Shirtless
Alistair muttered to himself as he dug through his pack. He didn't want to risk the lantern, but if he couldn't find it soon, he might have to.
Where in the blasted abyss was it?
It was his last clean shirt. It was his favorite and the only one he still owned that hadn't been cut, torn, burned or bled on, and then mended at various points during their adventures. The one with the soft, heavy fiber that held in warmth so well. He'd set it in the top of his pack before taking the first shift of the watch that night so he would have it to change into to go to sleep for exactly that reason.
Where was it?
He scrubbed his hands together to keep his fingers from aching while he considered the lantern again. Inside the shelter of their tent, his breath no longer fogged out in a visible loss of heat but his shoulders stayed tight and hunched.
The weather had turned for the worse as the day had lengthened, clouds pulling shadow and chill in after them as they had crept down from the mountains. The rain had started as a fine drizzle that dampened everything it touched before turning into sleet as the temperature dropped at nightfall. Now snow was falling in a soft unreal kind of hush broken only by the sound of it sliding and dripping to the forest floor.
They had barely gotten their tents set up in time.
The fire they had tried to build had spluttered, choked to death on the sopping wood, and gone out.
Supper had been leftovers eaten cold.
Alistair had spent his watch hunched under an antipathic spruce tree, shifting from foot to foot in a futile attempt to slow the seepage of cold mud into the worn leather of his boots. The tree had conspired to drip on him repeatedly. Right down the back of his neck.
He wondered where a person learned things like how to keep a fire going in the rain. Duncan had known. Just one more thing his mentor had never gotten around to teaching him. Alistair had never missed the searing heat from those giant bonfires so much as on a night like this.
By the time Sten had come around to relieve him, he'd been damp and chilled through every layer he had.
He was miserable and all he wanted now was to bundle up in his blankets to get warm.
Except that he couldn't find the stupid shirt.
He stooped to search the floor and the even folds of smelly old blanket that served as the dog's bed in case it had fallen.
A sigh of shifting sound distracted him. After a moment of muffled fumbling aided by a few choice curses, the lantern was lit and a warm glow rose through the cold space inside the tent.
'Hmmph, what are you doing?" Kallian's voice was fuzzed and sleepy. "Come to bed, already."
When his eyes adjusted, he looked over to the tousled elf where she squinted up in irritation at him from amidst the rumpled heap of blankets and furs that was their bed.
"Sorry, love. I didn't mean to wake you." He murmured in apology before turning back to take advantage of the light to finish his search only to stop and turn back to look again at his lover.
Or more specifically at what his lover was wearing.
It ought to have been laughable. A tiny elven woman wearing a garment meant for a much larger human man.
Heavy folds of excess fabric hung down her arms, her hands were hidden by too much sleeve. One shoulder was exposed were the neckline had slipped sideways. He knew if she stood the hem would be past her knees. Instead, it just looked…..Um. Heat slid through him that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with hormones.
"You're wearing my shirt." He moved to lean over her and gazed directly into her still sleep heavy eyes, fingers tracing up the bare curve of her shoulder.
"It's comfy." She pouted up at him, challenging. The lantern sputtered and dimmed as a draft of raw wintery air found its way into the tent.
Shirtless, Alistair shivered.
Well, there were other ways to spend a cold winter night.
"Warm, too." Kallian added smugly. Her gaze took in his shivering as she flopped back into the blankets and wiggled to get comfortable. Her bottom lip was caught between her teeth.
The smell of warmth coming up from the lantern, the sound of snow dripping onto the canvas outside and their own breathing filled up the space inside the tent as she waited. Her eyes were still on him.
Not so long ago he would have hesitated.
Now, he leaned in and cupped her face in one hand, brushing his nose across her cheek in a not- quite kiss. When her lips parted, he pressed in against them, pressing her back into the blankets, as her hands came up against his ribs and slid around to his back.
When he slid his hand over her thigh, she squeaked in protest at how cold his hands were, her mouth turned up in laughter under his.
There were moments of fumbling and more quiet laughter as she helped him out of his pants and under the blankets against the searing heat of her. They pressed to one another, touch exchanging temperature until the shivering came from anticipation instead of the cold.
Gasping for air between feverish kisses, heat building until blankets were pushed back, hands no longer hesitant, but clutching the heavy fabric of that shirt where it covered too much. He teased and tugged at her breasts through the soft weft.
She moaned softly, her hips rocking against him. Bodies shifted, the hem pulled, pushed up to allow his fingers room to roam lower as his mouth swallowed the sounds she made that were not soft.
By the time he was over her, pressing into the slick hot core of her, they were both sweat damp and panting into each other's mouths, fabric clenched under his hands as he clung to her, the folds of it bunched up between them, offering more friction as they moved together faster.
She came with the sleeve clenched in her teeth to muffle the screams.
He came with her mouth under his, bruising her lips for the same reason.
Later, lying tangled together with her in his arms, skin sweat slick and prickly, the cold air drifting into the tent felt marvelous.
The shirt had been tossed aside to the cold tent floor along with most of their blankets.
Why couldn't it snow more often?