Title: Like Magic

Summary: After chancing upon an intimate encounter between a couple of mages, Ser Carver struggles with his vows and his purpose.

Disclaimer: BioWare owns all; I just play in their pond.

Author's Notes: This is something I hadn't ever thought I'd write, but I ended up doing it anyway. The idea presented itself without anything to prompt it, and at the time I wrote it, this thing just wouldn't get out of the way so I could finish what I was trying to write until I put this one down. Publishing after I got involved with the Dragon Age Kink Meme, as there's a request there for something similar and the whole point is to get comfortable writing something dirty, after all.

Possibly also publishing because a friend who subscribes to my author name made the mistake of confessing her smut sensor has overloaded. But I wouldn't be that evil. Would I?

Reviews are always welcome!

He hasn't been comfortable for most of the evening.

His patrol had only been half over when he heard a noise from inside one of the storage rooms that should have been empty at that time of day. Without questioning himself, he'd opened the door and caught two of the apprentices engaged in… Well. Something he hadn't been engaged in since those few visits to the Rose before he joined the Order.

Now that he's thinking about it – again – he starts to feel just a little treacherous for promising not to say anything, remembering his duty. He reminds himself of the mage he'd helped out through the hidden door in the kitchen stores last week, and it occurs to him that even that wasn't his first betrayal of his vows if the true holy rollers in the Gallows were to be his example.

He steps into his room, and as he locks the door behind him he realizes that bit of wood doesn't do anything to distract from the memory of the cell the small chamber used to be. He'd been granted full knighthood not two weeks before, and for the first few nights had found himself unable to sleep easily in the room the rank allowed after spending years in the barracks arrangement downstairs.

Maker knows he's tried to follow all the tenets of the Order, and he's listened well to those tasked with seeing to his spiritual health. His expression sours as he thinks again of the holy types, those who are most likely to raise a hand against the mages, or who are most likely to be found in the Rose of an evening when they've no duties to see to.

Thoughts of the whorehouse bring back to his mind the image of the woman in the storage earlier, his mind's eye flashing on her face as the other mage moved inside her. Not for the first time today, his body reacts to the sight, his cock twitching as he sets aside his breastplate and drapes the skirt over it. Angry once more over the imbalance of morals and duty, he throws back the blanket on his bed, leaving it where it falls as he stretches out on his back. He stares at the ceiling, careful not to acknowledge the uncomfortable shifting in his smalls.

In a rush, he realizes why he's been so frustrated. He did follow certain rules. He hadn't snuck off to a private corner, alone or with anyone else, and for the longest time it hadn't been an issue. Visions would come to him in his sleep, and the urges of his body would once more be forgotten as soon as he saw to his morning hygiene and donned a fresh set of small clothes.

But those visions seem to be a thing of the past, especially since he was told he'd been placed on the short list of the faithful who may be called to stand as Knight-Attendant for a Harrowing. Seeing the faces of the apprentices whose respect he'd worked so hard to earn, and who he may now have to cut down, didn't leave a lot of room for pleasant images in his sleep. Or, for that matter, for sleep in general. Even before then, his knowledge of the state of affairs in the Gallows had intruded upon his dreams.

Another recollection from this afternoon comes, his mind now recreating the gentle motion he'd seen, and the way her breasts had… An almost unfamiliar sensation interrupts his thoughts now, and he realizes his hand has strayed, one finger hooked outside his smalls and the others within. Though he scolds himself, his hand stays where it is, his erection pressing almost painfully against the limits of the cloth.

He reminds himself of the teachings against indulging the urges of the flesh, against corrupting the purity of body and purpose the Order taught were to be his weapon and his armor against the dangers of their calling. And he reflects bitterly that no one has stopped those who have visited the Rose, or found a private corner, and no one has done a damned thing about those who would raise a hand to the mages simply because they can.

He finds himself questioning the teachings in new ways, as well. If the natural demands of the body were so sinful, why then wouldn't the Maker have subjected them to the free will of the soul? It becomes just one more element of the vows and tenets of the Order whose illusions he can't maintain in his mind. He thinks of mages, and how there's no free will associated with their lot, either.

Unbidden, the concept of capturing and keeping mages summons again the woman from this afternoon, and the small sounds that had escaped her lips before the pair had known they'd been caught.

Resolved, or resigned, he isn't sure which, he becomes aware that his lesser fingers have been flexing against the wiry thatch of hair where they rested, occasionally brushing against the hard base of his cock. He withdraws his hand, sliding it across the taut fabric at the front of his smalls, teasing his tip with his fingers and pressing his palm along the shaft.

For a long moment, he simply enjoys the sensation, thinking for the first time that he is no longer conflicted in his purpose, allowing himself to feel the touch he's been denying himself for so many years. He wills his mind's eye toward a memory of one of the women from before, wanting to give no more thought to the private moment he'd intruded upon earlier, and moans softly, just once, as he is rewarded with the image of the woman moving above him.

When his hips begin rolling softly under the recollection and the gentle passing of his fingers, he feels a cool wetness in the cloth pressing against his tip. Opening his eyes, he moves his hands once more, tugging free of the restraint and hooking the hard band of his small clothes under his balls. Enjoying the sensation again, he grips his cock and begins to stroke, slow and firm. When the motion of his hips resumes shortly after, he presses his other hand against his balls and begins tracing the line between.

He feels the heat now, rising in his chest, as he remembers another time, another woman, crying out beneath him as his gaze travels in a slow line from her face down to their joining, and the image of moving with her prompts him to lever himself over. His breath comes in short pants as his body feels the denial, his hand moving away to help position himself.

He rests his head against the pillow and arches up, replacing his hand and thrusting in time with the memory. The image is shattered, his attention brought back to the here and now, as his motion becomes more urgent and he feels the cool fabric of the sheets sliding along his tip as it passes through his fingers and back again.

He finds himself grunting quietly in the back of his throat as he allows the feeling to take him over, reveling in the gratification that somehow felt new again, and he takes notice of the other things he can feel. The loose cloth across his ass, brushing softly against his skin as he moves. The cool night air against his back, a taunting breeze caressing his shoulders through the open window.

Remembering himself, he shifts again, settling on his back and stroking quickly. He feels an only vaguely familiar warmth spreading down the back of his fingers and then his hips are bucking, a shuddering moan catching in his throat once and then again as it tries to rival the force of his release, the evidence of his pleasure striking against his stomach and his chest.

He shivers violently, only removing his hand when he's certain he's been fully spent. As he rises and steps across the small room he has to steady himself on the basin, small clothes still pressed against his balls, his breath still heavy and his blood still rushing in his ears.

As he dips a rag into his pitcher of water, he isn't thinking about the Order or its tenets or its hypocrisy. He's enjoying his relief, both of his body and of his mind, resolved as he is to live and do as he thinks is right.

As he adds his smalls to the rag in his laundry bin and slides nude into bed, reaching now for the blanket he had shoved out of the way before, he allows himself a small smile. He certainly won't do it, but he thinks it might almost be worth waiting another three years.