Innocent is not the first word that comes to mind when you think of Alistair. Handsome, certainly. Mysterious. Foolish. Charming. Sad –– sad enough that he can’t quite hide his hurt behind his smiles, and awkward jokes, though he tries.
It seems the wrong word to use on a man who’s broad and bronze, and strong enough to stand a hurlock’s charge, and kisses like it’s all he’s ever known –– though if you kiss him long enough, he starts to get loopy.
“I never know what to do with my hands. What are hands even for?” He squints at you, cheeks flushed with color, lips swollen and kinked up into a smirk, hair a wreck from where you’ve been gripping it. He’s absurd, and adorable, and he leans down for more, until you’re both dizzy and staggering into each other from giggling too much, and breathing too little.
He’s had his fill of some of the worst there is in life. Loss. Rejection. Indifference. He expected the same from you. Expected you to dismiss him as a nuisance, and nothing more. So your interest has him blinking in awkward befuddlement, as if he assumes your gaze lingers not on him, but someone who stands just over his shoulder.
He carried that sense of startled joy through your first months together, through your first night together when he was shy of his own skin, and the ferocity of his response to yours. And when you wrapped your hand around his cock for the very first time, admiring the thickness and gentle left-tilted curve of it, he’d spilled into your palm after only a few minutes of breathless, frantic bucking. He’d spilled again into your mouth not long after, and kissed you, messy and desperate, heart cracked wide open, and yours for the taking.
You can think of nothing you have ever wanted more.
He’s grown since then. Filled out some, yes. Lost the last bit of boyish looseness in his limbs, and gained a solid stone of muscle. But more, he’s grown into himself. Wears an easy sort confidence that only comes from finding joy, and purpose, and a place to call home. Though home is just a drafty tent in a muddy patch of wilderness. But when you remind him of that he just shrugs and pulls you close to him. “I don’t mind a bit of mud. You sleep by my side, and that’s all that matters. That’s home.”
When did Alistair grow out of awkward and into charming?
Home is so much more to you. It’s the way Alistair’s shirts smell in the morning. And the curl of his mouth when he rolls you to him in the middle of the night. It’s the way he gasps beneath you at his last, almost swearing –– but not quite, fighting to keeps his hips steady as you swallow the silver-sour taste of his spend. It’s the way he nudges your legs apart with quiet determination, lower lip caught up in his teeth. It’s his quiet Maker’s breath each and every time he breeches you. It’s the way after all this time, he still looks at you in awkward befuddlement, half afraid to believe that you’re his.
“I love you, Alistair.” You remind him as often as you can.
He buries his lopsided smile in your hair. You can practically feel the sentimental ba-bump of his heart as it flips. “Foolish of you, really.”
Dragon Age NSFW mini-headcanons Masterpost
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