Perfect

PERFECT


“Are you…are you sweating?” Brianne peered with some concern at the man who stood before her, fair skin flushed red and damp despite the icy wind that pulled at their cloaks, and dragged through their hair.

“No! Yes. Maybe. Yes.” Alistair flushed even deeper at her worry, avoiding her gaze. “Maker’s breath, why is this so difficult? Every time I’m around you, I feel as if my head’s about to explode.”

Brianne’s laughter echoed off the sheer rock walls of the Frostback Mountains, drawing amused glances from their companions who huddled around the large bonfire for warmth.

“You are too kind, Ser knight! You turn my head with this flattery!” Her smile widened as Alistair’s broad shoulders hunched into his misery.

She knew she shouldn’t enjoy his discomfort quite so much. But he was everything she should fear – human, noble blooded, Templar – and here he was twisting his mailed fingers together like the youngest apprentice caught pilfering the sweets jar.

“Oh! Oh no, that’s not what I … Oh, I am an idiot.”

Feeling some pity, Brianne reached for one of those hands, prying the fingers from each other, her own small fingers wrapped around the cold steel plate of his gauntlet. She had to pull hard before he registered her touch and looked down to focus on her laughing face. The line between his brows eased a little and he took a deep breath, and spoke again … so softly she had to lean toward him to hear.

“Here’s the thing, Bree – being around you makes me crazy. But … but I can’t imagine being without you. Not … not ever.”

Bree’s laugh died somewhere between her heart and her throat and, having gotten this far, the rest of the words tumbled from Alistair as if a dam had opened.

“I don’t know how to say this another way. I want to spend the night with you. Here. In camp. Maybe this is too fast. I don’t know, but I know what I feel.”

“Even though I’m not human?” she whispered.

“Especially because of that!”

Still clinging to his hands, Bree felt her knees sway beneath her. “Alistair, I …” but the tempo of his words wouldn’t – couldn’t – stop now.

“I wanted to wait for the perfect time, the perfect place, but when will it be perfect? If things were, we wouldn’t even have met. We sort of stumbled into each other. And, despite this being the least perfect time, I still found myself falling for you in between all the fighting and everything else. I don’t want to wait any more.”

Finally, he stumbled to a halt and swallowed hard. “I … I’ve never done this before. With anyone. You know that, right? I want it to be with you … while we have the chance. In case…”

“Don’t talk like that!” Her reproach was sharper than she meant it to be. “There will always be time later…”

He tugged his hand from hers, mindful of the sharp edges of metal. “Will there? You don’t know that. I don’t know that.”

She stared at him, taking in the firelight’s red dance through his hair and over the skin of his cheek. She should be terrified. Everything he was could break her. She felt her head nodding in quick jerks, like tremors, but he was already looking away.

“I’m sorry, Bree. I don’t know why I said that. It is too soon, isn’t it? Let’s just…”

“Yes.” The word seemed to stick in a throat stripped dry with anticipation.

“…forget I mentioned this, shall we? Holy Maker, why do I keep sticking my foot so deep in my …”

“Alistair!” She punctuated his name with a sharp rap on the articulated plates covering his abdomen. “Alistair … yes.”

“I’m sorry…what?”

“If you’re sure this is what you want … I want to be with you, too.”

“Oh.” He blinked once, his brow furrowing before his light brown eyes opened wide. “Oh! I … I’m going to stop…talking…now.”

Brianne reclaimed his hand from where it had paused mid-gesticulation and dragged her nails down the ridged metal scale. Her flesh felt delicate and vulnerable next to his armoured form, but the dawning comprehension on his face filled her belly with a low burning power.

“Come with me, Alistair,” she whispered. She didn’t have to pull very hard before he stumbled after her with clanking footsteps.

Brianne’s tent was an odd Chasind design, a tall cone of poles and hides, but Alistair still had to duck to enter after her. A small brazier in the centre gave off heat and a flickering orange glow that bounced off his armour. Bree chased one of the reflections across the etched breastplate with her fingertip. Noticed that he seemed to be having trouble breathing.

Leaning forward, Brianne pressed her cheek against the cool metal, and closed her eyes at the rattle and creak as his fingers tentatively stroked her hair. She giggled softly at the sharp tug as her hair snagged in the rivet joints of the gauntlet and the hissed curse from just above her head. She smiled into the flickering light and grasped his hand, carefully removing the blood-red strands from the trap.

“Maybe … maybe you should take those off.”

“Right. Yes. I should.” But he didn’t move.

She tugged at the gloves, and they came off easily, falling to the ground with a clatter.

Alistair took a single step back, his eyes riveted to his own hands clenched into gentle fists before him. An eternity passed before he looked up again, and raised his fingers to either side of her face. Brianne choked on her own gasp as his fingertip, gentle and wondrous, slid up the sharp angle of her ear to the pointed tips that peeked out from her short-cropped hair. She bit her lip hard but couldn’t stop the shudder that exploded from her chest.

“Oh…Bree.” He touched her hair, combed through it, stroked it, tugged at it. He dragged his fingers along the line of her cheek and brow, down her nose and softly, so softly, across her trembling mouth. She stood still, eyes intent on his face, skin tingling beneath his touch, until he cupped her face in his large, calloused hands, and bent, catching her top lip between his.
She reached up and wrapped her arms around him, armour or no, before her legs refused to hold her any more. When he deepened the kiss, she pulled him closer, pressing her body to the hard plates of his body, and her tongue to his. He tasted like steel and … spirits.

She smiled against his lips. “Sharing a drink with Oghren were you?”

He chuckled softly, kissing the top of her head. “Well, yes. In my defence, it was completely necessary. You’re an intimidating woman.”

She tilted her head as far back as she could to take in the height from which he towered over her.

“Yes. Intimidating. That’s me,” she laughed. “You know, not that I don’t have a healthy appreciation for a man in uniform, but … maybe some more of this metal might come off?”

“But then I’ll be defenceless, m’lady!” He paused. “And … and, I may need some help with that, actually.”

At the Circle, Brianne had been known for her clever fingers. She had always been the first of the apprentices to master a new spell gesture, a new glyph, even if the words sometimes gave her trouble. But in the dim space of that tent, the system of complex buckles and ties that held the plate armour to Alistair’s body seemed the most frustrating puzzle ever created in the history of Ferelden.

The bracers were first, due to their close proximity to the gauntlets. Her hands shook as she pried at the clasps, loosening them enough to slide to the ground. The rerebrace on his upper arms fell next. The leather of the straps that wrapped around his ribs holding breastplate to backplate were pulled tight and hardened with weather, sweat and blood. He twisted as she fumbled, scraping the backs of her hands on the chainmail that still covered his arms.

“Just… hold still,” she commanded hoarsely, sweat now pooling at the base of her neck. He complied, but even then she had to resist the urge to take her small dagger to the fastenings … or her teeth. She took two deep breaths, led him closer to the brazier’s insufficient light, and forced herself to be calm as she worked at the leather until it came free. She repressed a ridiculous shout of triumph as the heavy casing came free, only to stare with renewed dismay at the chain shirt and heavily buckled, padded doublet that he still wore.

“Dirthamen! No wonder the Chantry raises virgins. This is more effective than any chastity belt!”

Brianne waited for Alistair to laugh at her, or to joke or even apologize in his way. But when she looked away from the belts and buckles, she realized he was standing, rooted in place and trembling at the touch of her hand. Her mouth parted in a slow smile, as she reached for the next buckle.

Now, aware of how the breath hissed from him when her fingertips grazed his abdomen beneath the linked faulds, she took her time. She stroked the flesh that emerged in chinks from under the solid cuisses that covered his thighs. She knelt and rested her cheek against his hip as she unbuckled the greaves with tortuously slow motion. And smiled to herself as his fingers tightened in her hair when she slid her hands beneath the leather and wool garments to peel them from his skin. She stood, pressed herself to him and pulled the chain shirt over his head. She breathed softly on his throat as the links rattled past his face and felt him shake against her

Brianne paused over the last buckle on that damned undercoat. She looked up to find Alistair watching her, jaw clenched tight. Without releasing his gaze, she unhooked the last fastening and slid the heavy garment from his shoulders, sliding her palms over the soft linen shirt, the last barrier to his body. Then, closing her eyes, she pressed her lips to the fabric on his chest, directly over his pounding heart.

“Maker’s breath, Bree!” A core of tension seemed to dissolve in him as he wrapped her hair around his shaking fingers. “You’re set to kill me, aren’t you? This is some kind of revenge for teaching that hound of yours to fetch Morrigan’s knickers?”

Her snort of laughter was muffle against the broad expanse of his chest. “No. But now that you mention it …” She finished the statement by drawing her nails across his lower back, pleased with how he arched into her.

“Unfair, woman!” He twitched and she, catching her foot in the tangled chain shirt, lost her balance.

The world tilted as she pitched backward, then did an entirely different sort of dance when she found herself lifted, hovering above disaster. Safe.

He held her …

She hadn’t even sensed his movement, but his hands had been rough as he’d grabbed her from her fall and pulled her to his chest.
She choked back a small cry.

Blessed Andraste, he held her …

She could feel the muscles in his arms clench around her shoulders as he pulled her into him, lifting her off her toes.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t let her go.

“Are you all right?”

Alistair lifted her higher, looped one arm around her hips, his long fingers cradling the curve of her ass. The smell of him, leather, metal and sweat. Plains grasses that filled the padded underarmour. Mountain wind. Blood.

“I…I wish I could be better at this…”

Brianne reached up and, hooking her legs around his hips, pulled herself to his mouth, stopping the flow of words. He froze only a moment before growling deep in his chest. He braced the back of her head with his hand and kissed her.

His mouth was gentle, exploring the corner of her mouth, the curve of her lower lip. She teased and challenged, and nipped at him until he counterattacked, panting. His arms were the mountain’s core, solid, steady, holding her firmly against the steady thump of his heart.

Desperate, she clawed at his linen shirt, pulling it upwards until she could feel the heat of his flesh.

“Alistair.” It was barely a gasp, but he heard.

“Yes?”

“Take this off, Alistair.”

Setting her down gently, he pulled the shirt over his head. Raking his eyes down her still fully clothed body, he grinned bashfully. “It seems to me, m’lady, that there is some injustice here.”

She felt her mouth pull up at the corner, but her swift words were lost as the brazier’s glow behind Alistair illuminated his body through the loose linen trousers. Golden light wrapped around the sleek muscles of his thighs, the perfect arc of his rear … and unmistakable thrust of his arousal. Shadows played in the ridges of his belly and the hard curve of his chest, criss-crossed with scars and bruises – strength controlled and disciplined and set down at her feet.

As it happened, words were not possible, so instead Brianne reached for her own collar and in two swift movements released the clasp at her throat, allowing her red robes to pool soundlessly at her feet. Alistair’s mouth fell open and she felt, perhaps, the scales had balanced a little.

“I was right. You are trying to kill me.” He swallowed. Twice. “Oh, wait. I get it. I’m asleep, aren’t I? That’s it! I’m going to wake up any moment with a Chantry sister and a bucket of ice-cold water looming over me.”

“Sweet Mythal, save me!” Bree’s laugh was breathless. “Alistair, I need …I need… you…”

“Well, if I’m going to pay the icy price, I might as well enjoy this dream.” His voice, pitched low, rolled over her like cream – warm, sweet and decadent. “Your desire is my command.”

He swept her up in his arms again, gently now, and kicked aside the heaping pile of armour with his feet, clearing a path to the bedroll in the warmest corner of the tent. He knelt in the rough camp blankets, still holding her to his chest, then lay her down. Time hung in a suspended silence as they tasted each other in the flickering shadows. Naked skin glistened with sweat despite the icy breeze that snapped through the tent flaps like an uninvited visitor.

She pulled him down with her, unwilling to lose contact with his lips. One of her legs lay between his thighs and she dug her fingers into his scalp through the softness of his hair. Even in the soft glow his skin was dark against the blue-white of her own body and the contrast thrilled her. When he lowered his mouth to the hollow of her throat, then to the hardened peak of her nipple, it was the curve of his cheek and the shadow of his eyelashes against her breast that made her sob as much as the drawing pressure low in her belly.

He braced his weight on his arms, but she was impatient with the distance that created between their bodies and pulled him down so his chest was pressed against her small breasts. He wrapped his arms around her, and rolled onto his back dragging her with him. His rough hands stroked her spine, from the curl of crimson hair at the base of her neck to the soft curve of her ass and she arched into his hand with a whimper. He hesitated at the sound, but seemed to come to a realization with a small smile. “Sooo … that’s good, then?”

She squirmed on top of him, making him gasp.

“Alistair.”

“Yes, my love?”

She buried her face in the hard plane of his collarbone and muttered, “You…you’re still wearing pants.”

“I…Yes. I do seem to be.”

“Alistair.”

“Yes?”

“Off!”

She felt his chuckle through her bones. “You know I live to please you, m’lady. But I seem to be rather helplessly pinned at the moment and…”

With a decidedly unladylike snort, Brianne reached down between their bodies and wrapped her fingers around his erection – linen trousers and all.

“Holy M…! Yes. Off. Definitely off.”

With a triumphant smile, she sat up to straddle his thighs as he fumbled with the drawstring at his waist. When it finally came loose, she tugged the soft material down over his hips and thighs. She even managed to free one of his feet before losing patience and sliding back up the length of his body, pressing her mouth to the hard ridges of his belly and drawing his cock through the valley of her breasts.

He was rigid and panting beneath the smooth drag of her skin, his fists clenching against her back.

“Alistair.”

“Yes?” The sound of a man at the very end of his chains of discipline.

“Alistair … you won’t hurt me.”

“Oh Maker, Bree…I don’t know…what…how…”

“Just love me, Alistair. I need you to make love to me.”

“Bree!”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her lips to his, lifting his head from the small bedroll to meet her kiss. Calloused fingers slid down her thighs to her hips and lifted until her hot centre rested on his arousal. She closed her eyes and groaned into his mouth, aching with the heavy need that pooled down through her belly.

And then he moved.

“A-Alistair!”

The full length of him gliding across the sensitive flesh between her legs caused her to sit up wildly, hands on his chest, pressing her body down against him. She reached down again, this time to guide him into her. He might have been about to say something, but it was lost in an inarticulate growl as he arched and threw his head back into the ground.

Brianne grabbed a handful of his red-gold hair and locked her gaze on his. She held both as she slid, deliberately, down the full length of his erection, memorizing – absorbing – this moment as he filled her. In that small space of time, they shared a pulse separate from the rest of the world. The wind still beat at the tent walls, the murmur of conversation still buzzed outside, darkspawn still crawled in the earth beneath their bodies. But, for this moment, their blood spoke only to each other in a slow, burning dance.

Bree raised herself to her knees and Alistair’s hands gripped her hips and pulled her back down as he drove up beneath her. Her head fell back, loose, as she sucked in great lungfuls of air with each thrust, her thighs gripping his sides tight. The long, powerful glide of his cock inside her, filled her with an expanding pressure that built along her spine and pounded in time with her heart – his heart.

He twisted beneath her suddenly, flexed and pulled her to him, curling around her body until she was under him. The muscles in his arms tensed and shook as he held himself apart from her, his forehead resting on her chest and his sides heaving. She felt the wind swirl between their heated flesh, drawing her skin into pebbled bumps.

“Alistair?”

“Bree…I’m not … I’m too…I just … want this to be right…Andraste’s flaming sword, you make me crazy…”

She stroked his head and neck with cool fingers, dragging fingernails over the corded strength of his shoulders. “It doesn’t always have to be right, Alistair. Sometimes crazy is … perfect.”

She pressed kisses against his cheek and neck, drew her tongue along the rasp of his jaw until he gave in to a shuddering laugh.

“You’re maddening, woman. Have I told you that?” He leaned his weight onto one arm, and reached for her breast with his free hand. Bree squirmed with a low, guttural moan as his hand encompassed the full rise of the high mound. He dragged his thumb over her nipple, and followed with a slow swipe of his tongue. “Maker’s breath, you are beautiful.”

He shifted his weight again, sliding hard fingers down her ribcage and over her hip. “Oh, Bree. I forget how small you are sometimes.”

“What does…Ah!” Brianne forgot her question as long fingers dipped between her thighs to the twisting heat of her desire and stroked. He moved hesitatingly at first, then bolder, encouraged by the twist of her legs and the way she whimpered and clutched at his arms.

“Please. Oh, Alistair…please!”

“Please what, love?” One finger dove deep inside her, snapping her back into a bow that arched off of the blanket. “What can I do for you?”

Brianne thrashed beneath him, kicking out one foot against the tent wall, pressure mounting in the muscles of her belly, her thighs. Heat built in her chest and her head with each stroke of his hand, until sparks danced before her eyes.

“I need you, Alistair. Now, damn you!”

“Yes, m’lady.” His voice was harsh with control, but he complied, entering her with one smooth push.

The sparks in Bree’s vision exploded. She wrapped her legs around his hips and clung to his sweat-slicked body with each flex of his back. The pressure in her core expanded into a white surge of pleasure that washed through her limbs, blinding her. But she heard her own high, keening cry – breathless and thin – calling his name. She heard the slap of their skin meeting, the sweat, the flesh. She heard his hoarse gasps as he withdrew from her and thrust again, burying himself deep inside of her. And again.

“Bree! Ah, Bree…” She felt him tense, grow rigid and then a groan dragged from the very bottom of him exploded next to her ear. He pulsed inside her to the rhythm of her own heartbeat and she arched to him again, shuddering with him as he spilled himself inside her.

Brianne was lost in the thundering of his heart, the unsteady rasp of his breath. She clung to his tall frame as he shook, small aftershocks rattling her own body.

Alistair wrapped his arms all the way around her thin shoulders, his face pressed to her throat. Gently, so gently, he rolled to his side, pulling her with him. They lay, sticky and wrapped in each other’s heat, learning how to breathe again, until the wind intruded again, stripping away warmth. Shy suddenly, Brianne reached for the thick woven blanket, pulled if over both of them, and curled back up in his embrace.

She dared a look at his face and was stunned at what she saw there. He was staring down at her, his jaw clenched and his brow furrowed in a vertical line. He opened his mouth. Shut it again, instead drawing his fingertip along the angular line of her cheek and, again, over the pointed tip of her ear.

It was a familiar expression, but not on his face.

“Alistair.”

“Yes?”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re afraid of me.”

“Afraid? I’m sodding terrified.”

“Why, Alistair? It’s only me. I may be a mage, but I’m still just an elf, and I’m still just your junior Grey Warden.”

“It’s not your magic, Bree. It’s you. You unmake me. I … I can’t imagine a world without you in it, now.”

Her heart started beating again. And, as the panic subsided, a wave of exhaustion rolled over her. “Hush. I’ll always be right here.” She pulled his arm over her shoulder and snuggled deeper into the protective bulk of his body.

Alistair buried his face in her damp hair, flexing his arms around her. “I love you, Bree.”

“Mmmpph…”

He watched her sleep until the dim sun crested the peaks of the Frostback Mountains.