Title: Command
Author: Jakia
Word Count: 1325
Summary: For nathaniel_howe swapathon. Nathaniel/f!Tabris. The prompt was drunk sexytimes. It turned out to be more fluff than anything else, though. I'm sorry. . (still, slight M-rating because there is some sexytime parts to it.)
A/N: I'M SO SORRY THIS IS LATE. My only excuse is that it's final's week. Hope you enjoy it, milia_timmain!

"Nathaniel." A voice, feminine and strong, hiccupped in his general direction. "You're a bastard."

He looked up from his drink.

Oh, it was the elf.

(Commander. The part of his brain that wasn't fully intoxicated just yet argued. Commander Tabris, leader of the Grey Wardens. Your—commander. Because calling your commanding officer an elf, regardless of whether it was true or not—was likely to get you court marshaled at the very least.)

He frowned at her. "You're drunk, Commander."

She hiccupped at him again. "Not nearly drunk as I should be." She whined, eyeing the near-empty bottle suspiciously. "And—and you're still a bastard."

With one last furious gulp, Nathaniel finished his shot of whiskey. "And why, pray tell, am I a bastard, Commander?"

Her cheeks were rosy from the ale. "Because you---penis."

Maybe it was the whiskey getting to him, but he couldn't help but giggle. "Eloquent, Commander."

"Shaddup." She half-tossed a dirty rag at his head, missing entirely. "They don't pay me enough to be creative with the insults."

"Oh, but it was real threatening." He smirked. "Truly, weaker men than would be quivering in their boots at such an insult."

"You're a bastard, Nate. Naters. Hehehe." She giggled, grabbing another bottle out of Oghren's stash, this time a pleasant-smelling wine, prying it open. "I'm gonna start calling you Naters."

He groaned, and poured himself another shot of whiskey. "What did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing," She mumbled, stumbling over her drink. "You're a man."

He raised an eyebrow at her curiously. "Oh? Have you given up on menfolk entirely, Commander?"

"Yes." She mumbled, and he could tell by the tone of her voice that, despite her drunken state, she was completely serious. "Men are bastards. They use you, tell you they love you, then as soon as you put a crown on their heads he's suddenly too good for an elf like you." She sniffled like she might cry, put on a brave face, and then sipped a bit more wine. "I thought he liked my ears."

Maybe it was the whiskey making him brave, but Nathaniel found himself getting up and walking to her side, fingers tracing light circles into her bare shoulders. "Not all men are bastards, you know." He whispered, his voice husky and dark and slurred. His commander usually only wore heavy armor, and the sight of her bare flesh--a shoulder, for Andraste's sake!--put him a little on edge. "Some of us are—are good men."

(And he thought that was true, because he has tried so hard, for what feels like forever, to be a good man. To do the right thing, always, as was proper for a young man raised a gentleman in the noble court of the Ferelden high lords.)

She turned and looked up at him, green eyes watery and frowning. "How can you say that? Alistair was the sweetest man I had ever met, and he broke my heart. How could I ever—"

He stopped thinking somewhere around this point, and leaned forward and kissed her. She tasted funny, like a mixture of Oghren's nug-piss ale and the sweet Highever wine she'd been nursing. He almost pulled away from her, but then her hands—so much smaller than his own—tugged at his shirt and he lost it completely. He moaned against her, hands placed firmly at the curves of her body. It felt good. How long had it been since he had last kissed a woman?

(He is sixteen years old, and Elissa Cousland has been giggling at him from across the dinner table all night. He's not sure how they manage to sneak away from their fathers, but they do, and suddenly he's against a wall with a handful of tangled blonde hair and the Cousland heiress's lips pressed against his and Maker, does it feel good.)

Too long, then.

Before he could finish the thought, his Commander pulled away from him. He wondered what he did wrong before she smiled at him, pretty eyes dazzling as she grabbed his hands.

"My bed," she ordered, her voice every bit the commander. "Now, Nathaniel."

Like always, he was helpless to do anything but obey her. But this order was one he couldn't help but be eager to follow.

He fumbled into her room like a stargazed teenage, all hands and tangled limbs collapsing with her onto a too-small bed, but he was far too gone to care. He threw his shirt against a wall and moved, sucking on the soft shadows of her neck, enjoying the taste and feel and desire that pulsed through him. A small part of his brain that was still sober told him to stop, that this wasn't right, that they were both too drunk to do this, that the proper thing to do would be to wait until they had both sobered up—but he ignored it. Maker's breath, but he didn't care. All he knew was this beautiful, strong, capable woman, moaning in his arms, gasping his name like it was all she needed to breathe.

"Nathaniel, please."

He complied, and found himself removing her shirt, kissing down her tiny chest—(tiny! In her armor, she seemed so large, invincible—the kind of woman you would expect to face down archdemons and abominations. Here though, in his arms, she seemed so inexplicitly tiny. Vulnerable. Breakable.) He hadn't realized how very mortal she was until he was on top of her, pressing desperate hot kisses along her breasts. She ran her hands through his hair as his tongue traced her nipple—"Don't stop, please, don't s--yes."

The act of pleasuring her had unlocked something deep within him, a feral possessiveness that made him want to hunt down anyone who had ever hurt her, to teach them that beautiful things like her should be cherished, worshiped, revered. Not scarred and broken, mistreated and discarded. He kissed every scar he came across with almost divine reverence. She deserved it, he thought. She deserved to be treated like something special.

Nathaniel had never met Ferelden's newest king, the young lord King Alistair Theirin, but he already hated the man. How could he have possibly hurt her like this, broke her heart into a thousand little pieces? Didn't he know that she was something worth fighting for, something worth trampling tradition for? How could he have given her up, knowing that she was worth defying the very gods themselves?

Didn't he realize she was something worth dying for?

(He had always been something of a poetic drunk, which was why he eventually had to stop drinking with Thomas. When Thomas got drunk, he got real stupid really fast. When Nathaniel got drunk, he wrote poetry.

And, apparently, made love to his commander.)

She was so beautiful. He had wanted this for so long, wanted nothing more than to touch her, but this? This was beyond his wildest dreams, his deepest fantasies. Still, he wondered if they weren't moving too fast, if he should stop, wait until they were sober--

"If you stop right now I will kill you." She threatened, reading his expression, her eyes clouded with lust. He understood. This---whatever this was between them, was real. Stopping now would only hurt them in the long-run.

"I don't want to hurt you." He whispered, taking the time to lean off of her, catching his breath in sparsed, pained gasps.

She had the gall to laugh at him. "You can't break something that's already broken, Nate."

He frowned. "Maybe. But I want--I don't want to..." His words slurred together, reminding him just how much he had drank that evening. "You're special to me. I don't want to ruin this."

She paused. Quietly, she leaned forward and kissed him. Unlike their previous kiss, this one was slow and tender.

"Then stay." She whispered, one hand still buried in his hair.

He could do that.