Poison
A/N: I don't own anything recognisable. Dragon age is bioware's, they also own my undying love.
Like drinking poison
Like eating glass
Like Eating Glass (Bloc Party)
Her feet press softly into the ground, so at odds to her usual cross gait, clunky with the heaviness of metal. She feels light, like one of her race instead of the smallest human trying to fill the biggest shoes and match up to them all. It's night now and the grass is cold under the soles of her feet. The dew clings to her skin, soaking the cuffs of her leggings high enough up to her calves.
They won't dry out before she goes to bed.
He's waiting, just on the edge of the tree line, leaning casually against the trunk of an oak that stretches far into the grounds of the camp. Always so casual, she thinks, eyes narrowed though she never breaks his equally appraising gaze.
"Have you told him yet?" His voice is as soft as her step. She stops short of him and bites her lip, his eyes following the action though that was not her intention.
"No."
He sighs, looking neither disappointed nor relieved. He just looks like he expected it and something in her hates being so predictable. It's just how she is.
"Very well," he concedes, taking her hand. It doesn't encase hers so wholly the way Alistair's does – did - but his fingers are smooth and warm all the same.
She doesn't like the way it feels as though they're slinking away.
Because they are.
She sees the mabari's ears twitch before he puts his head down and they pass out of sight. The forest is darker than ever without a moon to guide them and she finds herself tripping over roots rather ungracefully. She can feel him smiling as he pulls her along, having no trouble with the sudden rise and fall of the ground in the dark. 'Show off,' she thinks and doesn't miss his smirk when she trips over for the fifth time, even if she can't see her feet.
They suddenly spin and he presses a leg between hers, catching her against a tree. There's little time for mercy and gentleness. He is all take, take and give with well-practiced hands and impatient tongue. She can't breathe, but she's used to that. Her hands spread against the width of his shoulders, fingers pressing into the bone underneath, deeper than the rough fabric of his shirt, deeper than the tan of his skin. His nose presses into her cheek as he kisses her jaw quickly, threading a hand beneath the string of her leggings, her tunic now hitched up to their waists.
How it happens all so quickly she will never know. His fingers are inside her and his tongue is on her throat and she squirms, wriggling for air, aching to be closer.
Anything other than this complete lack of control.
It's so much nicer when he does it; she has to give him that. His fingers aren't brutish by shape or nearly as calloused as another pair she will always compare them to. He finds a rhythm that speaks to her in ways he never will because he has too much self-respect to fall at her feet. A part of her wishes Alistair could understand how attractive that is.
Mostly she knows he just doesn't care.
A moan, so unlike the sound of her usual voice, escapes her throat and reaches his ear. She can feel him grinning against the skin of her collar. She touches his ear and he tilts his head just so when she grazes the skin behind it, the softness of his hair tickles her increasing sensitive senses. He likes that spot and she's only used her fingertip.
"Oh!" she tells the forest when he finds hers and brushes it with such intention she comes undone without warning. She shakes and feels like vines are rushing up and down, crawling around her skin and limbs and into her bones as her mind blinks in and out of reality, his fingers dancing out.
He is so quick and it always leaves her reeling. Her hands clench and unclench behind his neck as he stands over her, waiting. She keeps him there, a moment longer than normal before sliding her hands down to his waist. He smiles, it's small but it's there in the dark as her eyes watch his lips.
So much of this is unfair she doesn't even register it anymore.
Her fingers fumble for the tie of his drawstring as he pulls his shirt over his head, throwing it to Maker knows where before his hands are over her again and she finds it hard to concentrate. It is such an easy task; she's done it a hundred times. Perhaps not a hundred but at least ten times or more.
She wonders when she stopped counting.
It doesn't matter because she soon finds the knot and with small fingers she has it pulled apart in seconds and with one insistent tug his trousers fall to his knees and he drags hers down with them. The bark bites into the skin of her backside before his hands replace the grain and hers meet between their bodies. He doesn't like it hard and fast the way he seems to have decided she does. She likes that she can read him better than he probably likes and so she runs her finger under his length quite deliberately.
Shape and form take over, transforming the nature of his body and he leans into her, the look on his face, as far as she can tell, absolutely worth it. She won't die happy, but she can die knowing she made that look. It feels like owning something that shouldn't be hers but she's proud of it all the same and so her fingers continue. Being deliberate, being predictable doesn't seem to disappoint him now and she grins up at him, teeth flashing in the little light of the stars.
He shoves her hands out of the way and pushes up against her. She can feel his chest through the thin fabric of her tunic, her breasts aching just a little at the contact. His hands are not so careful as hers as he pushes and teases her into letting him enter, just the right way.
Practice helps, no matter what the subject and when he does enter she feels it. He fills her, never in the same way and that practice always makes her pause. Never long enough, she will always reflect, before sensation takes over and he brings her up, high and higher to that place he looks down at her from. It's so much higher every time, with ever flick of his nail, every press of her palm against his chest. They writhe together against the tree, one two, one two until shorter bursts take over his pace and she wraps her legs firmly around his.
She feels a little like a vine herself, twisted and twisting. Stretching and grabbing for every inch of him. She wants to take him inside, bury him, bury herself and forget the mess that waits for them back at the camp. She doesn't want to think of daylight, of sad looks and that new quiet judgment from Wynne. All of it is eating her up and this is her only moment to forget. To put it behind her, just for a moment, for the moment he bucks them into the trunk and she forgets the burn, the scratch and concentrates on the line of sweat down the side of his neck. She licks it and that seems to undo them both as his clever hands find every inch she knows exists for him in that moment.
His breath is like the pattering of rain, so inconsistent and gasping, pressing against her shoulder as he finishes, running down the spine of her back in little thrills and chills.
Like always, he says nothing though his face tells all. He picks up his trousers and does the tie up without fuss, finding his shirt caught on a branch as she does herself up. It's always awkward this bit. Reality is slipping back over her like a wet undershirt, clinging under the dry fabric of her tunic, humid and damp.
He hates her as much as she hates herself for doing this to him. He'll never say it. He won't even try to stop it, but, she can read him better than he likes.
"Cara," he says holding out his hand. Sometimes it's easier with everything in Ferelden, clunky and real and sometimes when he speaks Antivan she wishes she could shove his fancy leather shoes into his mouth. She takes his hand and keeps her thoughts to herself.
In a way they are both apologising as they stumble back out of the forest. His hand holds her merely for the sake of not losing her, she knows. He isn't even looking where he's going and she is just tripping behind him uselessly. She hates this. The after is never any good and she doesn't know what to say, what to do to make it less awkward. But he says nothing about what she should do and she knows that is his way of making it up to her.
She doesn't know how she's ever going to make it up to him.
They break through the last bit into the clearing and she tries not to make it too obvious where they've been or what they've been doing. That of course has the opposite effect. Wynne stands from her downing and the dog rolls over at her feet. Leliana disappears into her tent and Alistair is nowhere to be seen.
'Good,' she thinks, but doesn't really mean it. He still holds her hand even though it is completely unnecessary now and that wet shirt clings a little more to her. It's guilt she decides and drops his hands to sit where the dog will curl up with her later.
It's not like she doesn't want his pity. What was it that they had between them if not pity? It was the guilt she couldn't stomach and it makes her feel weak, like she's lying in the shit-ridden mud of the alienage again. The worst bit is she can't stop thinking of Alistair's face.
She hears Zevran settle somewhere behind her towards the forest. There is the scuffle of dirt and the crisp sound of canvas being pulled over and she knows he's lying down, staring at the ground and very likely thinking the same thing as she.
"What a mess," she mumbles into her arm against the dirt. She's a terrible person and Alistair will still be getting married in twelve days when the Archdemon is dead. If they don't all die first.