Saturday, December 26, 2015

An Alistair Lemon -- The Effects of Loving You


Character: Alistair

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins

OC: Ingrid Amell, dark hair, brash, kindhearted

Inspiration: Alistair likes to complain in order to hide what he’s actually feeling.  x3  Hope everyone had a lovely Christmas!


Dried herbs and candle wax are the predominant scents in Ingrid’s tent.  It is comfortable, soothing almost, in a way Alistair cannot place.  Well perhaps he could, but he is much too busy trying to make her job as difficult as he possibly can.
“Ooowwwww!” he childishly whines with a cringe.  She rolls her eyes and continues unbuckling his armor.  It’s heavy plate metal, and she’s never understood how he can go every day dragging it around as if it weighs next to nothing.  She never hears him complain about that.
“Do shut up,” she tells him, maybe a little harsher than she intends.  She sometimes can’t help it.  Her worry makes her temper flare, and it is short these days as it is with all the threats to their lives.  To say that life is stressful would be the understatement of the ages.
Her fingers slip on the buckle at his side.  She’s already taken a quick wash to rid herself of the majority of blood and gore, but Alistair hadn’t had the chance before their companions rushed him into her tent for healing.  He’d claimed it was nothing, but the way he’d been limping told her otherwise.  And who knows what other injuries he is hiding behind this steel barrier?  She will get to the bottom of it, even if his constant complaints are making her ire increase at every turn.
He doesn’t respond to the quip, but does grimace.  She’s not sure if the expression is due to her obvious annoyance or the less than gentle way she’s removing his armor.  If she’s being honest with herself, she doesn’t really care either way.  Her worry has made her tired, and the exhaustion of the many ambushes they’d had to fight their way out of today doesn’t help matters.  The moment she heals him, she’s collapsing into bed and never getting out of it again.
In a perfect world, she would do that.  But Ingrid does not live in a perfect world.  Her world is riddled with filth and Darkspawn and never ending battles and civil wars – and somewhere in the middle of it, somehow, this man had managed to sidle his way into the fray of her desires.  Complex.  That’s what it is – a very strange complexity that she wouldn’t normally associate with a simple minded, honest man like Alistair.  No…she does not live in a perfect world.  Perhaps the only perfect thing in her life is, well, him.
But she will not tell him this.  Not yet.  Not when she’s angrily pulling his shoulder pads off and grasping at the chest plates and frowning at the fact that he never tells her when he’s gone and gotten himself hurt – he never accepts her help unless he’s forced into it.  Never never never.
“Do you want to die?!” she suddenly exclaims, and then pauses because she hadn’t actually meant to say that, it was just a continuation of her thoughts, and Alistair is looking at her like perhaps she is threatening him and he cannot understand why.  He stares at her.  She tries to banish the red that she can feel blossoming in her cheeks, but she fears she is not very successful, because his eyes are twinkling just a tiny bit and his mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard to hold a smile at bay.
In perfectly good humor, Alistair hums and says, “Weeeelllll…not really, no.  I think I prefer living – even though fighting Darkspawn on a daily basis does sometimes make me wonder.”  He started to chuckle, and then choked it down with a pained groan when Ingrid glared and finally got the Blighted chest piece off.  Damnable thing…
She attacks his shirt, unknotting it with skillful fingers that fly fast over the stays.  Alistair swallows thickly, the humor drained from his eyes.  It is replaced by something else, something that Ingrid doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about.  He can’t tell and neither can she, because she’s too busy trying to decide if she’s thankful that he’s alright or angry that he’s not.  She pulls the shirt off to reveal the smooth, gratefully uninjured skin beneath, and starts for his pants.  When she goes to untie the stays around his waist, Alistair blushes so profoundly that the tips of his ears turn bright red.
“Erm…” he starts, then pauses and trails off, only to have Ingrid demand in a snapping tone, “What is it?”  He coughs, not sure if he would rather watch those quick fingers of hers or her face, which is still blazing with fury and a bit of red too.  Well at least he knows she’s not completely unaffected by all this.  He decides that perhaps it would be best to turn his gaze somewhere else entirely, and so he lifts his eyes to the ceiling of the tent (her tent, a wicked little voice whispers) and clears his throat as she starts to pull off the trousers. 
“I…ah, well I’ve…never had such a beautiful woman take so many clothes off…me.”  He clears his throat again he feels her eyes glance up at him, and tries to ignore the fact that he is practically naked except for one tiny little bit of cloth that is not going to hide anything should he…should he start feeling…more.  Andraste’s flaming tits.
Ingrid, however much she appreciates the sight of him, only sighs and tries her best to retreat into the healer she truly is.  She’s seen plenty of naked men before, lying on her table with blood oozing from horrific wounds.  Alistair is just one of many.  Or at least he should be.  But Maker, he’s absolutely gorgeous and she’s utterly smitten with him, which really doesn’t help her case.
“Just relax, Alistair,” she tells him, trying to calm her voice so that she doesn’t snap at him again.  It comes out softer this time – a little softer than she intends for it to sound.  She’s not sure if that’s because of the fact that he’s nearly naked, or because of the nasty wound that’s spread over the majority of his left thigh.  She purses her lips and gently reaches down to touch it, and Alistair groans, “Oowww!  Holy Maker, that hurts!”  But pain is good, pain will distract him, pain will give him reason for –
“Mmmmmmmm…” he gasps, feeling a heat like no other spread over his thigh.  Magic ghosts over his skin, threading it back together from the inside out.  It hurts, a little, but mostly it just feels…Maker, but it feels amazing.  He’s positive it’s only because it’s so close to his…er, his groin, because the warmth doesn’t just stay in one spot.  It encompasses his entire leg and definitely a little bit more, too.
Ingrid tries not to react to the moan he lets loose.  Now is definitely not the time to let her attraction guide her blindly.  She focuses.  Magic takes concentration, else it gets out of control.  She’d rather not blow up the campsite any time soon.  And besides, healing magic takes even more concentration, and so she keeps her eyes trained solely on the wound.  If she brings them up to his face, she fears she might waver.
“Maker,” he pants, hands fisting together.  He’s staring hard at the ceiling now, all but glaring into it, but when he notices Ingrid leaning down to his thigh, his eyes flash down to watch with careful curiosity.  She slides a hand against the inside of his thigh, where his skin is unmarked and uninjured.  He can feel her breath drifting over him.  She’s so close to his – Maker preserve him, but he thinks he might die right here in her tent.  Fire takes hold of him and he feels rather than sees himself get a little harder.  He closes his eyes tight after that, for he fears that watching her might actually make it worse.
But apparently it doesn’t matter whether he watches her or not, because he can still feel her.  He’s not sure she’s aware of it, but she’s sort of stroking his inner thigh, fingers drifting over his skin.  It’s highly distracting – he wishes she’d stop, because every time she does it his blood boils hotter.  He should’ve insisted that she just cut the leg of his trouser away.  At least that would’ve saved him from the mortification, even if he’d have to walk around with only his steel greaves until they reached another town.
“Stay still,” she orders, “I think there’s a piece of metal stuck in your wound.  I’m going to have to dig it out.”  Her voice is so steady that Alistair feels even more foolish than he already does.  Is she not even a little moved by this situation?  Not even a tiny bit distracted by, well, by him?  If the tables had been turned, if she was the only injured and almost bare and he was hovering over her, he really doubted he’d be able to do anything but partake in all the wicked things going round and round in his head. 
“Alright then,” he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut.  He braces himself, finding that he actually welcomes the pain.  Hopefully it will help to drive everything else from his mind.  It does, but not for long.  Ingrid is a skilled healer.  It takes only a few moments for her to find the shard of metal and to jerk it out.  Alistair groans at the pain, cussing under his breath, and then his body is once more encased with the warmth of her magic.  And then it’s drifting up his thighs and wrapping around his member and Maker, but he’s not sure he’s going to be able to get out of this situation unscathed and with his pride intact.
“Th-that’s enough!” he cries, jolting up into a sitting position.  His hands flutter over hers and he tries to push them away – anything that will make her stop whatever it is that she’s doing to him.  Holy hell, he’s so turned on right now that it’s a wonder he doesn’t have a Blighted erection - !
Ingrid huffs as he catches her wrists, peering up at him with a disdainful expression.  “What in Andraste’s name are you doing?  Do you know how detrimental it is to stop magic so suddenly?”  But then her eyes are ghosting back down to his wound, and on the way she catches sight of the one thing she suddenly realizes Alistair is trying to hide.  Her eyes widen.  She stares at the stiffness tenting up his smalls, and mumbles a short, “…Oh…”  She sounds a little breathless and she wonders how the hell she hadn’t realized it before.  Everything makes sense now – his complaints, his whining, every gasp, every curse.
Alistair thinks he might actually succeed in melting right into the ground.  His ears turn bright red as she stares down at him.  His chest gets hot, and it feels as if his blush is spreading throughout the entirety of his body.  Mortified embarrassment pushes at him. 
He wishes he had Zevran’s ability to laugh at these matters, but he doesn’t, and the truth is that he’s scared out of his mind.  This is definitely not how he’d intended for this to go – he’d wanted to confess to her first, tell her how he thinks she’s beautiful and how she lights up his entire world, and then maybe, maybe that he would like nothing more than to be with her like this.  Intimately.  But he’d do so with honor, with chivalry.  Not like this.
“Yes…oh,” he mutters, eyes downcast and looking anywhere but at her.  Her reaction hadn’t been ideal.  She hadn’t fallen into his arms like he’d imagined she might.  This entire situation isn’t going at all like he’s planned, and he really needs to get the hell out of her tent before he dies from the humiliation. 
He laughs awkwardly and starts scrambling away from her.  “I, uh, I think I’m going to go…do…something else…erm, ah, that’s not what I meant to say.  Blast.  I’m going to…go.  Yes.”  He would have definitely gone on to stutter out more nonsense and probably embarrass himself even more, but Ingrid apparently has other plans for him.
With one powerful and every unexpected move, she pushes him down onto his back.  He lets out a little harried breath and his body stiffens, unyielding.  He turns wide eyes up at her, and thinks that the way her eyes are shining might actually make his heart stop.  In fact he thinks his heart has already stopped, because he suddenly can’t breathe.  Or think.  Or do anything at all, really, except watch her fingers drift over his thigh.  But this time she isn’t touching him because she has to heal him.
“…Ingrid?” he whispers, then shakily inhales.  “W-what are you doing – oh Maker’s balls – “
She chuckles, her fingers shifting over the hardness of his smalls.  She watches him carefully as she palms him through the cloth, curling her fingers around his length and rubbing him.  He bites his lip and screws his eyes shut, expression turning desperate and oh-so beautiful.  “Ingrid – “  
“Shhh,” she breathes, lowering herself down alongside him.  She leans down above his face, hair falling around them, and Alistair looks up at her with hesitant eyes.  But all she says is, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?” 
Okay?!  It’s more than okay – but he doesn’t get the chance to tell her that, because than her mouth is converging on his and something inside of him breaks free.  Control, or honor – whatever it is – snaps, and Alistair is suddenly reaching for her and pulling her closer, closer, closer, and kissing her hard with a force that leaves her gasping against him.
“Mmmm,” she moans, and squeezes him a little in lovely, scintillating retribution.  He jerks his hips, feeling his cock twitch against her.  Holy hell, but he’s a lucky man.  The fact that she’s not running away from him right now still hasn’t quite registered in his mind, and he holds her tight because some part of him is afraid that it might still happen.
“This wasn’t how I…how I wanted it to…happen,” Alistair breathes between kisses.  Every kiss is firm and deep and beautiful.  His heart blossoms with such warmth.  His entire body turns to her and reacts and everything feels so so wonderful.  Ingrid smiles briefly against his mouth and lifts her hand to his chest, palming over every inch of his skin before darting back down to his now burning erection. 
“Do you want me to stop?” he hears her ask, though her voice seems far away.  He groans and adamantly kisses her ever deeper, reaching his hand down to wrap around hers and guide it over his straining cock.  The move makes her crazy, and she lets him rub her fingers over him, lets him have the control.
“Maker, no,” he says very firmly, as if the mere idea of stopping makes him horrified.  He wouldn’t stop even if their camp is attacked by an entire legion of Darkspawn.  Even if the tent is set on fire – even if –
“Shh,” she whispers again, but this time it’s to calm him down because he’s moving her hand over him very fast now.  She’s been dreaming of this moment for weeks, maybe even months.  She wants to take her time.  Map out his body like the strategist she is.
She breaks the kiss and smiles down at him, eyes so warm that he thinks he can feel it pierce his soul.  She presses her lips to his cheek, skims her nose over his jaw, delights in the sensation of his stubble roughly scraping against her.  She nibbles on his earlobe, sucks it between her teeth, moves down to kiss his neck, his collar, his chest.  Alistair stares at her, watching her progress with wide eyes.  It’s his first time.  She fully intends on making it very special for him.  This is not going to be a quick roll in the hay.
He watches her.  It’s almost like she’s glorifying him.  Worshipping his body.  Not an inch of skin goes untouched, unkissed.  Her mouth tumbles over him, trembling, tongue licking.  Her fingers skim over his sides, tracing every muscle, every contour of him.  And he may be inexperienced, but he’s not stupid.  He knows where she’s going with this, has heard tales aplenty about this form of intimacy.  So he braces himself against the blankets, trying to wrangle his emotions under control – but nothing prepares him for what comes next.
He can’t look away as she kisses over his thighs, head nestled between his legs and so very close.  He props himself up onto his elbows because Maker he needs to watch this.  Ingrid gives him a gentle, reassuring smile and lowers her head to kiss over the cloth that covers his erection.  The heat of her breath makes him stiffen, feeling himself twitch against her with uncontrollable desire.  But it’s nothing, really, nothing at all compared to what it feels like when she slowly peels the last of his clothing away and kisses his bare skin.  And seeing her mouth on that part of him, feeling her tongue trace him from bottom to tip, and then repeat the action as if she can’t get enough – he thinks he goes a little crazy.
He breathes out heavily, reaching for her.  He pushes her hair to the side, staring at her every movement.  She glances up at him and his heart stutters.  Her fingers wrap around his shaft and she tilts it toward her, pumping several times before she flattens her tongue against the tip of him, and the proceeds to take him into her mouth –
He lets out a particularly foul curse and clenches his fingers in her hair.  Her eyes light up like she wants to laugh, but it’s a little hard to do so when she’s got half his cock shoved into her mouth.  So she just focuses on taking more of him, closing her mouth around him and sucking, sucking, sucking –
“Oh fuck,” he mutters, and it’s such an uncharacteristic thing for him to say that she really does chuckle this time.  And even though it comes out as a muffled, strange sound Alistair moans again, louder this time, because the vibrations.  They hit him with such force that he starts seeing stars, and for a moment he thinks that maybe he’s sinking into the Fade and losing his entire grip on reality.  And it scares him, the intensity of this feeling, the way his body aches for her, but to be honest the fear is really the last thing on his mind.
She devours him.  Like he’s the one thing she’s wanted her entire life and finally has the chance to taste him.  Like he’s the most delicious thing she’s ever had, a delicacy so sweet that she cannot get enough.  Her lips tighten, dragging his in and out of her mouth, tongue lapping, mouth sucking, fingers stroking, and Alistair knows he’s seconds away from coming.  And she knows it too.
She releases him with a vulgar pop that makes him want to blush.  But he doesn’t, because there’s no room for it right now and he’s already so red with nervous desire that it doesn’t even make a difference.  Gentle kisses are littered over his length, but the ache of his need is still so strong that even those light touches make him insane.  Utterly, profoundly mad. 
“Did you like that?” Ingrid wonders almost idly, hand still wrapped around him.  Alistair mumbles something incoherent and she gives him a jaunty little smile that makes her eyes light up like pure mischief.  “Do you want me to keep going?  Do you want to come inside my mouth?”  He does blush this time.  He turns so red that she laughs out loud and only makes him blush all the harder.
“Maker, woman, are you trying to kill me?” he asks, sounding strained and choked up.  He thinks he could come from that voice alone, whispering all those dirty wicked to him, to gently touch every inch – he cusses again because it’s really the only thing he can say.
Ingrid smirks.  She’s half tempted to stop and let him have what he really wants – her.  But she’d really like to see him come.  She’d really like to watch him struggle and arch and moan as she sucks him dry.  They won’t be leaving this tent anytime soon, for sure, so she decides to just follow her instincts.  They’ve gotten her this far already after all. 
She reaches for her robes and pulls them off of her with a brash jerk, exposing her body to his eyes.  He stares, chest heaving frantically, fingers jerking against the blankets.  She’s not wearing a breast band.  She’d pulled the robes on after her quick bath in the river.  The only other thing she’s wearing is the little panties that skim over her hips, worn from their travels.  There are some holes in them, here and there, but Alistair thinks she looks like an angel come down to sweep him right into heaven.
She smiles at him and lifts herself up, hooking her fingers into the sides and pulling them slowly down her thighs.  He watches every single move she makes, eyes so focused that it almost makes her wary.  The entirety of his attention is on her, and when they’re finally off and she’s as naked as him, Alistair lets out a sharp exhalation and reaches for her.  He wants her.  It’s so obvious that she can practically feel the desire burning the air around her.  But she isn’t going to give herself up to him yet, because she still wants to see him go absolutely crazy before she lets him touch her.
“Not yet, love,” she murmurs, the endearment slipping out before she even realizes she says it.  But he realizes, and his eyes soften into melted pools of emotion that makes her heart skip a few beats.  He smiles at her, feeling giddy at the word, like his entire body is breathed with fire and hunger and excitement and love.  But when she lowers herself back down to take him into her mouth again, Alistair has to argue.  “Ingrid, I can’t – you shouldn’t – Damn.  I won’t last long if you…mmmm…if you…” he can’t finish his sentence because she’s got her mouth around him again and he loses it.
“I want to see you come for me,” he hears her whisper, in a throaty husky passionate voice that makes him twitch.  He grasps her hair and moans, hips jolting forward without permission.  He’s embarrassed a little, by that, but Ingrid merely pushes his hips back down and goes to take even more of him into her mouth, sucking even harder and pumping him even faster – and he can’t stop even if he wants to because Maker it’s already too late.
“Ingrid – “ he exclaims, sounding desperate and crazed and more than a little aroused.  He tries to jerk his hips into her mouth again but she’s got a firm hold of him, and he only succeeds at writhing beneath her and crumpling the blankets in his fists as he feels the edge of his world tip him over.  “Ooohhhhh, fffffffffmmmm – “
If she had devoured him before, she is practically ravaging him now, pumping him so fast that he can’t possibly keep up with her.  He spills himself into her mouth and she drinks up every last bit of him, continuing only when he is gasping and breathless and spent.  His eyes are cloudy.  His expression is satiated.  And when she crawls up his body, Alistair looks at her in utter astonishment.
“That was…” he searches for a word that fits but can’t find one.  Ingrid just smiles and leans down, kissing him very thoroughly as her bare body grazes over his.  His large hands encompass her, grasping her sides and moving up.  She moans a little against his mouth, the ache of her body multiplying tenfold, and the sound makes Alistair returning to her, to the tent and their current situation.
“You, my Lady, surprise me at every turn,” he mumbles, and decides that maybe he should surprise her for a change.  The nervousness is still there – the worry that maybe his inexperience will upset her in some way and he will be found lacking.  But it has faded from the intensity of his desire, sinking down and covered up by his passion.  He gives her a little grin and wraps his arm around her waist, then a moment later he’s flipping them over and Ingrid is the one below him, surprise sparking over her expression.
He kisses her neck, one hand sliding up to grasp her breast gently, and then he murmurs, “Perhaps I should return the favor.”  Her breath hitches and he feels an intense burst of masculine pride hurtle through him.  His lips lower to her breast, which he’s wanted to kiss since the moment she pulled those damnable robes off.  He takes her nipple into his mouth and moans, because she’s so soft and beautiful and fits so perfectly in his palm.  He thinks she’s utterly gorgeous.
The more he touches her, the more his arousal starts to kick in again.  He feels himself burning once more before he even reaches her core, and seeing how wet she already is only makes it that much worse.  He gently spreads her legs, placing a firm kiss on her hip as his fingers grace over her inner thighs.  He’s never done anything like this before, and he feels himself hesitate for a moment as he wonders how to please her.  He suddenly can’t remember all those stories he’d heard from Zevran.  He can’t really remember anything at all.
Ingrid notices.  He’s staring at her core like he’s got no idea what he’s doing, and she’s torn between wanting to close her legs (he’s just staring!) and finding the entire situation endearing and laughable.
She tunnels her fingers through his hair and he looks up at her, catching her eye with a bashful expression.  “I don’t really…uh.  This is more horrifying than I thought…”
She raises an eyebrow.  “You think I look horrifying?”  That’s not exactly the reaction she was expecting…but she supposes that the female sex might be a…strange sight for someone who’s never seen it before. 
Immediately, Alistair heaves himself up onto his arms and exclaims, “No!  I didn’t – oh blast it!  That’s not at all what I meant to say.  I’m such a Blighted idiot.  You’re utterly gorgeous – I’ve never wanted to…to be with anyone as much as I want to be with you.  I just, uh, Maker’s breath.  I just don’t…”
Ingrid bursts into laughter, stuffing one fist against her mouth and giggling so hard that tears pool at the corners of her eyes.  He is so Blighted cute.  His rambling is so endearing that she almost forgets about the reason they’re here and what they’re about to do. 
Alistair’s eyes widen.  “Are you laughing at me, my Lady?!” he asks, feeling the corner of his mouth twitch a little.  The hesitance drains away.  He chuckles too, feeling suddenly very comfortable despite the fact that he is naked and about please the woman he’s been in love with for months.
He’s got to just…do it, right?  He wants to.  He’s never really wanted to taste a woman like this before, even though he’s heard plenty of stories about it in bars and the like.  But he finds that he really wants to taste her.  And so, while Ingrid is still clutching her stomach and laughing, Alistair smirks and decides to just…well, do it.
He ducks his head and lays his tongue flat against her folds, dragging it upward and licking the entirety of her.  She tastes a little bitter, definitely not sweet, like those minstrel’s dirty songs say.  He not sure he likes it, to be honest, but what he does like is her reaction.
The moment his tongue grazes her sensitive flesh, Ingrid gasps and stops laughing.  Her laughter morphs into a sudden moan that thunders through her, and her body arches into him and her fingers clench down on his hair.  “Alistair!” she gasps, breathless and so so beautiful as she pushes her hips into his mouth.  He hooks an arm beneath her, pulling her down to him roughly, and tries to remember what she had done to him.  Suck.  Lick.  Repeat.  So he does that, and the sounds of her moans melt in his ears.
“Here – lick right here, please Alistair – “ she brushes her fingers against a part of her clit and he immediately obeys, dragging his tongue up and over a slightly harder part of her.  It feels strange beneath his tongue, and he closes his lips over the top of her clit and gives it an experimental suck.  The drawn out moan she gives him is extremely rewarding.
“Oh yes…mmmmm…” she arches, practically dragging his head against her with strong, insistent hands.  He must be doing it right, then.  He drags his mouth back down, exploring her flesh, taking her folds between his lips, lapping up the wet essence of her.  And the more he tastes her, the more he decides that she’s probably the best thing he’s ever tasted, and he can’t stop and doesn’t really want to.
Except Ingrid wants him to, apparently, when she clenches her fingers around his shoulders and mumbles, “Alistair – I need you.  Fuck, I – I need you - !”  And he really does want to see this through to the end, watch her writhe as she’d done to him, but the desperation in her voice is enough to make him utterly insane, and he can’t deny her what she wants.  Not when she asks him like that.
He’s hard again.  Not as hard as before, not quite, but definitely erect.  Just watching her move beneath him, exploring her body, seeing her expressions, has been enough to make his blood boil again.  He needs her too, more than he can even begin to understand – and so with a moan that rattles over her skin and makes her sigh, Alistair pulls himself away and looks down at her from above.
Quilted desire rages through her eyes like thunder.  She’s giving him this half-lidded look that’s never in his entire life been directed at him before, and it screams ‘desire’ and a whole lot of other, very wicked things.  Very wicked indeed, and Alistair breathes out with a shaky sort of passion that makes his entire body feel like its combusting.
He lifts a hand and drags the back of it over his mouth.  Ingrid reaches for him and nearly moans when his body fits against hers.  She curls a leg around his waist and pushes her hips to his, locking them there.  And then she reaches down, grasps his member, and guides him into her.  He’s in the middle of wondering her perhaps he should kiss her first when his tip is surrounded by the hot wetness of her inner walls, and Alistair’s mind completely blanks.
He whispers, “Maker…”  And gently pushes into her.  She’s wet from his ministrations and he slides in easily, pressing his hips down before slowly pulling back.  His movements are hesitant – he’s never done this before.  He doesn’t want to mess up by going too fast, or too slow, but after a few thrusts and several adjusting tilts of her hips, Ingrid spurs him faster.
“Faster?” he hears himself murmuring, almost as if he doesn’t hear her.  But he does, and he lowers himself down on his elbows, creating a cage around her head and giving himself more momentum.  He thrusts faster, harder, watching the desperate expressions that grace his lover’s face.  The deeper he goes, the louder she moans.  The observation is tucked away somewhere in the back of his mind for later perusal.  For now, all Alistair can do is lose himself in the tight, delicious feel of her wrapped around his cock; the softness of her body cushioning his; the breathless heaving way she whispers his name against his cheek.
She tugs at his hair.  He slams into her.  His head rises so he can kiss her, and even though it’s sloppy and a little messy from their harried motions, it feels wonderful and loving and makes Ingrid tighten her hold around his neck.  “Alistair…mmmm…” she gasps, and his mouth opens against hers like he’s hanging there, lost in the rhythmic movements of their hips.  And every thrust brings him closer, closer, and he can’t hold onto it because blast it all, his body betrays him with each jolt of pleasure.
“Oh Gods,” he whispers, eyes tightly shut.  “Ingrid,” he starts to say, thinking that perhaps he should warn her.  But she only arches into him and cries, “Alistair – just – I’m almost there – “  And Maker, he wants to see her come around him, feel her tighten, have her finish because of his lovemaking and drag her into the depths of his love for her.  So he holds on, braces his self control and it’s worth it, in the end, because the sight she makes is even better than all of his boyish fantasies put together.
“Oh Alistair!” she arches up and he watches every emotion that crosses her face, every flicker of her eyes, every twist of her mouth.  And when she comes, he really can’t hold back – the feel of her inner walls tightening even more makes him grind out a moan and jerk his hips quickly against hers, dragging his shaft into the tight wetness and letting himself go.
It is pure heaven, he thinks, as he feels the intense pleasure bolster through him.  It sets his heart on fire.  It makes shivers blossom over his skin, sliding up his back and making him moan at the completion he suddenly feels.  And when he opens his eyes, she’s waiting for him, a soft expression wavering over her and a tired, satiated smile curving over her mouth.  A mouth that he immediately leans down to kiss, with such exuberant passion that Ingrid chuckles against his lips.
“Is this why you never…mmm, have me heal you?  Because you get massive erections?” she asks cheekily.  His eyebrows jerk up in surprise and maybe, maybe a tiny hint of arousal.
“Massive erections?!” he repeats, clearly liking the choice of words.  He playfully nips at her lower lip and mumbles, “What a dirty mouth you have.  A lady like you should be properly punished.”  Ingrid laughs.  Oh she likes that idea, very much.
“Really?” she wonders, and crassly pushes her hips into his, where they are still connected.  She watches his face crumble with a sudden jolt of pleasure and smirks.  “Then punish me, Alistair.” 
And, well, he’s never been one to deny a lady anything, especially when this particular lady happens to know exactly how to tug at his heartstrings.  He fears that many of their companions don’t get a very good sleep that night, but to be honest…he can’t really bring himself to care.

~~~

2 comments:

  1. Thank you so, so much, Strangely Overcast! ^^

    ReplyDelete