AN: Prompt was - "So I read somewhere that the new elves look like sheep.

Meme, I can't get this out of my head. Because who do we know that likes elves? King Maric, that's who.

The scene: a ship. Lost at sea. It's been ages, and Maric is lonely, with an itch in his pants that begs for a little wooly action. Maybe it's the sun. Maybe it's the heat. Maybe he can't tell the difference anymore.

Bonus points if Maric actually bangs the wool off a sheep.

Double extra bonus points if Maric thinks he's banging a sheep but it turns out to be a hairy elf."

I was already going to hell... I really am now. I wasn't going to anon fail this, but well, I apparently have no shame.


Maric used to like the sun, the kiss of sun lit tendrils as they licked against his skin in warm embrace. There was comfort to be found within the wooby within the sky.

But not any longer.

Relentless in its affections for the king, the sun beat down upon him, day after day. Taunting, teasing, the beat down from above was driving him slowly insane.

An itch he could not scratch clawed at his skin. Partly it was due to the sunburn that had cracked his flesh from over exposure. But there was more to it than that, so much more. The burning traveled far deeper than the superficial.

It traveled into his pants. By the Maker, Maric was horny.

Being king of Ferelden had been good. One snap of the fingers and he was banging the ever loving shit out of whatever elf he wished, and he wished it a lot. What he wouldn't have given for the snap of his fingers to produce such magical results. But he was not so lucky. Trapped upon the small rowboat, there was only he and a sheep he managed to save within the water after the shipwreck.

He'd called her Loghain. At first the name had been a joke. The sheep certainly spoke as much as his taciturn friend. But as the itch began to make its demands upon his royal best, he found himself pretending, placing a face upon the furry muff. Peaceful brown eyes found replacement in glacial blue. Curled locks of woolen hair became lustrous strands of ebon silk.

Maric was undone.

He had no memory of removing his pants.

He had no memory of moving behind the sheep, his erection throbbing with want and need and baaaaad intentions.

He only recalled the sweet sweet feeling as he thrust into his precious Loghain and pummeled his ass.

The sea silence was broken by the coupling of the ragged cries emerging deep from within Maric's throat and the high-pitched baaa'ing of the sheep. And when he finally came, he came as if he'd been rocked like a hurricane.
Everything spilled out into Loghain, filling the sheep so completely that the wool began to fall off its skin, littering the boat floor with the evidence of Maric's passion.