A/N: This is the second (and thankfully last) Cheeky Monkey Challenge thrown at me… also known as the time when Shakespira was thrown under the bus…not once, but twice. The challenge? Write a smut piece featuring Greagoir, Loghain and Isolde. Tyanilth, I answer your challenge and hope you have a supply of brain bleach on hand. We are all going to need it after this.
Light bondage and S&M in this. Gah, the things I do for the Cheeky Monkeys!
Ties That Bind
Once she had been a young and naïve woman, falling head over heels in love with the dashing Eamon Guerrin. Ten years older than she was, he seemed strong and noble and handsome. She had believed herself to be living a fairytale and instead she was trapped in a nightmare. Left in a country where Orlesians were pariahs, Isolde still had faith that her marriage to the powerful arl would bring about friends, time at court, all the trappings of a life she was used to. She loved Eamon, gave up everything for him; her family, her country, her pride.
Eamon was all about appearances and politics. He believed a wife was a trophy to be petted and shown off to his fellow nobles. At times Isolde wondered why he had bothered. The passion she had thought she'd seen in his eyes was just a gleam of proprietary pride, a stroking of his ego. His visits to her room had all but stopped once she was pregnant and, even after Connor was born, he had only visited her when his whores were unavailable and always, always it was the same. The same words, the same single kiss, the same quick and loveless coupling in the hopes of providing the 'spare' required of noble families.
Desperately lonely, she clung to the only person in Redcliffe that gave her unconditional love. She tried not to spoil Connor and she tried to pretend that being a loving mother was enough for her but there was an emptiness in her life, an artificiality that clung to her existence. She would do anything to protect her son. He was all she had. But oh she longed to be loved by a man, to be desired as a woman.
As the years passed slowly by, the carefully constructed façade of her marriage began to crumble. Eamon found more and more excuses to stay in Denerim. Sadly, she no longer cared. Whatever love she had felt for him had long since died in the vacuum of their marriage. Now she lived only for Connor.
Isolde did anything and everything she could think of to hide Connor's blossoming talents as a mage. She made excuses for the small lapses when he accidently used his magic until it became clear she needed someone to train him. That had been the beginning of the end, the collapse of a life constructed on a foundation of sand. She watched in horror and heartbreak as Connor was led away to the waiting ship that would carry him to his new life in the Circle of Magi.
Eamon blamed her for everything, his poisoning, the deaths of the villagers, the very magic that ran in her family. He was right to do so but any consoling he needed was found in the arms of another. She was alone in the castle. Even Teagan, usually formal and cool but willing to be in her company, avoided her. The isolation that cocooned her threatened to suffocate her. More than once she packed her trunk, ready to return to Orlais but always the thought of being so far away from her son stayed her hand.
As soon after the Blight as was safe, she used her husband's political influence to visit Connor at the tower. Each fortnight she traveled by boat to the docks of the tower and for three hours she felt alive, felt there was still some purpose in her life. After Connor returned to his dormitory and friends, she would stand in the vast library and hold back her tears as best she could.
"Arlessa Isolde, is there something that troubles you?" Knight Commander Greagoir asked her when she was unable to hold the tears back.
"These are just the tears of a foolish mother, Knight Commander, pay them no heed," she responded and glanced up to meet his kind grey eyes. It was her undoing. Her tears came fast and hard and he kindly led her to his office, offering up a neatly folded handkerchief and a sympathetic ear as she poured out her misery.
After that, her time at Kinloch Hold included a visit with Greagoir as well. They discovered, in each other, a friendship created by their loneliness. It was not many visits later that he arranged for a guest room for her in a quiet curve of the tower, a place no longer inhabited by the mages or templars of the tower. It was there that they discovered the ties that bound them together, both literally and figuratively.
Loghain Mac Tir smirked as he made his way along the curving hallway of Kinloch Hold. One would say he looked particularly smug and pleased with himself. After finding two templars and a mage for the Grey Wardens, Knight-Captain Bran had given him leave to spend the night in the tower and take his new recruits with him in the morning. A fine day, indeed.
Not a man given to asking directions, he wound his way around the confusing maze of corridors and open areas until he found the rooms set aside for him. Setting down his gear, he stripped out of his armor and its padding before stretching out on the bed. His eyes had just closed when he heard a noise. It sounded like a woman in distress. Slipping into his trousers and grabbing his boot knife, he made his way to the door. Yes, a woman's muffled scream.
He traveled down the darkened hallway, listening for the voice again, his ear planted against first one closed door and then another. Finally, he heard a noise within a room. The door, to his surprise, eased open at his touch. And then he thought he'd died and been sent to the Void; a scene out of a nightmare. Loghain Mac Tir was struck speechless and unable to move, engrossed in the tableau before him.
A woman, naked and tied face down on the bed, golden brown hair obscuring her features, was whimpering and twitching, pulling against the ties that bound her hands to either side of the headboard. Kneeling behind her, also naked, was Greagoir. He held a small riding crop in one hand and he brought it down gently across the woman's rump. Loghain watched in horrified fascination as the woman twitched and moaned.
"Naughty woman. You wouldn't have needed to be gagged if you hadn't cried out. How many times do I have to warn you about that?" Greagoir asked with a gentle cruelty in his tone. The woman shivered as the riding crop left another pink welt on her pale skin.
Still watching, still unable to speak or move, Loghain saw Greagoir stroke his engorged length and then bend down and caress the woman's reddened cheek before dropping a kiss on it. "Struggle all you like, my dear, but you want the whip. Or perhaps you'd like my hand instead?"
A shudder from the woman and a quick nod. Greagoir dropped the riding crop and brought his hand down on the woman's buttocks. Loghain was disgusted to feel himself harden as he watched. This was not who he was, this was not what he wanted to witness but he continued to watch. And his cock continued to strain against its confines.
There was something oddly familiar about the woman, something that brought out his own primal urges and a simmering anger. He found, to his shock, that he wanted to strike her as well; he wanted her soft white rump to burn from the sting of his hand. He shuddered in self-loathing. He wasn't that kind of man, damn it. But then he realized why he wanted so badly to hit her. It was that Orlesian lickspittle, Eamon's wife. The woman represented everything he had spent a lifetime hating. His anger was a white hot beast in his belly and in his loins.
Without any plan or intent, he strode into the room, his erection painfully obvious in his thin trousers. Greagoir turned with a startled expression that quickly became one of anger. He lowered his hand and glowered at Loghain.
"How dare you enter this chamber!" the templar snarled. Loghain sneered at him.
Did the fool not realize the compromising position he'd been discovered in? No threat, no amount of anger, held sway with Loghain. With a smirk, Loghain moved to stand beside the bed, his hands balled into fists. "Do you really want me to leave? I'm sure the Grand Cleric will be delighted to know just how low her Knight Commander has fallen."
Greagoir's face paled. He struggled to say something and Loghain watched with a growing sense of power and heat.
They say power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Loghain stood there, erection painful and throbbing, as the power coursed through him. "Now watch and learn," he said as he stepped out of his trousers and knelt beside the templar.
Wrapping some of Isolde's hair around his fist, he pulled her head back and bent over her to whisper, "You want me to hurt you, don't you." It was not a question, it was a command. He bit her neck, sucking on the delicate skin, knowing it would bruise.
She mumbled around the gag in her mouth and he loosened his hold on her hair enough that she was able to nod. He could smell her arousal, saw that she was wet with wanting and his blood pounded in him, his erection jerking reflexively. He let go of her hair and raised his hand, sending a grim smile at Greagoir before connecting with the softly rounded mound of her left buttock. The red print of his hand appeared almost immediately. Greagoir, still kneeling beside him, shuddered and groaned softly. Isolde writhed, grinding her hips into the mattress.
"Don't sit there, Greagoir," Loghain sneered. He took Greagoir's hand and placed it between Isolde's legs before he leaned over and bit Greagoir's neck with the same fierceness, suckling until he was sure that too would leave a mark. Greagoir twitched and leaned into Loghain's mouth. Power enough to control them both, Loghain thought, triumph adding to the heat of his own painful erection.
Isolde was grinding into Greagoir's finger as Loghain brought his hand down again; a sharp crack as it made contact with her flesh. Her whimpering moan of pleasure twisted around his loins to settle in the pit of his stomach and fuel his desire. Removing Greagoir's hand, he raised Isolde's ass and bent to taste her juices. She pushed back against his mouth, moaning. He nipped, none to gently, at the silk of her thigh before raising his head again.
"Well, wipe it off, man. And use your tongue," Loghain commanded and Greagoir did as he was told without hesitation. Loghain's cock throbbed and jumped. He could feel the pressure of his orgasm growing in him. He allowed Greagoir's tongue to linger on his chin before he commanded the templar to lean back.
Again he brought his hand down on her, catching the right cheek and again she thrust herself against the force of it. He bent and kissed the vivid red mark. "You want to feel me inside you, you want release, don't you?" he asked and when she nodded with a shiver of anticipation, he rammed into her without any warning. Her scream of pleasure was lost in the folds of her gag. Even so, he felt the hot spike of it travel through his cock as he continued to pound into her sopping heat.
He gripped her hips so tightly that his nails dug into her skin. She wiggled against him, a purr of pleasure and pain coming from her. His grin was feral, he was feral, and his power was absolute.
He removed one hand from her hip and gripped Greagoir's chin with it, pulling the man close enough that Loghain could smell the man's own arousal. He leaned in and bit Greagoir's lower lip, hard enough to elicit a growl from the templar. Loghain watched in satisfaction as blood welled on Greagoir's lip but Greagoir's eyes were closed, he was holding his shaft in his hand, stroking it, and his other hand was already bearing down on Isolde's red cheek.
Loghain felt her muscles ripple and tighten around him as he continued to drive his cock into her. He removed the hand that had been holding Greagoir's chin and, with his forefinger, found her bud, slick with her juices. He rubbed at it as he slid in and out of her, flicking it painfully as he felt her tremble. He cruelly removed his finger. She would not get her satisfaction before he did, Maker take her selfish heart. She writhed and twisted, her cries for her own release loud and long even through the gag.
His orgasm exploded a moment later but his momentum continued for long seconds after as he shuddered and spent himself inside the Orlesian. He collapsed on her, pinning her to the bed and a moment later he heard Greagoir groan loudly, knew that he had spent himself as well. She continued to grind against the bed, no doubt hoping the friction would be enough to bring her to her orgasm.
Settling back on his haunches, he slapped at her ass again and watched as Greagoir bent and licked at her juices before slipping his tongue along her swollen lips. Loghain felt himself beginning to harden again as he watched the templar work to bring her to her climax. He could already feel his blood heating up, felt the restless ache in his belly as he watched. Damn her, she deserved nothing, least of all to feel as sated as he did. He pulled at Greagoir's hair, shoving the man aside.
"Not until I say," he snarled.
Greagoir glared at him, ready to argue, but he didn't speak. Instead, he nodded slowly, subservient. Loghain favored the man with a kiss, hot and hard, before turning his attention back to the Orlesian still moaning softly for release. He pulled at her hips until she was on her knees again and her arms were pulling painfully against her restraints. Her whimpers and moans brought him to a full erection again and he felt Greagoir's erection brush against his arm. The power was heady, the knowledge that he held these two people's pleasure in his hands, that he controlled them absolutely.
"Show me, Greagoir. Show me how much of a man you think you are," Loghain commanded with a sneer.
Without hesitation, without a glance in Loghain's direction, the templar knelt between the Orlesian's thighs and stroked his engorged flesh before sliding into her heat with a murmured sigh of pleasure. Loghain leaned over and bit into Greagoir's shoulder while stroking himself.
"Harder, Greagoir. She needs to remember who is in charge," Loghain demanded.
Greagoir threw his head back and cried out as he began to pummel her. She twisted and bucked and moaned, so in need of release Loghain could almost taste it. He twisted around Greagoir to caress her buttocks before sending a sharp slap at them.
"Now, Orlesian!" he roared and she shivered and shuddered, twisted and writhed as she came, her wail undulating and wild.
It was only then that the enormity of the situation asserted itself. His self-loathing was only a few seconds behind. He struggled off the bed, grabbed his trousers and strode out of the room, slamming the door behind him. That he could house such a bastard within him disgusted him more than he could bear. He was NOT that man. He was not. But denial did nothing to alleviate his disgust.
Two days later, he stood before the Commander of the Grey of Ferelden.
"I request a transfer, Commander."
"Oh? What brought this on?" Marcus Cousland asked with a frown.
"It doesn't matter. Just get me out of Ferelden," Loghain growled.
Anywhere that wouldn't be a reminder of the monster he was capable of becoming. It didn't matter to him. He couldn't stay in Ferelden as long as the temptation to return and dominate Greagoir and Isolde remained. He needed a place where he would be reminded of neither the templar nor the Orlesian. Not, he told himself with no small amount of disgust, that he could tell his commander that.
Three days later, Loghain Mac Tir left Ferelden, bound for Montsimmard.
The Maker, it seemed, had a very twisted sense of humor.
A/N addendum: Several people have remarked on how sympathetic I made Isolde in this story. I credit Enaid Aderyn for that. She is brilliant at showing the emotion behind the facade in those characters we all love to hate. I highly recommend her work.