Slower on this than I wanted to be because current events are keeping my mind buzzing but I found a new inking brush and had a lot of fun exploring it. Always loved this flirt and just got to it in my Alerion play through haha.
I’ve had this dang doodle sitting in my drafts to finish forever I swear, Morrigan and Tabris’ traveling outfits + bb Kieran The full view looks terrible on tumblr, but it’s available on patreon
I had an intense hankering for Morrigan and a Female Warden, so happy Pride Month everybody!!
Word Count: 1827 Rating: Smut (18+) Warnings: Pregnancy mention(s), light teasing, bickering, AFAB lesbian sex
Samara Cousland was a woman of refined birth. She came from one of the oldest houses of Ferelden, and had been trained to be a perfect lady, and a perfect warrior. She was beautiful, in face and figure and personality, and her smile brought light to the dreariest of days.
Morrigan was none of these things.
She had been told she was beautiful, once, but that had been from Samara, and Morrigan still didn’t know if she could trust the many, many compliments she received from the naive lady. She tried to believe them but…she was crass, and blunt, and angry - gods, she was always angry. It was easier that way, to pretend like nothing was alright in the world because, really, what good could possibly outweigh what was to come.
Instead, she minds her place. She distances herself from the group, eats only what she is given, and speaks only when something relevant crosses her mind. She isn’t here to make friends with these people - she is here to end whatever it is mother has planned. She has a role to play.
It reminds her of the games Samara invites her to play - to “pass the time and keep you sane”. She had to admit, trivial little games were easier to think about than bedding the oaf Alistair and bearing his child, and then Samara couldface the archdemon and…
Morrigan couldn’t consider that. She asks Samara to set the board again instead.
Samara beat her every time - it was almost another one of their little rituals. The party would return from whatever little quest they went on, Samara would pass out the little gifts and trinkets she found wherever they went. She would eat, she would bathe, and she would pass stories round the fire until she made her way to Morrigan, giving her confident smiles.
She moves pawns around the board with such confidence. Morrigan doesn’t understand how she can change the world like she does, affecting so many lives for the better. She almost resents her for it, the way she bandages every knee and acts as a martyr for all the hopeless dreamers. Instead, she watches as she moves a knight.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Samara says, a smile in her voice. She crosses her legs at the knee, resting her elbow on her thigh and her chin in her hand, “Do I have something on my face?”
“‘Tis that stupid little grin below your nose.” Morrigan retorts immediately, moving her piece. She sees it after she moves, that she can steal the piece.
She does. “Oh, you love it.”
Morrigan just watches her a moment, admiring her…well, all of her, really. She’s a beautiful woman, strong from lugging around a sword and shield day in and day out. Alistair had called her a desert bloom, offered a rose he’d carried in his pocket for weeks. Samara had accepted it with the grace of a friend, quietly disclosing to Alistair that she was, in fact, only attracted to women.
Morrigan had overheard.
Her mother had always convinced her that there were places in the world - there were pawns and kings, and they had their queens. Two queens on the same side of the board would completely ruin the game, the entire dynamic completely null with one slight change.
But Morrigan couldn’t help but wonder. If two queens, on the same side of the board, surrounded by their army of knights and bishops and pawns, if they really needed a king to dictate the ending of the game. Or, perhaps, if the king were the equal of a bishop, or a pawn - a player in the game, but not the equal party.
“You look a million miles away.” Samara says, fist on her cheek, “Come on, what’s bothering you?”
“What?” Morrigan fakes a scoff, “Nothing, I’m waiting for you to take your turn.”
Samara arches a brow, “Well, my dear, you would be mistaken. It’s your turn.” She puts on a lopsided little smile, and Morrigan blushes, clearing her throat and moves another piece - does a bishop move like that?
If it doesn’t, Samara doesn’t comment on it. “Now, what had you so distracted from our little game?” She looks over the board, pondering her next move.
Morrigan looks at Samara, almost with a sense of urgency, and Samara must sense it, ignoring the board. “Alistair approached me while your party was away.”
“Are you two arguing again?” Samara asks, completely used to their childish antics. “What’s caused it this time?”
Morrigan clears her throat, “Alistair has suggested that he believes we are…how did he phrase it?” She tries to put it lightly, then just sighs, “Caboodling.”
Samara laughs, shaking her head, “Did he put it like that? Caboodling?”
“I think I prefer fraternization.” She admits, busying herself with the board.
She looks her over, but Morrigan doesn’t see it, considering she’s still trying to figure out if a knight was allowed to move like she was planning. Samara lets herself relax, smiling, wishing that she and Morrigan were…caboodling.
“Well, it wouldn’t technically be fraternizing.” She explains, moving her piece, “I mean, if Alistair and I were together, we’d both be Grey Wardens, so it would be. But we’re just…friends. No fraternization if we do decide to caboodle.”
Morrigan almost cracks a smile, “Please stop referring to sex as caboodling.”
Samara laughs and shakes her head, “You started it, I won’t stop.” She leans a little closer, “What made Alistair think that we were…having sex?”
“Apparently he thinks that we make ‘kissy faces’ at one another.” She rolls her eyes, taking her move, “I think you share more romantic glances with that mutt of yours.”
Samara fakes a gasp, “Barkspawn is integral to the group.” She smiles at Morrigan, and she is undone. “He’s going to be the real hero of all this, mark my words.” Then, after a moment, “Checkmate.”
Morrigan looks down at the board, perplexed. Her queen had captured her king, after knocking her queen from the board, and she feels like there is some symbolism, or a divine notion that she ought to adhere to.
Instead, she sits back in her seat, “That…was a good game, Warden.” Morrigan does crack a smile this time, and Samara practically beams in response. “I daresay I enjoyed myself.”
Samara snorts - rather unbecoming for such a prissy noble - and smiles at Morrigan, “You better have, considering how often we play this damnable game.”
Morrigan smiles, then pauses, considering, “You don’t like this game?”
Samara shakes her head, “My father made me play it constantly - to help with strategy, he said. All I see now is a controlled, easy board. Nothing is so easy in the moment.” She smiles, much softer than before, at Morrigan, “It’s much better with you, though.”
“Because you win every time.” Morrigan shoots back, trying to hide the lump in her throat. No man had ever made her…pine. Was this pining? She was yearning for her touch, to know if her lips were really as soft as they looked. She wanted to know how her hair felt in her grip, to listen to her and take care of her Warden, her Samara.
“Because of the company.” Samara says, still holding Morrigan’s queen piece.
Caboodling. Morrigan didn’t understand why the idiotic Warden didn’t just refer to it as what it was - sex. Or, more honestly, she did. He was a virgin, inexperienced in the ‘heat of the moment’, in the ‘passion of lovers’. In that moment, though, eyes locked on Samara’s, Morrigan is convinced she wants to call it love-making.
Morrigan licks her lips, watching Samara’s deft fingers turn the queen piece round and round, and suddenly, the Warden’s lips are pressed against hers.
Her lips aren’t soft. They’re chapped, from months of neglect, and her fingertips are callous and rough, but she and Morrigan interlock more firmly than any king and queen ever have. It’s not an explosion of feelings or an eruption of passion, but Morrigan feels something coming to light - Morrigan is Morrigan and Samara is Samara, and they are together now.
Morrigan knows she will have to leave one day. She will bear a child, and she will…
She doesn’t want to think about what comes next, because she doesn’t know. It is easier to have a plan, to know where the pawns will go, and what the queen will do, and when.
Instead, she kisses Samara.
She grips the front of the shirt she wore, like she might try to dart off and leave her. Samara’s fingers intertwine in her hair, and Morrigan stands, the board game forgotten as the Warden is led into the Witch’s den.
Love-making, Morrigan thinks, her lips a breath away from Samara’s undressing her slowly, admiring every scar, kissing over the bone of her hip, across her collarbone. Samara shakes beneath her, and Morrigan’s name sounds like heaven on her lips.
She kisses along her thighs, teasing. She is soft here, not untouched, but Morrigan finds that Samara grips the sheets and whines when Morrigan takes her time here.
She has only ever lain with men, specifically men with assigned male anatomy - she has never evenseen another young woman’s body, unsure of where she is allowed to tread from here.
“Are you…?” Samara asks just as Morrigan looks up to her, “Have you done this before?” She says, as if she is a mind reader - Morrigan knows she is not.
Morrigan swallows and bites back, “I didn’t have many opportunities during the few times I left to wood, much less with…someone like you.”
Samara snorts, and it puts Morrigan at ease, at least a little, though she bristles, “Someone like me? You touch yourself, don’t you?”
Thinking of you, but Morrigan just nods, and dips her fingers inside, using the same tricks that get her off, watching Samara’s face so she could pinpoint exactly what made her whisper her name, what made her toes curl, her nose wrinkle - her favorite was how the Warden’s eyes shut, her lips parted and she ruts her hips into Morrigan’s hand, only to have the Witch pin her down with her free hand, kissing along her navel as she fingers her.
Love. Morrigan thinks it’s a silly word. Laying with the Warden will not convince her so easily, but Samara is a patient woman. Two queens. The concept is still foreign to Morrigan, but she brings Samara to climax twice over before the Warden demands that it’s Morrigan’s turn. Morrigan just smiles, and then rolls her eyes as Samara teases her for it.
Samara kisses at the curls between the Witch’s legs, “We’re caboodling now, you know that?”
“Oh, just shut up, and put that mouth to good use.” Morrigan looks up, but only so Samara can’t see her smiling.
Samara kisses the inside of her thigh, “Anything for you.”
