Still the kink meme eats my soul...


He is gentle, letting love guide worship, soft touches, caressing skin as if she is so fragile as to break under him. The slow peel of leather and cloth from her shoulders, skimming down her ribs, his lips burn a trail of electric fire in the wake of his hands. He shakes with an emotion she doesn't care to interpret, his eyes dark and heavy with it as he moves in her, the slick thrusts as he shoves his love into her, his intensity demanding that she respond. She wants to cry out that he is nothing but a shadow, a necessity to their goal, but finds that her souls speaks for her, spilling her secrets over him even as her flesh welcomes him home.

oOo

He smiles in his sleep, his arm slung low across her hips, pinning her to the bed. What should be heavy and confining is not, not in the wake of her confessions. That she has loved him, spoken aloud finally, no longer trapped behind her lips, lodging in her throat until she wants to scream at him, tear him down, shred his heart as he shatters hers with disregard.

If only she had known. If only he had. They could have had more than just one night, charged with magic and blood. Perhaps, given how hard she has to work now to separate herself from him, 'tis better they did not.

She moves slowly, so as not to wake him. The swiftness with which his smile changes to a puzzled frown stabs at her, as if his slumber returns to restless darkspawn dreams when she is not there to keep them away.

What harm to remain? What harm to let him wake to her limbs twined with his, his heat tempered by her chill?

Hope is harm.

Hope is the gift she cannot give him, with her heart trapped in his, it would be easy to stay, easy to love him. The road she has chosen is the difficult, rocky path, tearing herself from all that she has come to cherish, in order to protect it.

A static moment of indecision, as if the world has taken a deep breath, and holds it as she kneels on the bed at his side. Perhaps he could accompany her? With the Blight finished, and fully aware of the possible consequences of their ritual, would he not say yes, were she to ask?

He is my weakness.

She huffs, amusement and disdain blended, as her shining Knight, glowing golden in the glimmer of pre-dawn light, gropes blindly in the place she had lain, safe in his hold. With her breath, with his movement, the world exhales into motion, the frozen moment of choice passed. Twisting the ring from her thumb, she slides it onto Alistair's smallest finger, careful not to touch him, careful not to test her resolve, lest she fall back into him.

Exactly where she wants to be.

oOo

She avoids him adeptly for most of the battle to the Archdemon. With no time to wonder what she might say to him, she finds it a mixed blessing. When the dragon falters, he is in the thick of it, and she finds herself chewing on her lip, nails biting into the palms of her hands as jagged ice bolt is followed by searing lightening. A fire storm in the heart of the spawn swarm to keep them from the Wardens' heels, and her pathetic attempts to heal them both, until she kneels, mana depleted, energy gone.

Kallian wields a cumbersome sword, jamming it into the skull of the creature, impaling something vital her daggers have no hope of reaching. The flash of light is solid, knocking everyone from their feet, and Kallian falls, hands gripping at her head as released soul seeks flesh, testing the vessel before it until the draw of the tainted child pulls it in.

Morrigan shudders under the pressure, and the entity sweeps through her, the staggering pain of the incomprehensible power, the vast I Am, until it finally settles into her womb, content to wait, absorbing and being absorbed by the Warden's child.

She flings herself off the side of the tower before she can be tempted to stay, even for a moment, even just to say goodbye. If she lingers, she is unsure she will be able to leave.


He will be no king, his fellow Warden showing that much lingering affection, at least. Once upon a time, early in their journey, he had thought himself in love with her, and she with him. It wasn't just the introduction of the elven assassin that tore them apart. No, Kallian had pointed out to him that as much as she could not stop watching Zevran, he could not keep his eyes from the pale beauty of the reclusive Witch. Each time his gaze inadvertently met hers, he found himself tensing, uncomfortable with the simmer beneath his skin.

The day that Kallian pulled him aside in the darkness of camp, sorrow flickering on her features alongside the reflection of flames, Alistair found himself more relieved than hurt. As she said, they'd had fun, and she would always cherish that she was his first, his teacher, and always his friend. He would think fondly of the elf all his life, until the day they met in Orzammar, destined for the Deep Roads. He would think fondly of her until his last breath, clinging to his promise that she be the first to fall, since they just didn't know.

He watched the Witch take wing, fists clenched, head bowed, and he ground out under his breath, "I will find you."

His vow hangs in empty air for weeks, turning to months, until it seems years have gone by, the journey to Weisshaupt to report to the First Warden a lifetime as he frets, marking the ninth month of her absence, noting each anniversary passing. He wonders what she named the child, if he has a son or a daughter. Sometimes, he feels something tugging at his gut, a spike of joy, a swell of despair, a sharp pang of regret, and as he twists her ring on his finger, his promise to himself, to her, to their child, hardens further, and he knows that soon, soon he will begin.

As soon as duty frees him, he sets out, barely sparing time for proper provisioning. Kallian grins as she leads him to the Keep's stables, gifting him with a horse, a luxury unimagined over the course of the Blight.

He has lost so much time.

She could be anywhere, in Ferelden or beyond, and all he has to guide him are rumors and dreams, and he is wary of what he trusts. Even borne on horseback, the search drags, finds him once more in her Wilds, to the Circle of Magi, and of course, once more in the depths of the Deep Roads. He doesn't particularly want the little band of followers he manages to acquire, but they prove their usefulness, and he has to admit, it was a lonely road until the Dalish girl stumbled into his path. His humor is lost on both her and the Mage, but at least they are company of sorts.

Vague memories of tales Kallian told him, her adventures with the Mother, while he was away giving a falsified report, of the Queen of the Black Marsh, and the landscape around him looks a lot like she'd described. With the tugging against his finger growing steadily stronger, he knows she is near, can feel her agitation and trepidation, the push/pull of desire and fear.

oOo

From a distance, she seems a tiny figure, dwarfed by the ancient mirror, but dragging him with all the pull of a loadstone to iron. Even as he waves his followers off, his body stumbles toward her, and he is unable to stop, unable to find the desire to stop.

The odd glow of lyrium veins highlights the paleness of her skin, blue-white and black, the deep burgundy of her tattered hood lost in the depths of shadow. Only the golden burn of her eyes, carefully watching his progress, memorizing his approach, gave any other color to her form, a burnished grayish green in the strange blue light.

Her smile is laced with fear, with longing, with need. With each step he takes toward her, the light in her eyes brightens, her arms, crossed over her torso, grip tighter, her jaw clenches harder. He is lighter, with each stop forward. Every time he lifts a foot, it comes easier off the ground, moves just a fraction faster than the step before. Until she breaks, makes a tentative move toward him, and gravity has released him, so that he may fly to her, catch her up in his arms, heedless of armor, of weapons, of time and of distance, until he finds her mouth. Only then is he captured again in gravity's well, sinking into her, held fast by the weight of his emotion.

Finally.

"I thought you might come," a murmur against his lips, words broken by her need to kiss him after each one.

He sheds his gauntlets one by one, until he can weave his fingers into her hair, pulling her closer. "I had to. I promised, even if you weren't there to hear it." His hands are restless, stroking against her skin, reveling of the feel of her, finally, real under his hands. He has dreamed for so long, and now she is here, and he can touch her. "I couldn't never see you again."

"'Twas intended to save us pain, Alistair." Her own hands are busy, deftly working the buckles of his armor, tugging it away, as she mutters, "You are not close enough. Why must you always wear so much metal? Is not leather protection enough for you?"

He does not help her, he can't stop touching her, skimming down her arms, kissing the base of her throat. "Did it work?" he breathes against her, as the years finally clot in his throat, sweeping through him, weakening his knees.

She is here. She is his.

A wordless cry, he drops his forehead to her shoulder, pulling her closer, crushing her against himself as his armor falls away, metal defeated by her fingers, mental shields torn apart by her scent.

She groans against him, rippling through him. "I was spared nothing." The throb of her despair, her lonely ache of nights long past, the years spent with the same longing his had held, he hears in her voice, interspersed with hums of joy, as his calluses catch the silk of her, his touch rough against her smoothness.

oOo

He is here before her, the strength of him, slowly brushing aside the ties and folds of her robes, discarding them much quicker than his armor was removed, her bare flesh exposed to the scrape of the course fabric of his undershirt.

He is here. She had known he would follow, felt him chafe beneath the weight of duty that delayed him. Felt his need and hope, fear and determination. Felt his long approach, dragging her steps, moving at half the speed she was capable of.

The span of his palm brushing over her hip pulls her back into the present, and he is here, and she has never forgotten how he made her heart sing, and still does, even if it was the most foolish thing she could have felt. The most foolish thing she can feel now, but here she is, arching against him even as she pulls him free of his shirt.

Where her mouth meets his skin, he is sweat and salt, dust under laid with the distinct taste of Templar magics, a slick metal tingle on her tongue.

The taste of him still twists her up, after so long, memory merges with reality, and the flare of heat in her belly is matched by the blaze in her chest, the giddy warmth trailing his every fleeting touch, pooling under his palms where he pauses, scorching her where his lips move.

She still has no hope to offer him.

She pushes back the knowledge of disappointments to come, unable to speak of more, of after, she is only able to spill her love against his skin, with tongue and teeth, and shaking hands.

"I missed you." Missed the man behind the dreams that stirred her into restless slumber, the grin that caught her unaware, so many times, on a young face, reminding her that her son is his son, and when she sees it again on Alistair, there is no bemused smile, only an intense need between her thighs that is nothing of motherhood.

His reply is muffled by her breast, barely clear enough to make out "Maker, I've missed you too…" before the edge of his tongue against her nipple makes her gasp, forgetting words in favor of savoring the feel of him.

oOo

He has dreamed of chasing, and never being able to touch, so when her smooth skin is finally here under his hands, he doesn't stop touching. He worships her, the long, toned lines of her body, the slick taste of her arousal, the breathy moans that catch in her throat. Every sound, every move, he watches, he listens, he traces the bunch and pull of muscle beneath skin. When a particular stroke results in a shiver, he repeats it once or twice, then moves to explore another dip, another curve, learning what he never had a chance to learn before.

He can't bear the thought of letting her go again.

So he anchors her, tying her to him with slick wet cords of lust and need, winding her leg over his shoulder as he kneels, lapping at her drenched sex, chaining her with the thick thrust of his tongue into her, as she pants, writhing against his mouth and hands, struggling in his grasp, not for freedom, but for more. And he gives it, breathing his love into her, curling his fingers to bite into her thigh, bruises blooming, do not dare let go! until she is shaking so hard she can no longer stand, even when he holds her up. He lays her down, skin to stone, and she offers no protest, only a dazed undulation of her hip, to invite him closer.

His world is composed solely of her, her smell, her taste, the only sound he hears are the needy whimpers in his ear, the only thing he feels is her, her breath hot on his neck, her hands on his skin, pulling, begging.

He licks her throat, and she bares it to him. He sets his teeth against her skin, and she croons softly, encouraging. He nips at the soft flesh of her breast, his mouth leaving welts, his hands tight on her hips, grinding against her. His breeches are too tight, and he struggles free of them, using one hand, refusing to fully release his Witch.

He is free, hot and heavy and pressed against her, rubbing into her heat, and she feels like satin, slick and home. Her hips tilt under him, she is wet and ready, and he has waited and wanted for so long, when he pushes into her, the Gods weep with relief. He wraps an arm around her, holding himself off her with the other, her legs lift up to lock around his waist, and he drives his hips down, to sheath himself fully in her.

She cries out at the suddenness, cries out at the feel of him moving in her, hard and insistent, fierce and needy. The sting of stone against her back banishes her lingering haze, and she comes fully back to her senses to find herself impaled, nailed to the ground by his body, his panting harsh in her ear. "Alistair," she gasps, and he thrusts harder.

He pulls back to look at her, and his eyes are wild, his lips curled in a snarl. "Mine," he growls, thrusting again, buried in her, drowning in her. "Mine." He rears back onto his heels, bringing her with him, never leaving her, and clutches her lush hips in his hands, his mouth on her, teeth marking her, as she grinds down onto him, rocking back, pushing into him with a fervor to match his. Her hips match his rhythm, and she is full of him, needing him, and Gods, she can't get close enough, will never get enough of him, of this feeling that he gives her. His name is a mantra falling senselessly from her lips as she writhes against him, coming apart at the seams.

oOo

His arms should be a cage, his whole body riddled through with the unique Templar taste, trained and honed during the Blight. She has given up all pretense, burrowing into him until he folds her tightly against himself. She wears a satisfied smirk, still unable to stop touching him, her lips pressing against his chest. She would swallow his heartbeat if she could, carry it with her into the darkness. He would give it.

She traces the divots of muscle and scar, memorizing. There is so much to remember, dragging her fingertips over the solid lines of his abdomen, trailing down his hip, onto the firm, pert globe of his buttock.

An amazing combination of strength and dexterity, she used to watch him in battle, fascinated, her only excuse that she may need to heal him. He is no less beautiful now, filled out to better suit his frame, he has become a truly massive man, the years of hardship peeling back the layers of youthful gawkiness, he is the match of any warrior she has ever met, save only Sten.

"Where is our child?"

His question startles her from reverie, stilling the brush of her fingers against his bare flesh.

"He is safe, out of reach." She speaks into his chest, unwilling to move away.

"I have a son." Pain, joy, pride.

"There are tasks yet to be accomplished, Alistair." Her fingers dig into him, willing him to be stubborn, be obstinate, insist that he not leave her side. "I may not linger over long, much as I may wish."

His grip on her doesn't loosen, there is no defeat in his posture. Her heart trips on hope, warily watching the edge of the chasm.

Rising, finally, from his arms, she struggles into her clothing, handing his breeches and tunic over, watches the ripple of muscle play in the cavern's glow as he dresses. His eyes never leave hers, as he traces the swell of her cheek.

"Take me with you."

Destiny catches its breath, for just a moment, as his words chime through the still air, the shadows of the mirror beckon, calling him into the deep.

Into the unknown. For her. With her.

Into the void of time, she reaches her pale hand to him, twines her fingers through his.

"Then come, my love. We will face the future together."

When the world exhales, the moment of choice once more passed, the empty caves echo with the silence of their passage.