Author's Note: I wasn't going to post this.
It's not a complete chapter, not even a finished scene (for instance, I never explain how or why they ended up in Varric's room at the Hanged Man), and after the last two chapters I haven't the time or energy or inspiration to flesh the scene out with all those little nuances and fluffy tidbits and background fillers.
And yet, over the past two days, this kept rattling around in the back of my brainpan, wanting and begging to be written…
So I figured, why not? I mean, after all I've put my characters through—after all I've put my READERS through—why not wrap things up with a little f/m smut?
Nope, didn't think you guys would argue :P
And so, here it is…
Unfinished…
Fenris watched Hrodwynn closely, making sure she finished every last drop of the healing potion before he finished his own. He was concerned. She was standing there, simply standing there in front of him, silent and still, taking his commands and directions, but showing no will of her own.
He had to wake her up.
He had to reignite that spark inside her…
…or else, where would he find his own?
He took the bottle from her hands, setting it with his on a handy cushioned footrest. Turning back he noticed his hands, covered with his gauntlets; the razor-sharp talon-like tips would not be helpful right now. After all, all the fighting was done, all the errands completed, all the mysteries told. All there was now—all that remained to them—was each other.
He quickly undid the fastenings, years of practice making it so he barely had to think about it, just move, his hands remembering by themselves, until the intimidating and malicious-looking gauntlets fell of, unheeded, to the floor.
Hrodwynn blinked over the noise, an encouraging sign.
He came up to stand directly in front of her, toe-to-toe and nose-to-nose, their heights perfectly matched. Moving gently, carefully, he lifted his hands up and burrowed his fingers into her hair. Earlier he had noticed the bruise at her temple, dark purple in color and swelling painfully large, and feared for her head. She'd taken enough blows to it over the past twenty-four hours—had all this happened in only one day?!—and wanted to make sure everything was where it should be. His fingers felt her scalp, thankfully free of any fresh tears or scrapes, though there remained ample evidence of past injuries mucking up her hair. And the bones beneath the scalp seemed to be in the correct shape, nothing moving beneath the pressure of his fingers, nothing causing her to wince in reaction to his touch. Even the bruise he'd noticed was fading right before his eyes, the healing potion already taking effect.
Next he tilted his head to look at her neck where Jaxon had scraped it with the knife. That cut, like the bruise, was closing, the skin knitting itself together, the blood no longer oozing out, though leaving behind plenty of evidence that it had been there. Her shirt was stained with it. He remembered when she had picked it out yesterday morning, a bright emerald that matched her eyes, and he'd known immediately that she had only picked the flattering color to give herself a little emotional boost. He allowed it, of course, as he allowed her everything, every little snark, every little picked lock, every little trick or treat.
If only to see her smile. If only to see all the colors of Hrodwynn. If only to see those Agreggio Pavali lips curl, see those emerald eyes glitter, see the deep ruby of her hair quiver with a suppressed giggle…
See her alabaster skin flush pink with passion.
Which it was doing now, he realized, leaving off his examination of her neck to come back to her face. Her lips were parted, the pink tip of her tongue flicking out to wet them. Her cheeks were warmed to a rose and growing redder by the moment. But her eyes… her eyes captivated him the most… the emerald orbs coming out of their former haze to focus on him, on his face, on his eyes.
Not a word was spoken. Not a word had to be spoken. Her hand lifted up, the tips of her fingers barely brushing against his cheek, and he could tell through the coolness of her touch that he, too, was getting flushed. His fingers still in her hair, cradling her head, he tilted her and brought her close for a kiss.
It was obscenely chaste, pervertedly innocent, a brief brush of flesh that sent lances of heat down both their spines, pooling that heat where their groins were already lined up. Too soon he pulled away, but he had to see. He had to look at her. He had to know if this was alright. If she was alright. If they could… possibly… at long last… satisfy that dearth that had been consuming them both!
The answer was there before his eyes. Her eyes had closed, her long, dark red lashes curled across the tops of her bright red cheeks. Her lips remained apart, open and inviting and oh-so-welcoming. Her hand, however, moved to cup the back of his neck, her pressure gentle as she encouraged him to come back to their kiss.
He obeyed.
Maker, but her lips were warm, heated with her blood, boiling with pent-up passion and desire and pure wantonness. His lips crushed hers, the pressure he applied delicious and satisfying, bruising and swelling both pairs of lips against their teeth. Her tongue was the first to break the stand-off, thrusting forward into his mouth, eager and seeking to wrestle with his. He tasted her, tasted Hrodwynn, both inside his own mouth and inside hers. The dust from the explosion, the blood from a cut inside her cheek, the elfroot from a lingering drop or two of a potion—and that little something extra, that something more, that was only her, only Hrodwynn, and only belonged to him.
She moaned, softly, into his mouth, a gentle purr, like a kitten, the sound reverberating within him and sending electrified ripples straight to his core.
Fenris pulled back, again, too soon, but he had to for his own safety. Fasta vass, but he wanted her—no, he NEEDED her—only not quite yet. She was warming, awakening, coming back to him, but he wanted her fully aware and alive and aroused before he did anything more. So he pulled back and, watching her until she opened her eyes and focused on his face, he began undoing the laces of her tunic.
Hrodwynn wanted to laugh. Quite honestly, she didn't know why he was bothering with the laces, the damn tunic was torn in so many places, one good yank and it would fall off all on its own. But she allowed it, followed his lead, and held herself still as he thoughtfully, deliberately, lovingly pulled the fabric out of her waistband, up her sides, over her shoulders, and past her head. The stained and soiled and ruined silk made a hushing noise as it landed on the floor, discarded to some forgotten corner, and no longer a concern of her mind.
A red folder was a concern, however, still sticking up out of the back of her leggings. Fenris found it next, giving it a yank to pull it free, only he didn't throw this aside as refuse. He knew how important it was to her, to know the fates of her parents or whatever the reason she wanted to keep it, and he turned aside to set it down very carefully on the table. When he turned back he found she had come up behind him, her eyes bright, her lips parted eagerly, her fingers nimbly undoing the fastenings of his armor. He chuckled indulgently and suffered her to remove the sharply intimidating and frigidly hard grafted spirit hide from his limbs. And all the while he watched her, watched and wondered and prayed and loved and basked in her attention.
Ever as always she was mindful of his markings, only touching them when necessary, as she removed the spiky spaulders from his shoulders. Knowing his love for his armor, and that truly it was the only thing he could wear with any comfort, or with any degree of certainty that it would not fall him off whenever he phased, she set the pieces securely on the table next to her red folder. The chest plate was next, and she had to shake her head; she could never get over how light the metal was compared to how heavy it looked. Next came the straps for his greatsword, which he thoughtfully helped with—THAT was as heavy as it looked. Then her hands found and undid the belt at his hips, freeing him of his pouches and pockets, and freeing his tunic for a quick removal.
Now it was his turn to hum, a deep and growling rumble in his chest, when her hands eagerly reached for the waist of his leggings. The hide was skin-tight, fitted to his form perfectly, and probably the only thing keeping him from losing it right then and there! He stopped her hands, grabbing her wrists, using the leverage to pull her close until her front brushed against his hairless chest. Immediately she hardened into tiny pebbles, gooseflesh erupting across the weighty orbs, making her shudder and gasp.
It didn't help by much, but it did grant him a small reprieve. And an opportunity to distract her. He leaned in close, pulling her tighter against him, and tilted his head to nuzzle at the sensitive flesh around her neck and ear. He could feel her breath catch in her throat, her chest heaved against his, her head falling to the side and giving him easier access. He took even more advantage, his lips mouthing the pulse beneath her skin, his teeth scraping the extended and straining tendons, his tongue flicking over the lobe of her ear. She shuddered again, her whole body vibrating with the moan that escaped her, and he swore he could feel her heat boiling off of her, erupting from that intimate sanctum atop the union of her legs.
And making his own groin boil. Fasta vass, perhaps this wasn't as good of an idea after all. He had to cool off, both of them, before they rushed into this. He wanted so desperately to take his time, to savor this reunion. After all, only a few short hours ago he had thought her dead, lost to him forever, gone without a body to mourn or a grave to mark her passing. And now she was before him, restored to him, resurrected, enlivened… and oh-so-achingly beautiful.
Still there were no words spoken—there were no words that could fit the situation. Continuing to hold her by the wrists, he brought her back to the rug before the hearth, making her kneel down with him. Her eyes were open, her brows curved curiously, so he answered her silent question with a simple gesture. One of his hands let go of her to reach out towards a bucket, dipping in to find the rag and pull it out. Dripping cool water, he brought it up to her face and began to gently wipe away the gore. He diligently removed every last trace of dust, of blood, of tears, of dirt, of sweat, of everything that had been happening lately. Even though he kept his eyes on his work, he did notice the drops of water landing on her skin, collecting themselves into rivulets, falling down her front and back and sides to soak into the waist of her leggings. She didn't seem to notice, however, sitting so still she was scarcely breathing. Or perhaps she did notice, at least on some level, as those tiny nubs again hardened, and her body from her waist up to her ears grew bumpy and goosefleshy.
He couldn't help himself. Finishing with her face, he rinsed out the rag and moved down, to her torso, his hand stroking a breast through the rag. She moaned again and pushed into his touch, heedless of the rough fabric and cold water, and he had to put his other hand on her shoulder to steady her. Giving that breathy chuckle of his, he nonetheless let off cleaning her breasts to reach around and work on her back.
She took it as an invitation, which perhaps it was, in a way, and wiggled around until she was straddling his lap, her legs wrapped around his hips. She also wrapped her arms around him, either forgetting or ignoring his markings. He didn't care, couldn't be bothered to care, all but losing his mind as she mimicked his movements, stroking his spine as he wiped hers, brushing his shoulders as he did hers, massaging his sides as he cleaned hers.
The first bucket was spent, the water brown with muck. Fenris moved on to the second bucket and began to use the rag on her hair. She tipped her head back obligingly, and perhaps a bit wantonly, as the position once again exposed her neck to him. He tried to hold off, he tried to focus on the short strands of her hair, pulling out the deeply vibrant red from beneath the stains, but venhedis she was a handful! They nearly fell over, both of them, when he leaned a bit too far. He had been trying to reach the bucket, to cup his hand and take out a bit of water to rinse her hair, but positioned the way they were threw him off balance. He had to reach out with his other hand, bracing against the floor, trusting her to keep hold of him and not fall away herself. She did but, impishly smiling up at him, she slowly relaxed her arms until she was laying beneath him.
Perhaps they could finish washing up later…
Her skin was damp, as was a good amount of his thanks to her, and they created a bit of pleasant friction as their bodies moved into position. She shifted away from the buckets, not wanting to get dumped on by accident, and he followed eagerly. While she kicked off her boots, he undid the belt at her waist and yanked down her leggings, barely giving her enough time before he stripped her completely. He fumbled at his waist next, trying to get a grip on his own leggings, but her fingers were in the way, pulling and tugging and yanking has he had done to her. Together they managed to remove them, and he was thankful the hide was as thick and strong as it was, otherwise it might have torn in their haste.
Then they were there. With nothing between them. No clothing. No expectations. No concerns. No phantoms.
No more stalling.
Fenris slid one leg between hers, feeling his skin burn wherever they touched, wondering if it was from the lyrium seared into his flesh, or the heat radiating from her body. He dropped his head, trying to take as much of an orb into his mouth at once. She arched her back, cocking a knee and raking her fingers through his hair, rubbing herself up and down along his thigh. He gasped, feeling his member surge painfully hard with passion—how long had it been since they last made love?—but he wasn't ready yet to give in. He wanted her to be ready, too, to beg wantonly for it, to moan and writhe with un-sated desire beneath him. He moved on, mouthing over her other side, one hand tangled into the hair on her head while the other slipped down to the center of her heat.
She gave a small cry when he touched her there, not from pain unless it was the pain of absence, and not from joy unless it was the joy of longing. She gave off moving herself against his leg to move herself against his fervent fingers. The tiny core was extremely sensitive, sending lightning bolts of pleasure through her limbs, rocking her to her very soul, every time he brushed against it. When those long fingers went even lower to stroke the sides of her, to discover her swollen, to press just that tiny bit inside…
She nearly exploded. She was so tight down there it pained her. His touch was so gentle, however, he easily penetrated to find the ocean of wetness inside. Once the breach had been made, the moisture suddenly began to escape, and his fingers spread it across her skin, softening her and preparing her for him.
Yet he didn't take her. He bent his head, sliding lower, his tongue laving a trail through her damp skin, until it took the place of his fingers. She cried out, giving wordless voice to her sea of emotions, her love, her desire, her hunger, her longing, her frustration, her EVERYTHING!
She came. Hard. And almost too soon. He barely had time to slip two fingers inside her, his tongue torturing that tiny nub, before he felt her body go lax. He held on as best he could over the next several moments as she first tensed up, curling in on herself, then hesitated as if she was about to dive over a cliff—which might not have been too far from the truth. The next heartbeat she spasmed, her feet bracing as her hips lifted off the floor, as if thrusting her up and into his mouth. He continued licking and sucking, lightly now, as she rocked through her orgasm, her body repeatedly clamping down on his fingers, her thighs moving up and locking around his head. He was held captive by her, a willing captive as he tongued and fingered and did everything he could to keep it going.
At long last, as all good things must come to an end, so did she. Her core grew overly sensitive to his touch, not painful, but sending violent shocks throughout her body if he so much as breathed on it. Lower down, however, she remained tight and swollen, as if that part of her had a mind of its own and would not release him. He did manage to slide his fingers out, slowly, touching every sensory point he could find along the way. She moaned between her pants, a little sad, a little happy, and no where near finished with him.
Nor was he finished with her. He moved his body up along hers, dragging himself from one set of lips to the other. When he kissed her again, he forced her to taste herself on his lips, to know her own sweet wetness, to feel the slickness of her desire. His member was lined up, ready to enter, the tip pressing at her entrance. She shifted her hips, intending to do it herself if he wasn't going to, but at the last second he yanked his hips back and out of the way. Again there came that breathy chuckle, spilling into her mouth, filling her lungs, warming her from within.
Again, that spark kindled inside her.
Taking matters into her own hands, she rolled them over. She supposed he allowed her to, just as he'd done so during their sparring matches on Isabela's ship. She didn't care, however, as she pushed herself into a sitting position and, yanking on his arms, pulled him up with her. Then she straddled his lap again, only this time there weren't any leggings in the way. This time, her soaking core lined up perfectly with his. This time, when she shifted, his swollen member brushed against her and she shuddered.
They exchanged a look, a little bit surprised on his part, and little bit anticipatory on her part.
Oh, yes, she was going to again, and it would be that soon, so he had better hurry up and get in because she wasn't going to be able to wait…
Fenris obliged. His hands on her ass, he lifted her up and set her down again, his fingers spreading her as wide apart as she could go, encasing himself within her. Rocking his hips as much as he could, using his arms to lift her as well, he thrust himself in and out of her as far as he could reach. She threw her head back, moaning with pure ecstasy, as his faint yet coarse trail of ebony hair rubbed up and down her still overly-sensitive nub. His mouth traveled all over her skin, sucking and nibbling wherever he went, while his fingers continued to hold her open despite her flushed folds.
Maker, but she was so tight. So hot. So wet.
So very much his and his alone.
He came. There was no holding it at bay, no denying its advent, no savoring the build nor timing it to hers. There were only primal urges, mindless rutting, his body not his own as he spent himself—feeling like he spent his very soul—deep into her innermost reaches. It was his turn to cry out, angry and frustrated over his lack of discipline, and yet satisfied and victorious over his conquest.
But her voice was there, mingling her cry with his. Her body, too, was moving mindlessly and with a will of its own, as did his. And when her face came into view, it was filled with the same consternation, and surprise, that flooded his features.
Then they both laughed, a little sheepishly, at themselves, at each other, at the fickle spirit named love that possessed them both. She cupped his jaw in her hand, her emerald eyes alight with life and love and joy, and bent her neck to kiss him.
This time, he vowed to himself, this time he would take the time, this time he would savor and worship every inch of her, this time he would build it slowly until it reached a point where neither of them could stand it and they both would end up collapsing into a puddle of sweaty and tangled limbs after.
This time he would, because they had the time. They were both alive and whole and had all the time in the world.
His traitorous member twitched, and she tightened in response.
Well, maybe the next time…
