had had said was true. He wasn't ready to bed her, and she wasn't ready to be bedded. The time would come – but not yet.
He grasped himself between rough fingers, and began to stroke at an easy, even rhythm. He arched his head back; his eyes closed and rolling back into his head as he began to work his length. As the pressure built he pictured her face above him, her body on top of his, rolling and writhing, her muscles clasped around him. Her face above his, kisses exchanged through stolen breaths. He heard her breathing in his mind, the pants, the groans; the way she heaved her words in the midst of rapture.
"Maker-!" Release came and it was rapid. Alistair felt the tightness and uncomfortable feeling that had been building all evening expel and the familiar sticky substance coat his hand. His member now flaccid, Alistair quickly cleaned himself and his hand with a spare cloth used for polishing armor. He flung it to one side and replaced his britches. He lay back, staring out into the dark; he felt satisfied. They had taken a step.