The momentum of the fall sent them flying – spinning – out of the receiving mirror. Torn apart by centrifugal force, they were flung into opposite corners of the room and slid along a cold, stone, floor before crashing into walls and furniture.
Thick, sulphurous, smoke poured through the open connection behind them. Waves of scalding heat that made the eluvian's frame twist and pop. The mirrors had awakened, connected, only to be permanently sundered; from that turmult came a blast furnace. While its mate boiled, the mirror's surface turned dull red from silver, shifting through orange and yellow, to a bright, blinding, white. The glass bowed outward, buckling under the strain, until the crackle of its death rattle rose to a high screech, and it exploded. Showering the room in white-hot shards of glass and metal.
Ellana did not emerge from the protective ball she'd rolled into until the room fell silent. Unharmed, beyond a scatter of surface cuts, and seemingly out of immediate danger, she lay dazed in the pile of broken things that caught her. One hand on her chest to feel the skip of her heart as the adrenaline faded.
There was movement nearby: something heavy shifting, something small falling over, a roll and clatter, then panting breaths growing farther away. Solas moving through the room. In her state she did not think to call out to him; too busy staring up at the high, vaulted, ceiling, trying to make sense of the dark mural painted there.
Old magic was waking up. She felt it before she saw it; tingling on her skin and the air growing thick. The lighting changed from dark to dim, bringing with it a feeling of weightlessness, and when she raised an arm to wipe the sweat from her face she saw the movement echoed in the play of shadows above her… and realised what she saw there was not a painting at all, but a hanging mirror.
There she was, a sweaty mess in ripped up clothes, all sprawled out and upside-down in a scatter of detritus. And around her, a room in complete disarray.
In the reflection she could see a wide four-poster bed on its side, collapsed and in pieces. Its red silk torn to ribbons. It had pinned to the wall a wooden table and several chairs, stacked in a confusing (if not impossible) manner. There were broken things all over; remnants of boxes, crates, and other objects she couldn't immediately identify, all pushed up against one of the walls. She'd come to rest on the snapped pieces of a bookshelf.
She made to roll out of the debris, to get a better look the room's strange layout, but was instead sent careening back across it, rolling head over heels, when the motion carried her much further than she'd braced for. She came to a hard stop up against another wall, amid another pile of broken things, dizzy and disoriented, trying to blink the stars from her vision.
Beyond the dancing lights, the room had become soft and dreamy, as though viewed through a veil of gauze. Colours popped, contrasts dulled, and highlights shone too brightly. Even her skin was dewy and luminous. When she ran her fingers along her arm it raised goosebumps, and she felt the touch resonate through her body; all her senses alight.
"Are we in the Fade?" she asked aloud, tapping fingers against her lips. "Or are we dead?"
No answer came.
"Solas?"
She sat up. Turned, to look for him, and reeled when the whole room kept moving after she'd stopped. All those painterly colours smeared across the field of her vision. A rush of euphoria followed – a lift in her stomach – and a strange, swirling, sensation that pooled beneath her ribs.
It happened again when she turned her head the other way: colourful trails drawn across the room, swirling and mixing, fading once she'd stilled for long enough. She raised a hand and waved it back and forth in front of her face, marvelling at the strange effect. If she moved her fingers just so she could almost draw with them.
She was so enamoured by the play that she did not notice how the feeling in her stomach swelled. Not until it bubbled up through her chest and throat, into her mouth, where she clapped a hand, fearing she'd be sick, only for it to slip out between her fingers – not a heave but a burst!
She started giggling. And couldn't stop.
Not dead, she decided, as she fought to calm herself. Death would not feel this good.
Euphoria had hit in force now: more than good, she felt amazing. Every part of her light and tingling. The air was sweet like summer wine, rich and fruity, so thick she could drink it. Each gasp between fits of laughter sent more of it straight to her head, lifting her all the higher, until she could've danced and sung.
She stuck out her tongue, to catch more it there, and laughed at the image it made in the mirrored ceiling.
He needed to share this with her.
"Tholas?"
Again, there was no answer. But there was more movement.
She could hear it coming from somewhere else, echoing in a larger space. He'd left her in the debris to push further into this place. On a mission to… she could not quite recall why, in the moment, but knew that she once did. And she knew the reasons were important.
Still, she wanted. She missed him! If he would not join her here, she would have to go to him.
Senses dulled a moment ago became sharp and quick, narrowing around this singular focus. She was a hunter on the prowl. She would find and capture him, return to the embrace they'd been so cruelly ripped from.
She rolled, more carefully this time, and on hands and knees crawled toward the large door standing ajar across the room. Now that she was moving through it she finally understood its strange layout: it was tilted. Everything had slid along the floor, just as she had a moment ago, and ended up pushed together in a pile on one side. Whatever the cause, it was clear it stood this way a long time.
The tall door led into an even taller hallway. Long, and dimly-lit, ending in yet another set of doors. The threadbare rug running its length might've provided her the grip needed to get to her feet, but the hall was tilted too, so she opted to make her way along using the wall for support. Hand over hand, in search of her lover.
"Solas?"
Like the room she left, there were no windows here. What light was present came from high-mounted sconces with tiny flames encased in glass. Each one a sealed globe without hinge or lid; no fuel to feed the fire, nor wick to adjust it. She watched them as she passed beneath, as curious as she was unsettled. It moved in ways fire should not. Bright little sparks, trapped like insects, made to dance to light the way.
Murals hung between them. Reliefs of shining gold, depicting lustful scenes that bent and swayed as she passed by. The couples kissed and stroked each other, rocked and shuddered, but only ever in the periphery of her vision, so she was never sure if it was only a trick of the light.
"Where are you?"
More noises. Grunts of effort and the sound of grinding metal. Not quite so distant.
Another scene was carved into the doors at the end of the hall – this one enough to make her blush. She cut through it as she slipped through the gap, letting her fingers trail over the buxom curve of one of its many figures. She thought of her own curves, modest by comparison, and how her skin hungered for what the figures in the mural gave each other so easily.
It exited into a foyer. Large – even more than Skyhold's great hall – and framed by rows of decorative stone pillars. Flawless white marble carved with naked bodies reaching for each other, even more lovely than the figures in the hall. Some lithe and strong, others soft and plush, with supple breasts and pouting mouths. Muscular arms and thick, dimpled thighs. Each wore a crown of long, flowing, hair that parted around the points of their ears.
It moved her, and she was made to stop and stare. She'd never seen her kind portrayed this way. Art of naked Elves was so rarely made by their own hands, and so lacked the deference that separated eroticism from fetish. These were different. Not only beautiful but bold; sensual and commanding. Such passion in their perfect faces. Power, in their hooded gaze. She could not help but gaze at them. Awed, as she drew her fingers along the lines of their bodies.
A loud clang startled her from the reverie, drawing her attention to the centre of the room, where a large metal bowl sat upon a clawfoot base. A decorative censer filled with burning herbs issued curls of smoke that slipped through the gaps in the filigree. Its lid hung suspended from the ceiling, but due to the pitch of the building, it no longer aligned with the bowl. When lowered, it hit the floor instead, landing with a clatter.
A wordless, frustrated, noise followed after – and in recognition, her heart leapt. She'd found him!
Solas stood across the room, by the farthest pillar, half-dressed and drenched in sweat. Diligently working the crank that controlled the lid's chain. He'd fashioned his shirt into a blindfold, and tied it round his eyes and ears so he would not hear her calling for him. One wrist was bound to the winch with a length of rope he'd taken from his pack, left on the floor bside him, ensuring he could not leave until his task was done.
She watched him lift the blindfold with his free hand, curse the failure, and tug it back into place before he set to work raising the lid for another try. He'd not yet seen her. On each turn of the winch he whispered something to himself. A single word in soft, accented, Elvish. Repeated, but slurred, and so indistinct to her ears. It had all the desperation of a dying prayer, and the steeled conviction of a knight's oath.
'More'? 'Time'?
Her listening was better than her speaking, but she was still too early in her fluency to understand that which wasn't clearly enunciated.
'Follow'?
She wanted to run to him. Lunge from the shadows like the hunter she'd become, push him to the floor, and ravage every inch of flesh with teeth and claws. She would tear the clothes off his body (what little remained) and never let him dress again. She wanted to hear him cry out in pleasure, and feel his body shudder when she granted him release.
Never had she felt so wild. So starved and violent. Dragged to the very brink of madness by the sight of him; heavy, panting, breaths and rhythmic movement. Flex and bow, push and pull. It felt like the first time she'd ever seen him this way, with an eye for lust, but without the care and gentleness that normally accompanied those early days. She felt as though she'd yearned for years, and the possibility of having him was only now possible.
She felt bereft, crippled by the ache of her own emptiness.
She took off in a blind sprint. Careless in her desperation, she did not even bother with a cursory glance at her surroundings, and so did not get far. A missed step sent her sprawling to the floor, but when she landed with a splash she saw it wasn't clumsiness that felled her.
There was water everywhere.
The deluge came from a tiered fountain near the highest point of the room. Intended as a bath, its ornate design only functioned when stood upright. The building's tilt had turned it from feature into falls, and from its uppermost basin now poured an endless, sourceless, river. The flow widened where it cascaded over steps and around pillars, bubbling past nicks and bumps, spanning almost half the room before it drained through an opening in the lowest wall, where erosion had carved an exit.
While only ankle-deep, the slick marble pitched at such a sharp angle made for poor footing. She was floundering. Scrabbling for an anchor as she was swept along the slope of the floor. She managed to catch the elbow of one of the figures in the pillars as she slid by. And wondered, as she pulled herself to stand, if this wasn't the source of all those rivers they'd seen along their journey.
There was another clang – another failed attempt to lower the lid upon its vessel – and a pause in Solas' mantra ('Later'? 'Past'?) that he filled with furious cursing. He was leaning heavily against the mechanism, panting and shaking his head, as if he could not understand what mistake he kept making. And when frustration got the better of him he tore the blindfold off and threw it on the ground.
He looked up. Their eyes met across the room.
Once he saw her standing there – so near to naked with her ripped clothes soaked through, trying to make her way to him through the falls of water – he was struck.
He buckled. Fracturing, not with a shout but a whimper; a soft, pleading, sound ripped from his throat as if she'd shot him through the heart. The very sight of her a weapon; its aim true. He let go of the crank, and in a daze began to wander toward her… only to be stopped by the tug of his wrist, still bound to the winch.
"Wait," he begged. He did not know why. Already he was tearing at the rope as though he thought his blunted nails could cut it through.
When that failed, he turned to force. Yanking at his arm, twisting until he'd rubbed the skin raw. But he'd tied it too tight – or too complexly – he was working against himself, and the measures taken to assure he'd not free himself so easily. What time was spent struggling with it was meant to stall a few extra seconds, in hope it might grant wisdom a fighting chance.
It worked: as he stared down at the bindings, trying to understand why he'd have done such a thing to himself, there was a pause. In it, some distant, buried, part of his mind screamed for attention. He shook his head. Screwed his eyes shut. Pressed his fingers to his temple – pained just to try and think on it – but somehow, managed to grasp that thin thread and recall his purpose here.
He resumed the whispered mantra, and tis time she understood.
It was, 'after'.
After, after, after…
With renewed focus he worked the crank. Moving in small measures: back and forth, an inch at a time. Trying to find the position where the lid would've come to rest on the censer if they'd been aligned. Each time he thought he had it, he'd throw a hand out and try to summon force – moving air or water, but never what he meant to.
He was racing against Ellana's approach, fighting to keep his eyes on the task.
Her own were fixed on the state of his desire. No secret beneath his ragged breeches.
His pace grew frantic as she neared. Slowed by the water, she was forced to take small, stumbling, steps so not to slip. A small mercy (a curse) to buy him time. When the space between them was down to just a few metres he looked to her with brows upturned, teeth grit, and begged her again, "Wait," though he meant it even less this time. He swallowed hard. "I need to– this is–"
I can't,she thought, I can't stop. I can't wait.
But she said, "I need you."
He staggered – cut through. He shook his head again, not in denial, but in fear of defeat. The nearer she came, the thicker grew the fog. He could hardly think at all anymore. None of it made sense: this place or how they got here, what events led to it, the meaning they had sought… if not to come together. The more he tried to understand, the more it seemed the answer was there before him. Ready and wanting.
"No, I-I have… I have to…"
He could not fight temptation once it came in arm's reach of him, this he knew. Just as some part of him knew the failure would cost them dearly – even if he could no longer recall the reasons why. With her enthralled, and he losing the fight, there was no time for plans and schemes. Only desperate plays.
In the space between her arms raised to reach for him, and the brush of fingers upon his heaving chest, he mustered all the strength he had remaining for a final try. First, allayed his lust with fingers slid along the inside of his thigh, to grasp himself, and indulge in the rapture of a firm grip. Not just for the reprieve that it granted, but for the rush he meant to ride through what came next.
He called fire to his hand with a turn of his wrist and quickly pressed it to the hempen rope. Wild and tempestuous, it did not simply burn: it incinerated. Straight through to tender skin beneath. The pain of it shocked him from the stupor, if only for a few seconds, and he did not intend to waste a one.
With both hands freed he turned and thrust them outward, eyes blazing, and created a torrent a force. There was a terrible grating sound as a section of the floor large enough to encompass both the censer and the dias it sat upon was ripped up, raised in the air, flipped, and slammed back down again.
Water rushed into the hole left behind, quickly filling it, and there amidst the swirling eddies he saw the herbs the censer once contained. Waterlogged and inert.
If there was any further consequence to the destruction, he could not be bothered to care.
It was not a conscious choice to give in to the geas: it was instinct. The desperate gasp at the water's surface after nearly drowning. Pain, relief, and the will to survive overpowering all else. They moved before they thought to. Before eyes flicked to mouths, lips were wet, and fingers twitched. Drawn together by a force too old and powerful to name.
And where they met, they ignited.
Relief came first, like the shedding of an old skin. Shackled limbs left weak by their binding trembled as they stretched into the space once denied – into each other – and clawed blindly for relief.
Next was hunger. Raw and biting, no taste of sex could ever hope to sate it. Not if every inch of flesh was mapped by tongue and teeth. No Nightmare or demon's curse had ever punished so wickedly, rewarding lust with starvation. Somehow emptier for every bruise sucked into flushed skin. They could not take enough to slake it.
And oh, there would be bruises. Scratches. Marks. Ruby beads on collars like strung pearls. They were not slowed by the sting, but fuelled by it. Every cut and bite a bellows stoking the fire in their bellies until it spread from stem to stern.
They tore at their breeches, struggling to get them down over ass and hips but barely managing to loosen ties in the clumsy tangle of their hands. Mere seconds were wasted on the endeavour before Ellana grew too frustrated and braced her hands against his chest and gave him a hard, two-handed shove. The kiss broke as he stumbled backwards, bare feet slipping on the wet stone, and fell onto the floor. A hard landing made harder by the added weight of her leaping on top of him.
She did not grant him time to recover, pinning her knees to his sides and bracing hands on shoulders, she ground herself on him. Long drags against his clothed length just to hear the way he groaned. With her open mouth pressed to his she could breathe it in, swallowing each rough, reedy, whimper; growing drunk on the passion he fed her.
It wasnot enough.
She slipped a hand between their bodies, through the ripped placket of his pants, to velvet skin beneath. He gasped when she touched him, one hand curling around the back of her shirt, nails in her skin as he threw his head back. Firm strokes worked the flex of his hips head to root, catching beads of arousal on the inside of her wrist. She could not help but steal some of his pleasure for herself, and kept their hips flush through the motion.
She could come this way. High off the sounds he made and the drag of their bodies. Would in moments, if not sooner – he would too if she wasn't careful with him. It would be quick and sloppy like they were youths rolling around a hill after dark… lust without skill or the care to guide their movements. She barely had the mind to resist it with the the scent of sex already so thick in the air: sweat and perfume, heady musk, and the sweetness of his skin. She watered for this feast, so long-awaited.
If they could bear to part for but a moment they could free themselves of the last of their clothes. Ease this terrible gnawing. Yet no sooner had she lifted up her hips did he thrust a hand into the space it opened, between her thighs, searching for warmth while the heel of his palm pressed hard to her clit.
He needn't pause to wet his fingers, she was slick enough on her own. Dripping nectar like ripened fruit, sweet and sticky on the inside of her thighs when he slipped two fingers in, and fit them to the curve of her body. There, he rocked her steady. Eyes wide and rapt with wonder, watching her climb until the wet pooling in his palm joined the symphony of sounds she made. The rush of climax came upon her so fast and so suddenly that she didn't even have time to speak a warning. What cries she made were mindless: high, staccato, moans drawing into long, held notes. Gratitudes and praise for his hands and the music they made with her. She came with a force that took her breath away.
He did not wait for her to come back down. He flipped them both, so the last throes were on her back, plunging deep to keep her high enough that one pleasure would roll to the next. When he finally slid his fingers free he brought them to his mouth to taste her – let slip a sound of delight – and then together they tore the last of their clothes apart. The scraps kicked away, forgotten.
She'd intended to wrap her legs around his waist but got no further than spreading them before he grabbed her thighs and pushed them back, flat against her stomach, and hooked her ankles up over his shoulders. So when he seated himself within her it was to the very hilt.
Already close, the stretch and depth of that first movement – and the reedy, punched-out, groan of relief he gave her – was near enough to undo her again. She felt the flutters growing as she fought the surging tide, trying to force her body to heel, knowing if she came this quickly he would not be able to help himself from following.
He buckled. Reeling to one side and catching himself on an elbow, making those next thrusts not quite as deep as he'd wanted them to be. He tried to say something as he steadied them – tried a second time — then grunted, grinding out a curse as she lost her battle with herself and her hips lifted off the floor.
"Oh gods," she moaned. Praise and apology both. He'd found a hard, pounding, rhythm to take her through another high, and once she succumbed she could not bother to feel sorry for the brevity.
She lost herself. She lost time. Caught in a storm and tossed between waves until she could no longer feel the space between them. There was no up or down, no land in sight, no end to the pleasure he wrought.
His mouth was soft and his body warm, made only for this. A merging of flesh; sinking, melding, joining – they had become something new. An avatar of pleasure, ruling from these ancient halls, worshipping each other for all eternity. There was no need for anything else. Only a kiss, his hands on her skin, the driving rhythm, and the rapture they would find in each other.
She could not be sure how long – how many – before she was granted the clarity to see he'd not yet joined her. The movements had become erratic. Frenetic. Fitful jerks and choked, raspy, cries that whispered from his throat between ragged breaths. Quiet pleas, more whimper than moan.
A soft glow began to emanate from the inside of his wrist, the place the mark had flared against when she'd freed him from the rubble hours ago. A glyph appeared there. Not one she recognised, but meaning radiated from its aura like the runes she'd known before.
Above her he stiffened, groaned, and his hips snapped – breath held in anticipation – only to crumble when bliss was denied.
She'd thought it strange then, how he'd responded to the flare, as though it hurt him. But he'd assured her otherwise, so she'd let it be. Now, she understood. Somewhere between the surge and crest she'd felt a tug from the Anchor – from the Connection forged between them – as though he'd pulled against his reins.
Reins she held, for she'd been the one to bind them.
It was not pain the spark had caused him.
Renewed, she cupped his face in both her hands and kissed him deeply; a promise on her lips. He was so weak from the struggle it took little more than guiding push to roll him. Off of her, then onto his back – their bodies parting through the motion – and though he clawed for her return he'd gone so mad with want he could only paw, helpless, at her thighs.
She straddled him, catching the hand that grasped her and brought it to her mouth. She pressed her lips – her teeth – to the place she'd unknowingly marked, tasting sweat on tender skin. They were beyond words, so she conveyed her understanding in a hooded gaze; the intent to guide him to release he would not find on his own.
It did not take long for him to surge again.
This time she rode the lift of his hips, slowing their rhythm to a steady beat, to test the limits of this new connection (his endurance). She saw the glyph begin to glow, hold a few seconds, and fade as it had before. She saw the plea upon his face before he found the will to speak it.
"Sathan," he begged. The glow returned. He gasped. Then repeated, more insistent, "Sathan, vh–vhenan." Brows knit and jaw clenched.
Their pace increased. She felt a rush of warmth; this time she would come with him.
"Ellana, vhenan!"
Another surge. Another flare. It didn't fade this time, but held him at the edge of bliss, leaving him writhing and crazed. Clawing at her back with his free hand while the one she held twisted and flexed, tearing at the air in his desperation.
"Please!"
The knowledge was innate. She knew without knowing, moving on instinct, as though she'd performed this way a thousand times. When her body sparked, and those first waves washed over her, she braced a hand upon his chest and freed him with a single word.
Permission and command: "Come."
The sound he made was like none she'd heard before.
A mix of broken moan, hard exhale, and stifled sob. A long, held, groan that rose in pitch as his body curled up off the floor. It used all the breath in his lungs, until all he had left was wheeze and gasp, and his face twisted red. She felt the throb of his release inside her – the warmth – and rode that feeling hard through her own.
He grabbed her hips and kept her moving, kept his climax going, matching each rock with a hard thrust. He drew it out as long as he could stand to take. Quiet curses and whispered praise tumbled, free, from his lips in a mix of Elvish and Common.
Please. Don't stop. Keep going. Harder. More. More!
Though the waves began to ebb, and his pace steady, the steel of his arousal did not. The geas ensured it; toying with their senses so every slide of hands and touch of lips would stoke the flame and keep them burning hot. So he did not stop, and they slipped into a rhythm of highs without lows.
They filled the halls with cries until their voices gave out, and all they had left to give each other were whispers.
They fucked until their limbs shook and buckled beneath them – no longer able to support the weight of their own bodies.
When they'd given all they had, and could only lie trembling on the floor, they kissed and stroked each other. Slowly. Reverently. Sharing sensation through Connection, they sought each soft, sensitive, place. Tracing lines of shadow and bone until exhaustion claimed them both, and they fell asleep.
She woke in warmth, and to a soft, "Please."
They'd laid entwined. A tangle of legs and arms with her head resting in the crook of his elbow, and his hand held lightly to her hip. Gripping now, his fingers shaking as he rocked himself against her thigh.
A wave of want crashed over her: his desire becoming hers. Theirs. She felt the heat rising, the reddened flush of skin sensitised, and the rush of blood between her thighs. Stoking embers that had dimmed (but never doused) while they'd slept.
Once more ignited, she tried to turn within the cradle of his arms, intent to climb atop him, but found she did not have the strength to do so. The muscles in her stomach, legs, and arms burned from exhaustion; not yet recovered from the hours spent together. Each limb weighed a thousand pounds. No matter how she strained, no attempt to raise herself succeeded. And neither could he get himself on hands and knees.
They tried in vain to find a way to fit together on the floor. Her back against his chest or legs around his waist, but without the ability to move their hips no position could grant them what they sought. The effort had them breathing hard and slick with sweat in moments.
How cruel that in a state so fragile, with flesh so hot and swollen, they could not find a way to fit together. The geas made no concessions for the limits of endurance, it commanded them regardless. Hearts still thundered, bellies still warmed, and hands still clawed for respite even when they lacked the strength to find it in each other.
It took all she had just to strain her neck to meet his mouth. Move her lips against his and taste the need upon his tongue. She was empty and he was ravenous, and the air still thick around them, what sighs she drank only made their hunger worse.
She took his hand in hers and moved it to her breast, guiding him to squeeze and pinch, and rode the flutters it awarded her with a gentle rock and twist of thighs. She'd learned to tease herself this way long ago, and with their bodies linked she hoped to drag him with her through a slow climb.
But he was not so patient.
There was pain writ on his face. A twist of mouth and brow, sweat beading on his temples as he twitched and writhed. Between embraces, "I need– I need you," he was saying. Breathing it into her mouth. "Sathan, vhenan…" He pushed with hips and hands, searching blindly for the friction needed to lead him to his end.
She guided his hand to where his cock pressed up against her thigh, and whispered, "Show me."
There was hesitation, even in this state. A moment of his eyes searching hers. The silence filled with heaving breath as he weighed his want and need against the boundaries of where they'd played before.
His hand twitched.
She tipped the scales by sliding her own between her legs, to a prize she sought beyond a patch of dark curls, and there began to touch herself. Two fingers moving in slow, lazy circles.
"I want to watch you," she cooed. It was truer than he knew, but she'd never had the wit to tell him so. "I've always wanted to watch you. I think about it when we're apart, at night when I'm alone in bed and want you with me. I wonder if you're in your own, thinking of me the way I think of you."
His eyes were dark, jaw slack, pale skin flushed pink from cheeks to chest. She could feel desire growing as he watched her work herself – but it was the catch in her voice, when she flexed her hips, that finally broke his resolve. With a moan, he grasped himself. Moving slowly at first, tentatively; but soon in surer strokes.
It did not matter that she lacked the strength to do more than watch. She'd played this scene – the fantasy – over in her mind so many times the sight alone could end her. And nearly did, until she stilled her hand. Intent to draw it out a little longer. The rush so fierce that even he was made to fumble, and let slip a quiet sound.
She kissed him soundly, and when he could no longer hold the embrace she nipped at lips, jaw, and neck. Watching tension play upon his face as he panted through the pleasure he gave himself.
"You're beautiful like this," she told him, and confessed, "I've thought so many times of finding you this way. Asking you to finish for me. Of you having been so wanting…"
It made his hips flex, and his rhythm changed: a little faster, a little lighter, a little more careful with himself as his breath turned quick and shallow. He whispered something, so soft she barely heard it. An admission as vulnerable as her own. One he'd never dared to speak aloud before.
"Almost," he'd said, and swallowed. "Once."
The thought of it, even as he lay next to her, made her stomach twist. A swoop they shared through the magic that bound them. She wanted more. She asked him, "Before, or after we'd been together?"
And was exhilarated by the answer he gave: "Before."
She slid a hand across his stomach, to rest upon his pelvis – tempting him with the promise of reward should he do as he was asked. "Tell me."
There was no hesitation anymore. The passion in his eyes was a mirror to her own. In their desperation, they had stumbled into something captivating: the thrill of spilling secrets, side by side, delighting in the way it pleased each other.
"When last we travelled to the Emerald Graves," he began. All but whispered between heavy breaths. "I was injured in a skirmish, and troubled by the weakness later, at camp. You–"
"I offered to massage your hand," she finished for him. This was an evening she recalled, both for the intimacy they'd shared and for how charming she'd found his reaction to it.
"You did not offer," he corrected her. "You insisted. Even after I declined."
"You were blushing. You wouldn't let me finish."
"Because it was–" A pause. Brief, to wet his lips. "Stimulating. I… I could not fall asleep, later. I could not stop thinking of it. When I heard you say to Varric you were leaving to check the traps I wanted to follow you. I wanted…I-I–"
She heard it in his gasp: what he'd felt then. Saw it in the flutter of his stomach, his eyes, and tug in her palm as he slowed his hand. From firm grip to a delicate touch, trailing fingertips along the underside of his cock. Steeled and flushed at the very edge of pleasure.
But the reins belonged to her – he'd not succumb until she let it.
"I wanted you," he said at last. "You– you came to my tent, to say goodnight, before your watch. You entered without warning. It… startled me."
Her heart beat at a thunderous pace, she'd swear it near to bursting through the cage of her ribs. She could hardly speak. Hardly breathe. Her voice the thinnest whisper when she asked, "Before, or after?"
Another pause. Then, "Before," he answered. "But only just."
She drew herself as near to him as she could manage, in their tangle on the floor, her lips resting at the shell of his ear so she could speak her secrets to him while she watched his hand at work.
"And after?"
She let the question hang, unfinished. Unspoken. Thinking how she'd been so near to him that night. Taking watch, not knowing how he struggled. How he wanted – needed – as she entertained her own thoughts of kissing him. Touching him. Finding a way to excuse herself without notice and climb into the space beside him. They'd not let laid together, but kissed in ways that made her think on it more often than she should.
He bit his lip, and nodded.
It was all she could stand to take. She pressed her hand to him, splaying fingers wide, and whispered once more, "Show me."
There was a quiet gasp before his hips lifted, as though the sudden loss of shackles took him by surprise. The rhythm stuttered, briefly broken, and then resumed in longer, firmer, strokes. Half a cry, cut off, when his eyes closed and brows knit. He shuddered when he came. Thick ribbons that splashed across his stomach and the back of her hand.
She did not intend to lose herself – nor make it such a brief affair – but in the wake of her dearest fantasy fulfilled, she could not last seconds. With a gasp, she soared, and brought herself to pleasure with an urgent call of his name, breathed across his cheek.