She had little cat feet. When she wasn’t fighting, she sat looking over everything on silent haunches, and then moved on, no pat-pit-pat.
It stood to reason – she was a rogue, all soft daggers and poison. For her, a pit could mean life, as a pat could mean death. And it was something that occurred to him so very briefly; the theory arose as a glowing ember blew to his feet, and when it withered in the snow, passed on. But he thought: with all her quiet grace, long, lithe and stretching to take up all the space and none of it simultaneously, she must have danced like she fought.
And he had seen her fight. She slinked across the field of battle with balletic purpose, decorated in blood and ichor that trickled thinly down her arms and between her breasts. She traveled faster and more agilely than her own shadow, emancipated from all physical impediments to move like water. So, Solas had before, in a very technical sense, seen her dance.
But it was never this, never like this.
It caught him off-guard; she leapt through the circle of their drunken comrades in the same way she prepared for a fight and he thought they were being attacked. She was still for a long moment. His fingers crept toward his staff. He checked his wine for ripples and held his breath as he did so. Then she nodded imperceptibly, at the precise moment a spirited fire-song surged from the strings of Maryden’s lute, and what air remained in his lungs left them in a rush.
She was immediately – instinctively – cheered on by all those commemorating the newly healed sky. His eyes were stuck on the way the firelight glinted off her arms and legs, the dirt and snow pressed between her toes, that silly dress that clung to her body – the one she bought on impulse from a Rivaini merchant passing through Haven. It was the color of moss-covered roots that were the color of her eyes.
She raised a toned arm above her head, curving her wrist and flexing her fingers. The restless rolling tide of her hips turned his mouth to a desert. He raised his wine to his lips and pretended it was her he was drinking in, inhaling, consuming. He grew heady with the way her eyes slipped closed, and although he saw and felt the presence of all those around them, she could have convinced him no one was watching. She steadily twirled around the roaring fire as though the element itself answered to her.
The footprints that chased her were impossibly small. He marveled at them; it was so easy for him to forget that beneath all that power and responsibility lay just a girl, with her eyes clear still, and her youth in abundance. If she were anything more than just a vessel for his magic, if she was the reason he twitched and stiffened in his breeches… If that were true…
He swallowed more wine with the only aim of making his throat a little less dry. He couldn’t be the only man with his eyes locked to her. She circled her hips and dragged her hands down her neck, to her stomach and beyond. He couldn’t be the only man hypnotized. If he could tear his eyes away from her for even a second, he would have checked.
A twirl in the air saw the pointed panels of her dress flaring about her. It was just a flash, that extra bit of thigh that it revealed, but the image burned hot behind his eyelids. He couldn’t forget it were he held at knife-point.
And now with a different purpose did he knock back his wine – if she designed to unwittingly debase him this way, he’d do everything he could not to remember it come morning.
Her eyes fluttered open just as his cup kissed his lips. She found him immediately from where she stood swaying behind the fire, and met his eyes through the flames. He gouged her reaction to him. She didn’t stop moving, and so neither did he.
He held the alkaline glaze of her stare while he drank.
Escalated grew the pace of Maryden’s song. Lavellan threw her arms outwards, then above her head, swinging her body left and right. This wasn’t debauchery; she was dancing a path to sainthood.
Andraste’s Herald! people would cry through the streets, Firedancer!
Desire swelled in him. If she were to come any closer, to brush against his skin with a hand or a foot, he was sure he would burst apart.
He matured to the fact that she teased him deliberately when she came in front of the fire, silhouetted darkly against its glow, and pulled up her dress just slightly. The barest glimpse of her skin that it would have given him, snatched away. He pressed his teeth together, fingers curling around his cup that hung empty.
How far would she go, he wondered, in front of those who all but worshipped her?
But this wasn’t depraved, it wasn’t wanton. It was grace and sensuality. It was magnetic. She was all sultry confidence and she knew it.
She erupted with rhythm. She embodied the movements in a way that he had known people to take years to perfect. It all came naturally to her. She was warmed by wine and fire, her limbs were loose as a bird before taking flight, her body a direct conduit to her soul, and it was intoxicating and alive. The sight of her, bottled, could have been something to get drunk on.
She threw her arms to the sky as Maryden’s song hit its crescendo. The fluid waves of her waist struck thunder in him. When her dress flared about her legs as she whirled around the fire one last time, the way a sycamore seed might spin to the ground, Heaven’s heel couldn’t have snuffed out his hunger.
Then it was quiet and she stood still, and time stood still. Her dress took a moment to settle, and the next brought raucous delight. Deafening praise cracked the night asunder. Solas looked around and saw thrice as many people as there were before. Of course they all came to watch her, it would’ve shocked him if they hadn’t.
Lavellan’s eyes were wide when she fell back into her skin. There was something like fear mixed with the surprise in them, and he felt a little ashamed, a little embarrassed when he thought of himself contributing to that. Sweat collected at the hollow of her throat. Her heaving chest reminded him inevitably of the hardness pressed to the seam of his pants. He watched her look over at Dorian, who raised his cup to her with a wide grin. Her face broke into a smile, and suddenly she laughed, albeit sheepishly. She shook her head and accepted a drink from another of her companions, walking off to sit beside Sera.
Though her eyes did linger, perhaps longer than they should have, on Solas before passing on.
In her wake she left a mess of kicked up dirt and snow circling the bonfire.
There were so many Chantry sisters about, and far too much talking. Solas did not count the days since he last felt warmth from a body – a hand held in his or soft breasts under his tongue – but he saw Lavellan slip into the trees and set out on his own innocent exodus.
He didn’t think he could fairly be judged for following the breadcrumb trail of her footsteps to a clearing.
The full moon saw her leaning her back on a wide tree trunk, her head tipped up to the night. The meager neckline of her dress gave him an adequate view of the sweat cooling upon her clavicle. He watched her breathe, cock-hard.
He stepped closer. The sound of his foot crunching in the snow tore through the quiet. She turned her head towards him, and he was pulled to her by virtue of some predetermined course, ever the moth to the flame.
As he advanced in his haze, his mind adjusted to the fact that he had been lured, and fell desperately, into the infallible scheme that brought him here. And when finally the mass of himself loomed over the object of his wanting, he wasted no time. On a rough estimation they were both comparable degrees of inebriated – neither of them willing to consider the petty things like circumstance or consequence – so he allowed his fingers a trail over her thigh, and dragged his hand slowly up – her waist, the side of her small breast – until it came upon her sternum to lay there.
He splayed his fingers and marveled at how little space remained between his thumb and her left shoulder, and his pinky and her right. He tilted his head.
She had been watching him, and now felt small, in more ways than one; the courtly man before her towered a foot over her bare minimum, but just the same, gone was the moxie that carried her thus far. It was all real now, and reality…
Reality brought Solas’ hand a little higher up her throat, not to squeeze, but to only rest. He leaned in and she opened her mouth, tongue flicking out to him. They stayed suspended like that for a while, tasting the wine saturated in the white clouds of each other’s breath. In the brief moment where his eyes caught hers, something unspoken crossed between them; they both knew that if, at any point after this she were to say let’s stop, he would not be able to. She nodded once in a frantic gesture. He traversed the short distance between their lips.
It was no innocent thing; behind their closed mouths was a passion like black fire, and when he pushed his tongue onto hers divine shapes burst behind his eyes. She gripped his face between her fingers, drew her nails down the base of his neck, and let out a whimper when he maneuvered his thigh in between her legs. She couldn’t stop the way she ground down, just as he couldn’t smother his grunt when she dug her nail into an old scar. Everything dragged – their tongues over each other, the heat of her across the rough of his leggings, his hands on whatever patch of her skin he could blindly detect.
She let out a new breathy sound with each thing he did, songs and curses that fell from her lips to be carried off on sweet winter air. They turned high-pitched when his teeth found her throat, and then he licked and bit ferociously with the sole aim of seeing how ruthlessly he could make her rut upon his thigh. He groped around until, accompanied by a victorious hum, his hands found her ass under her dress. He fit one cheek in each hand, and spread them apart and pushed them together, in an investigative attempt to see how much flesh he could hold in each.
And when he was satisfied, heaved upwards. Her shudder wracked through them both. She reached out fumblingly behind her to find purchase on the tree she was pressed against, and braced her weight on it while she wrapped her legs around his waist. Her sex crushed to the solid bulge of his cock brought aching relief to the both of them.
It was a special kind of torture to then squeeze her calf in the particular way of warning against something, just as he untangled her legs and let her back to the earth. The look she gave him – pretty siren-eyed broken hope – nearly rent him in two, and when she reached for him babbling, no no no no, he had to check himself for fresh scars.
But his soul trembled with need for another thing, so mighty that it helped in knocking him to his knees.
Her whining protests withered between her teeth. With vein-bulging fury, his white fists gripped the panels of her dress that concealed her from the world, and he had to impose onto himself a moment to redirect the forceful tremors that wouldn’t still his hands. He pulled it up through his arms and neck, until it landed grindingly in his jaw, and only after something had popped behind his eyes could he relax his hold on her. She watched it happen darkly fascinated. It was as though he had locked his knees against an earthquake and let it pass through him.
Then the bitter night air bore down on her, ripping gooseflesh from her skin while his glassy eyes roved along her cunt and the wetness glazing her thighs.
He inched a red, frostbitten finger through the patch of coarse hair there, then slipped it down between her lips, and nearly jerked back because he didn’t account for the temperature difference and her cunt was scorching, but the sounds coming out of her kept him there until he added another, thawing himself in her warmth. He dragged his nose up her thigh, pressing down little goosebumps as he licked at the pebbled smoothness. Snow melted where his knees dug into the earth. The frost soaked through his leggings and pinched his skin.
Her cold hand claimed the back of his head, urging his mouth quietly where she needed him. He could hear her murmuring, and when he looked up, discovered a sight on which he had never before laid eyes. For, bathed in silver light, she stared up at the moon, her own eyes luminous and heavy with sex, and transfixed, the God on his knees couldn’t look away.
No longer was he able to deprive himself; the scent of her so close to his face was maddening. When his mouth finally descended upon her he was ravenous, not blood but wine rushing through his veins, and it was devastating. He covered her cunt with his mouth at first in some imitation of a kiss, trying to get as much of her into himself as he could. Her hungry gaze in the blue dark peeled back his skin – he was reduced to just a man on his knees, a man with a soul-annihilating hunger for nothing else but her. To have the musky taste of her on his tongue was to be marked by Hellfire. He couldn’t stop. He pulled his tongue along the expanse of her, savoring the crying girl that he would never again be allowed to relish, and then scraped his teeth ever so lightly upon the hood of her clit.
The sounds she emitted were animal, sobbing and shouting at the night. She’d never imagined a sensation like this. The entire world right now was on its knees before her, pleasuring between her legs. With frenzied jerks he moved, sucking her clit into his mouth one moment and digging his tongue into her cunt the next, never long enough for it to bear any fruit, but that wasn’t a calculated outcome. Instead it was more like he was a dog that hadn’t had a bite of food in weeks – he knew what to do and went through the motions, but there was so much of her that he needed and no time to savor it for fear of starvation.
He exhaled harshly against her cunt, unwilling to break away even to breathe. The hot air did nothing to cool the swollen throbbing there. He pressed a kiss to her slit, resigning himself to all her whims. He gorged himself on her, not just the taste but the sight and smell, too. His nose was rubbed raw by the wild mat of unkept hair covering her, and yet he dared not pull back. This was just as intoxicating as watching her dance, and he tried fumblingly to draw, with his tongue on her cunt, the image of her spinning around a blazing fire.
Every noise she made edged him on. He grabbed a thigh and eased it over his shoulder, allowing him to delve further into her. She cried out, then, echoing through the branches of the naked trees. Any pain he might have felt from the hardness of his cock, surely purple by now, was offset by the bliss of what he was experiencing. He was distantly aware of his face being painted with her juices, mixed with his own saliva. He imagined it dripping from his chin, ever the glutton. But nothing mattered except the strange elf woman above him, and not a second after he sucked her clit behind his tongue once more did she come undone with a great heaving sob.
He dutifully licked up her release and, when finally he pulled away, groaned into her thigh with the knowledge that he too died the little death, just as untouched as he had been for the last thousand years.