Fleeting Relief
It's almost a year since they brought him back to the tower. Almost a year that he hasn't seen the sun, hasn't felt the wind on his face or the grass under his feet. His memory of these things starts fading and that's disturbing and frustrating because he has not yet found a way to escape again. Anders usually doesn't stay long enough for that to happen. Three months, maybe four. He's always found another way out by then. That he's not been able to do so this time makes him panic. Without the memory, he feels even more trapped, even more restless and desperate. The nightmares become more vivid when he does not have his memories to cling to, the tempting voices in his head ever more prominent.
He needs a distraction, a valve, something to release the frustration, the fear and the panic before they become overwhelming and render him paralyzed.
But distractions are rare and far between. The templars are watching him too closely and sneaking out of his room proves to be more and more difficult. They don't go easy on you anymore when you've escaped their custody five times.
Tonight, though, he managed. The tower lies silent and dark as he hurries through the deserted hallways, avoiding patrols and the occasional stray servant. His heart is beating fast and irregular in his chest with both anxiety and excitement. The risk of being caught is frightening as well as thrilling no matter how many times you've already done this.
He pauses at the last corner to his intended destination, a small storage for sheets and pillows, where he knows someone will be waiting for him. Holding his breath, he listens to any sounds betraying a guard standing watch in the next corridor but there is none. If he's right, there will be another fifteen minutes before they pass through here again on their patrol. Without a sound, he rounds the corner and slips through the door to his left.
He is greeted by a gasp when he bumps into a soft body in his back.
"Shh," he whispers. "It's me."
The room is stuffy, barely big enough for a single person, not to mention two but he does not really care as he turns around and feels for the girl's robes, pulling them up over her legs in one swift, experienced motion. It makes her squirm a little and another gasp flees her lips. By her reaction he can tell she has not done this very often as of yet. Clumsy hands grab at his shoulders as he lifts her up onto his hips, not quite knowing where to hold on to or what to do. Her body does not ease into him the way an experienced lover's would but again he does not care. He's not here to teach her the ropes of the game but to find some kind of relief, some way to forget, to feel better, if only for a few fleeting minutes.
He's not gentle when he enters her. There's no time for that. Ten minutes and the guard will be back. Ten minutes for him to accomplish his goal.
He thrusts his hips up, ignoring her hiss and the bite of her fingernails that he can feel even through the fabric of his robes. Instead he concentrates on the tingling in his loins, the way her hips grind against him in an unconscious try to adapt to the unfamiliar and probably a little uncomfortable feeling of him inside her. It feels good when she does that and he bites his tongue to reign in a groan. No sound. They must not make a sound. That's almost as important as being quick about it.
He thrusts into her again. And again. Harder. Faster. There's no time. Tick. Tick. Tick. He can almost hear the seconds running by. Eight minutes. You get a feeling for the time left after a while.
His breath is speeding up, the tingling turns into a pulsing. He can hear his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. The girl's legs around his waist tighten and she rolls her hips, trying to match his pace and rhythm and it sends ripples of pleasure through his veins.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
He grabs her waist harder, keeping her in place while he further increases his speed. Every muscle in his body is quivering, tensed to the max. His thrusts become fitful, desperate. Six minutes. Only six minutes left.
He frees a hand from the girl's waist and raises it to one of her breasts, squeezing the firm, small round under her robe. The tiniest whimper leaves her throat. Her back arches, hips bucking against him and he gasps as she sends him over the edge.
All thought, all tension is snuffed out by a wave of sweet, delicious, much needed release. His head falls back as he revels in the feel of it, tries to savor every last moment; the exhaustion, the satisfaction, the dizziness of the aftermath.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
As much as he wants to stay a little longer, enjoy the sensations a little more, he can't. There are only approximately five minutes left until the guard comes by their hideout again and so he disentangles from his company and sets his robes straight before feeling for the handle of the door. The fleeting thought crosses his mind that maybe he should say something to her. A thank you; a good night; anything but he doesn't. It's not how it works. You barely ever talk to whoever it is you just fucked. It makes things personal, complicated, raises expectations and you cannot afford that with the templars breathing down your neck every hour of the day.
And so he pulls the handle in silence, as it should be, and peaks out into the dimly lit hallway, watching, listening with baited breath, the girl in his back almost forgotten already with the need of getting back into his room undetected dominating his thoughts.
Another four minutes. It's all he needs and he slips out of the storage room, swiftly, silently rounding the corner.
By the time he gets to his chamber, the high of release has already worn off, leaving behind a feeling of emptiness and indifference. It is enough, though. It's better than the restlessness and despair.
With a sigh, he stretches out on his cot and closes his eyes. At least the voices will not be just as loud tonight.