Chapter 1: Isalan Alas'nir ( Enter Abelas )
Story restructure! I've been looking at this for ages and needed to consolidate/rework a few things, details that I screwed up a bit. Same plotline, same people, different structuring and a few tweaked details.
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
“Solas, you aren’t serious.” Her words are soft, incredulous as she removes the space between them so her words will not carry. Now, Giselle-Sophia loves Solas, she doe, and she would – will – follow him to the ends of the world, but she – couldn’t do this. This was too far for her.
She would give him all the children he wanted, happily, but Abelas and his Sentinels? Elle doesn’t know them, they hadn’t saw fit to trust her farther than they could throw her when it came to the well. Not that the Knight-Enchanter could particularly fault them for it. Humans had done little in the past or present to prove to the Elven people they were trustworthy. Still, to have different men take her from her ripest day on? Just in the hopes the seed of one of them would take?
The idea of it, become what amounts to a brood mare, appalls her. Though the way Solas had described it made her heart thrill and blood warm. She clings to her morals, old and mostly cast aside in the aftermath of the war against Corypheus. Her head tilt when her mate’s face turns to her, nears hers and lets her silver eyes fall shut as his cheek rubs against hers. This never fails to amuse her. Solas may say Fen’Harel was just a name – a title – but he was more wolf like than he readily admits to. He enjoys nuzzling, cuddling, and keeping her smelling of him far too much for any regular man, Elvhen or otherwise.
“Vhenan,” he whispers it, pressing his lips to the space beneath her ear, turning so he may embrace her, “you would be perfect for this role. Your body is made for this.” Those hands of his – painter’s fingers long and steady, slide to her hips, settling on their widest point, digging into her skin gently. “You are a powerful woman, Falon, magic mired in the elements, you would be – are- the perfect mother to help rebuild the people.” Giselle’s hands settle between them, one flat on his chest, the other curled just under his chin, resting there. Her face burns in response to his words, the compliments; Elle knows they are not empty, Solas was not the type, and he has said such things to her before as they lay tangled in his bed, breathing heavily from their exertions.
He has been telling her for months now, ever since the Inquisition had disbanded officially, Divine Victoria taking the reins of it, and she had ridden away from the Winter Palace in search of him. She’d been intent on finding him, on locating her evasive and tricky lover, so much so that in losing her trailing friends ordered after her no doubt by Cassandra, she’d missed his agents watching her. He had plucked her from the depths of a forest to the north, bordering Nevarra while searching for a rumored Eluvian. Ever since that day he has been telling her she would be the perfect mother. Now she’s got clarity, she knows he has been capitalizing on the way it makes her blush and squirm, on how slick she becomes the more he says it while touching her, covering her body with is. Her husband is far too smart for his own good at time. She can clearly see why he had been a General when he was in his youth – Charisma, tactics, yes. Solas knew all too well how to maneuver the pieces to get exactly what he wanted out of the world – out of her.
“Solas, an duine agam, I would – I will give you all the children you could ever want, you know that.” She breathes the words against his ear, tongue snaking out to click at the lobe of it. Two can play at this game. Elle is not so subservient to not push back against him when she was uncomfortable. Her face nuzzles into his neck, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin of his neck that she knows well, delighting still in the way he sighs for her. If Elle can convince him to find others for the Sentinels of Mythal to mate and procreate with, she would. There are plenty of strong, capable women in this world. It would not be such a hard thing to find and match the men with them should they be willing.
They always struggled against one another like this. Solas was used to taking the lead, is used to being a leader once more. He had played at being a guide for her with the Inquisition, but it had chaffed when her actions differed from what he would have done. His Giselle, she bows to no one, had likely had never bowed to anyone. She did not even submit to him, not unless Solas wrested control from her; which he tries at now. His hands slide from her the curve of her hips to the swell of her ass, giving a gentle squeeze before bending just slightly, hooking his hands under her and lifting. The reaction is automatic, Elle’s legs wrap around his slim waist, her arms darting to wrap about his shoulders. His strength has never failed, yet it doesn’t mean Elle can stop her reaction.
Walking forward, nosing her chin up, kissing at her throat and nipping at the skin of her collar bone Solas distracts her. The room they were in, in his home, is obscured from the room the Sentinel men have gathered in, yet it isn’t so obscured they couldn’t be heard. Her thighs contract around him as he settles her on a narrow table clear of ornaments or documents.
“Solas,” her voice takes on a tone that indicates distress as he shifts, pressing himself into the cradle of her legs. The beginnings of his erection are apparent, easy to feel. Elle has let go of many of her rigid Chantry morals, but to let him have her while half a dozen other men were in the house – and all of them here at his request? Elle can’t do this.
“Solas,” she tries again, and her lover hums in acknowledgement, lips and teeth working over the column of her throat, making her whine and gasp. This is cheating, she can never think straight when he does that. Her hands fist in his shirt, torn momentarily between pulling him closer and pushing her husband away.
“Elle, Vhenan, I would never harm you. I will never lie to you again as I felt I had to in the past,” his words are spoken between kisses laid along her neck and collar. His deft fingers slide between them to expose more of her skin. “You will be cared for, pleasured, worshiped, and covetously guarded from harm, Ma’Vhenan. No harm will befall you. None would force you to lay with them, none would dare. You have your choice of us, my love. Simply let us love you, help us to rebuild what has long been lost.”
“And if I am unable to give you what you want?” Her voice is soft, curiosity lacing the question. Elle knew that the coupling of elves and other races somehow only produced children that looked to be of their non-elven parent’s race. Solas wished to rebuild the People. How could she – a human woman – do so. To her, this seemed like folly. Perhaps Solas felt his strong blood would produce half elves who were somehow closer to the ancients than those today were?
Solas internally crows with triumph. Elle didn’t ask such things unless she is seriously considering a proposition. Weighting good against ill. Had they not had a similar conversation when he first chased her, caught her, wanted her to be his in a physical way? He knows her this well at least. Solas slides his hands into her shirt, cupping a heavy breast and flicking his thumb across her nipple.
“Your body has borne fruit already. Emma Falon’saota, it will do so again,” his voice is a low purr, and Solas can picture it now. He can see the in his mind’s eye how she would look – the swell of her stomach – carrying high with a girl and low for boys, the way her skin would glow with the new life growing inside her. He groans softly, nipping at her collarbone again, rocking a much more insistent erection against her. “I know of potions, Ma’vhenan, that will help the process of conception along. To ease anxiety, heighten fertility, keep your body strong and healthy as the babe grows. I promise you, Giselle-Sophia, no harm will come to you should you do this.”
The older man considers the eyes of his love, the woman who brought the world to its knees to restore sanity. A wicked smile curls his lips as he leans forward, brushing his lips against hers. “No harm will be visited on you apart from a very sore and well-loved cunt, I promise you.”
The wicked smile grows when her breath hitches, as her hips shift forward during his last sentence. His beautiful Herald, the merciful Inquisitor, pious Inquisitor – she likes the idea of this. He can scent the arousal on her. It helps that Elle’s body is responsive to him to a near fantastical degree. A year in her bed had attuned her to his touch, their marriage bond still thrives strong even after two years of estrangement. Unwilling but still. It is useful to know just where to scrap blunt teeth across soft skin, to know the words to frame his requests that will have her breath catching in her throat. All of it worked in his favor, to the favor of his fellow Elvhen.
His was a dying race. No sentinels beyond those found in Mythal’s place have been found yet, and it doesn’t bode well. However, Giselle can change that. She has borne his magic for three years, becoming stronger for it, her magic more in tune with the Fade beyond the Veil as a result. She will carry true Elvhen children, he is sure of it. Further, he can make sure of it, elevate her as the other Evanuris had their partners. Risky, tricky – even having been awake so long he has not yet returned to his full strength. Even with Mythal’s power behind him he has a while yet to wait to reclaim his former ‘glory’.
“H-how would potions help?” Her eyes are darker now, a lovely slate grey rather than their normal bright silver, her breathing has changed to little sips. Solas is wearing her down, her resolve against this was weakening. A wolfish smile pulls at his lips again, and his hand shifts on her breast, fingers plucking at the budded nipple through her breast band. His woman, she has such a good heart, and such a wanton mind when it comes to him and his desires.
“A daily elixir to build your body’s strength, a supplement to compliment a healthier diet. Though fear not my love, there will still be delicate cakes, just not accompanied by as many rich dishes.” His teeth nip ever so gently at her lush bottom one before continuing, “Another will increase your desires on your ripest days, the last mixed into the former to help ease the worry from your mind. It will make you needy, ready to be loved well and often.” Solas rolls the nipple and fabric back and for the between his finger as he speaks, delighting in the way her back arches just enough that his hand is full of her once more.
“And, when we are certain seed has taken inside your womb, the first elixir will be strengthened to be continued every day. Insurance that you and the child will be nothing but healthy as the little one grows and takes from you what it needs.” Her throat and neck are mottled with red and dark purple marks, proof that she is his above all others. Even if she took all the sentinels into her bend and gave each half a dozen children – Elle will always be his first. He will always claim her as his mate.
His beautiful mate who is perfuming the room with her arousal. A heady scent that Solas will never tire of. It has him pulling his face from her neck, capturing her lips, swallowing her little moans as he rocks against her. If they were not both wearing leathers, if her legs were in a more suitable position, he is sure he’d be able to feel just how ready for him Elle is – how willing. As it is, he will satisfy himself with the knowledge her hips move to meet his, the sensation muted with the layers, and that she whines softly for more attention. His ears twitch imperceptibly as he notes the faint, but distinct, sound of the Sentinel’s armor. They can scent her desire too. They know what he’d doing to illicit the answer they want – need – from the former Inquisitor.
“Arasha, you are so willing in my arms now. Tell me truly, will you let us love you? Will you honor us so?” The General can feel victory looming. Ever has he known which battles to pursue and which to concede defeat. He presses ruts his length against her clothed center with as much pressure as afforded him with her legs wrapped about him so, with their clothing forming a barrier between them. He nips at her lips, coming the fingers of his free hand through her cropped hair before settling it beside her hip. All the Evanuri needs is a yes, if she consents, there will be no need for underhanded tactics that may or may not result in the loss of his mate. There will be no need to betray the regained trust she has shown in him to this point.
“Solas,” his name on her lips sounds delightfully like a prayer, the only he would accept or enjoy. Her eyes are lidded, head tipped back baring her neck to him. It pleases him, pleases the wolf that resides with the man that she capitulates to his dominance. “I – “she pauses to lick her lips and Solas’ eyes are intense as he watches the movement. “I will consider it. I’ll meet the others, let them court me, but I will only lay with those I enjoy the company of.”
For all that his Herald wife’s voice is breathless, filled to the brim with desire, there is steel there. He will allow it, even if she would only lay with himself and one other – that was a start. It was more than they had now. The sentinels may be able to find compatible mates within their number and outside of that number when all available women were taken. But, Solas has a feeling the sentinels will do their damnedest to court the little mage. There will be gifts, music, perhaps even dreams, all the likes of which Elle will not have experienced from her human suitors.
“Ma Serannas, emma Vhenan. Ma Serannas.” This would be enough, she would let them have her, at least the ones she truly enjoyed the company of. She would be bred, and had given permission for such use. His cock strains against its confinement, rolling his hips insistently against hers, delighting in Giselle’s gasps and moans. The hand on her breast pauses in its movements, shoving the breast band down until she is free of it. When she is free of it, he puts a bit of distance between them, urges her to lean back until her shoulders hit the wall – effectively keeping her inclined.
Elle is flushed, cheeks red, lips red, her breathing shallow, nipples erect, perfect, dusky tips on golden globes. He is hard pressed to not have his wife right there. Would she let him? Could he get away with it? Solas slides a hand between their hips; pressing his thumb against her mound and rubs. Leaning down, when she arches with a breathless moan on her lips, he captures a nipple between his lips. Her hands immediately find purchase on his scalp, and he suckles at her gently. In short order, the bald elf has her bucking into the pressure of his hand, soft cries falling from her lips as he changes breasts. Exquisitely responsive, so wanton when her body wanted to be filled. This vision of a woman is a gift he would not share if circumstances did not dictate he must. Again, Solas hears the slide of armor against armor, and it is louder this time. One of the Sentinels hovers near the entrance to their alcove.
Fen’Harel ignores them for the moment, instead choosing to worry Elle’s nipple between his teeth. The motion is carefully executed, just enough pressure exerted to make her give that breathy keen she is so prone to. The blunt teeth that has the flesh captured tug, pulling her breast up and away from her body just slightly before letting go. His white-haired lover lets out the precursor to a howl, her hips riding his hand and she shows no shame. It is truly a beautiful sight. But, things need to be settled. Solas withdraws from her embrace, considers her sitting disheveled on the small desk; leaning heavily on the wall flushed and ready for him.
“I have one of the potions with me now.” He had made a full batch, hoping that Elle would agree to the scheme, and if not – well the taste is easily hidden in other things. Another silent prayer of thanks is cast into the void by the former God-revered. “I made it in the event you said yet. You are not yet at your ripest day, but – if you wish to experience it?” The way the words are growled out makes it so Solas can’t recognize his own voice. It is not often he becomes so affected by something. It irks him in a way, but my, how his heart responds to that. Giselle licks her lips, extending her hand, her heart skipping a beat as his smile turns positively predatory. A show then, they would give the others a show. A vial is fished from his belt with those painter’s fingers of his, and proceeds to press the vial into her hand. “All at once, Da’asha. I will talk to the men while it takes effect.”
Calloused fingers pull the stopper from the vial and lift it to her lips. Plush, red, wet, a mimicry of what lies beneath her clothes in wait for him, press to the vial’s mouth. With a practiced hand, Elle tosses back the potion, the lot of it, keeping her head tipped back from several breaths to make sure before setting it and the stopper aside. Her tongue darts out after she’s swallowed, wetting her lips as she tilts her chin toward the door. “Go, speak with them. I will wait for you, Love.”
Solas sweeps away from her without another word. If he stayed, if he watched the flush on her cheeks deepen and extend down her neck – he would be lost. The Sentinels would have to be left to their own devices while he ravaged his mate mere feet from them. So – Solas walks away, long strides that have him before the half a dozen chosen men within a single breath. Storming blue eyes take them in and after a breath he speaks.
“She has agreed – in a fashion.” His arms shift, his stance returning to one most have seen many times before. The ancient male has no care for his aroused state, nor that the others can see it. “There are conditions – my wife wishes to choose from the lot of you for herself. Her human sensibilities have not all been shaken, but it is a start.” He had switched into his mother tongue at the beginning. It expedited the process for them, and keep Elle from listening, from becoming unsure of her decision.
“We are to court her.” Abelas’ is the voice to break the silence, from against the wall near the room Solas had just come from. It surprises the older, paler elf. He would have thought it would be one of the younger ones, eager to smell, see, and taste. That surprise is not shown on his face as he replies.
The Sentinel commander’s lips pull into a frown. “Our courting takes decades, we may not have that long.”
“Adjust to her expectations. Truncate, expedite, do not be as subtle as you would expect an elven woman would want you to be with your intentions. Do not dare attempt to force her, but do not be so passive that she mistakes your actions for disinterest or indifference. Her passions run deep, and she will readily show you, should you gain her respect and trust. Giselle-Sophia loves hard, and that will be required for her, in her mind, to lay with you, to give each of us she chooses the children needed to begin rebuilding our people.” Solas addresses the assembled men, not simply their Commander.
“And if she only chooses a handful?”
“Then we will find other women in addition to her – and there are more women like Elle.” None so appealing in Solas’ eyes, but women certainly. It perhaps is better that Elle only chooses a few of them. Too many children of the same mother would not strengthen their people in the end. “The Warden-Commander who stopped the last Blight was Elven. Dalish, though she is, she is yet unmated according to my agents. The mage Hawke, killed her lover when he rightfully murdered the parishioners and Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. While human, Marian Hawke has walked the raw fade, she is strong. We have options if Elle names only a few to take to her bed.”
“And you, Fen’Harel, will you be able to chain jealousy for what you plan?” Solas’ eyes narrow at one of the younger Sentinels. They would all need to agree to work in tandem to keep Giselle happy, to keep her satisfied with the life she is choosing. It would not just be him who had to chain away jealous for the sake of the relationship and their mission.
“We must all do so. Giselle-Sophia is mine, my mate, above all else. I extend the privilege of breeding her to you, out of a desire to see our people restored. She extends the privilege of her body and love, children, to those she chooses. None of you shall squander it on something so petty as jealousy.” His eyes are hard as he lays down the ruling. The sentinels would follow it, Solas had taken on Mythal’s soul, her power. They were bound to him as surely as they had been bound to her before. Another Sentinel begins to speak when the softest moan filters into the room. Abruptly, Solas has no further interest in speaking to Abelas and his men.
“There are more than enough rooms for each of you. Choose as you like. Your individual courtships may begin tomorrow.” The General doesn’t acknowledge them after that, making a beeline to his sweetheart. Elle doesn’t make those sorts of noises without reason. It simply isn’t her way, if she wants something, she asks, if she needs him, she calls. The scene that greets Fen’Harel shocks the breath from him. His Vhenan has shoved her clothes off, or as close to off as she’s seen fit, and in her ardor – helped along by the concoction he’d made for her, started without him.
Blue eyes, usually so sharp and focused have a hard time taking everything in. There is so much radiant, soft, sun kissed skin on display before him. Her leathers are in a pile on the floor below her feet, which have been caught on the edge of the desk he’d left her on. Her dainty slippers have somehow survived the rushed disrobing, the satin shimmering softly in the natural light. Her knees are touching, obscuring her open blouse and lack of breast band. But, it does not obscure her lack of a coat. That lays on the floor, her smalls on top of it. It’s a scene that Solas has no thought to see, and yet here she is, perched as she’d been sat, sex on display, glistening with wet, her fingers pressed at the apex moving in slow circles.
“Vhenan?” He approaches her slowly, eyes on every movement his woman makes. She is dissonant right now; a playfully innocent smile paired with dark dilated eyes, her modestly pulled together knees while her feet are spread to show the world one of her physical charms.
“Solas, you’re very far.” Plush lips push into a pout and his head tilts while he watches her. The potion had indeed eroded away her insecurities. She’s rarely so bold, and never outside their bed. Solas had been ready to take a slow build again, but it clearly isn’t something Elle needs. He – on the other hand – was not yet on the same page as her body was; though his arousal rallies from its flagged state as he watches her. It won’t take much or long for him to return to full arousal again. The man equated with rebellion and tricks moves to his mate without further prompting, eyes trained on her fingers, hunger rising back up in him.
Elle is proud of herself. It’s silly, as the display she’s making is all in ‘thanks’ to the potion she’d been given by her husband. It hadn’t taken her ability to think for herself, but, she is far less occupied with the ideas of what should and shouldn’t be done as opposed to what she wants to do. It’s a very liberating feeling. The way Solas watches her, those clear blue eyes stormy with lust, his whole being radiating predator – this is a very worthwhile endeavor. If nothing else, Elle will take the potion when her cycle is at its peak just to see what they both get up to.
“Ar isalathe ma, emma vhenan.” The elvish words are clumsy on her tongue, lacking the grace that they have when those who are fluent speak them, but the reaction Solas has makes her feel as if she’d pronounced them perfectly – even if it’s not the truth. He lets out a groan, taking the last three steps toward her he needed to, to completely close the distance between them, and drops to his knees before her. Elle rests her forehead against her knees to keep from trying to look at him. No matter how many times Solas performs this act on her, Giselle-Sophia can’t get used to it. It embarrasses her.
“You’ll have me, my love.” He whispers it, his calloused fingers gently parting her knees so he might see her face. When her gaze is exposed to his, he watches as her hands slide away from her lips, leaving her pearl unattended. The man does so love to see the way color suffuses her cheeks like this. It’s always so sudden, no gentle rise of color.
With Giselle’s legs bent as they are, and with her feet braced at the edge of the desk to keep her safely in position, he cannot take a winding path to her apex. Solas is certain his mage wife would not even want him to do so today. Her hands, no idle but glistening, are petting at her stomach, the undersides of her breasts. Rare is the moment when Elle touches herself while Solas is there to pleasure her.
Leaning forward, absently noting this table is perhaps the perfect height for such debauchery, Solas presses a kiss to either side of her core. She’s soaked, lips slick already. It has him groaning low in his throat, tongue swiping across his lips to catch the taste of her. From there, it is a quick descent, his tongue sliding from just below her entrance all the way along the seam of her lips, sliding between them when he reaches where her pearl is located. A quick circular motion with his tongue has Elle tilting her head back against the wall, a soft sound falling from her lips. Raising his hands, he gently catches her labia with his thumbs, parting her, and getting to work in earnest. He laps at her, toying with her bud of nerves, never giving her more than a quick hint of the pressure she desires, before going back to lapping at her. Her hips shift, a slight movement, yet Solas feels it, how she presses her pussy closer to his tongue. The action is rewarded with a kiss to her clit, his lips sealing around it for a moment, giving it a good suck before it is summarily released again. The former Inquisitor howls, a hand smacking down on the table top. This – this right here, is why he teases her, builds her up, so an action as simple as that would garner the best reaction from his lover.
The cycle starts again, lapping at her, circling her pearl, flexing his tongue and teasing at her entrance. Again, and again the cycle repeats, and he has her panting curses and his name in equal measure. Another reward, his lips cover his teeth, and catch her bud between them, tugging at it gently, lashing at it with this tongue. Her legs shake, she lets loose a high keen and her hips buck. Solas goes back to his cycle – and it makes Giselle sob. The hand that had slapped the table moves to slide across his head. Her fingers trace down to an ear, nails gently dragged across it, making him swear into her core. Elle lets loose gasping laughter, pleased to have gotten him back even just a little. Her laughter stops abruptly when he shifts, using a single hand to hold her open while sliding a finger of his other into her heat. It has her back arching, low moan filling the room as he pleases her.
There is nothing urgent about Solas’ tactics with her, no impatience in the way he touches her, even as he slides a second finger into her channel, he does not pick up pace. Solas keeps steady for her, knowing that eventually this will be how she finds her pleasure. He doesn’t much care about how long it takes her to do so, if she feels good at his hand.
Giselle feels mad with how much she wants her lover. Not just his mouth or fingers; which he uses to play her like the lute he ‘dabbles’ at playing – doing so beautifully – but his body pressed to hers. She enjoys the intimacy of it, how he will whisper to her in Common and Elven, sometimes in Tevene and Orlesian as he picks up more and more of Thedas’ contemporary languages. The feeling of being surrounded by him, of being cared for even when she urges him to be rough with her – that is what Giselle craves. However, Elle knows her lover. He wasn’t ever satisfied unless he’d gotten her to cum at least once in their encounters before he slid into her. Of all the men that she’s lain with, he is the only one who’s cared enough to make sure she finds release in each of their encounters. A man worth keeping, surely, beyond all the other reasons to keep Solas close to her.
Her hips rock, full range of movement thwarted by her own choice of pose, against his lips and fingers. Arousal swirls low in her stomach, heating her blood, making her breath come in short bursts as he works. Solas is very good at torturing her this way. Too good, really. Her snow-white head tips back against the wall as his fingers curl up against the walls of her body and she lets out a breathless cry. Rolling her head to the side, she means to look down at her falon’saota, to watch him work her over, but her eyes are instead drawn to the door way of the room. The imposing figure that hovers there is Abelas. He is watching her – watching them. Her heart jumps, fingers tense on Solas’ scalp, careful still not to let her nails dig into his sensitive flesh.
He is so silent, so watchful and for some reason Elle can’t explain, it makes her heart skip a beat again before starting to pound against her ribs. The Herald has never been watched before while in the throes of passion. Not even her lovers during her years in the Circle tower had been allowed or invited to watch her when she took matters into her own hands. It might be the potion, it might be her own mind, helpfully freed of shame in this moment, but either way, her hips twitch more often toward the mouth so eagerly pressed to her. Her noises come more frequently, moans and gasps, while the young woman cannot take her eyes away from the other man.
His eyes do not move from her or her lover, either. The urge to squirm under his intense scrutiny is there, the desire to tell Solas to stop is there, but both are dulled. Elle is so occupied with watching Abelas watch her, that she misses her body’s queues. She is tightening around Solas’ fingers, her moans are coming louder now, and suddenly Elle is falling apart, the cry ripped from her taking her by surprise as surely as the way her orgasm slams into her awareness. It has her magic swelling until she is fearful it will break free of her control. This time, her nails bit into her lover’s scalp and she can’t help it.
Her body is caught in the tense and release, wave after wave of feeling for longer than she’d been prepared for. It’s not as if the way Solas mouths at her, his fingers sliding in and out of a now over sensitive passage help matters any. It has her curling around him, mewling as her feet slip off the desk, legs pressing against his shoulders. When Solas relents, when her body frees her from the intensity of it all, Elle sags back against the wall, a whisper of magic leaving her finger tips to heal whatever damage or pain her nails may have caused. Where Elle looks wrecked, satiated and ready to nap, Solas looks energetic between her wide spread thighs. Energetic and quite pleased with himself. Elle forgets about Abelas watching them as Solas rises from betwixt her legs, and she sits up, intent on giving her partner a kiss. His lips taste of her, the salt, sharp tang of her slick on his lips has her leaning into the kiss further. Her magic swells again, this time however, she lets it out, lets warmth flow from her over the body of the man she loves so often and so well. A delighted smile forms on her lips when he shudders, sighing into their kiss.
A gentle hand urges her to lean back once more, the other grasping a leg by the knee, bringing it to wrap around his waist. Her other soon joins it, and the rise of his erection still encased in leathers presses against her soaked folds. It’s a strange sensation, the rigidity and texture juxtaposed as he rocks, blue eyes intent on her face. It’s all she can do to look back at him, her lips falling open as she silently sucks in a breath before whimpering.
Abelas had not been convinced Solas’ intentions or plan when the Wolf came back to the Temple once more. It had been just scant months since the Well’s use by the quickling Inquisitor, the bitterness of it still settling in his breast. So, for Solas to come to them, with a plan to rebuild their lost, diminished, devolved people, Abelas did not trust him. He had scoffed when the man named Trevelyan as the bearer. Abelas knew no quickling could bear them what was needed, not even one so swathed in Elvhen magic. As a man who was entering his middle years, who had walked this path before – he could not see it working. He couldn’t see it working from any angle.
Humans have never loved as elves did, did not live as his people did. They are prone to excess, greed, and had the attention spans of a fish. Their – whatever it is that makes them human, it overrides what makes the Elvhen elves. There would be no point to this effort if all they did was give the human more to bolster their numbers with.
Yet, hearing the girl’s ardor communicated through sighs and moans had him reconsidering. He can feel the way her magic ebbs and flows with her arousal had him interested. Not so long ago, the girl – woman – had magic that while potent enough to deal with demons, and just enough to wield a spirit blade, but it wasn’t enough to survive the magic that had burrowed into her hand. In the years between, something had changed about her, the magic in her tasted like that of so many of his brethren has him interested. That he must woo her is not an issue, though he is far out of practice and far too old for such things – his issue was that he might court her and his suit may be overlooked. Pride is not at stake here, but companionship is. Sharing her is an uncomfortable prospect, but in the end, does it matter? If he gains a friend, and children, will sharing her affection, her body, really be so terrible a price?
He’d paced in the front room of the Dread Wolf’s home, impatient for the man to calm his mate down. Fear is expected. To let someone, someone who had looked down on you, use your body in such a fashion – he is not at all surprised Giselle-Sophia had laid down rules to keep her feeling of agency, to keep her sanity intact. Then her scent perfumed the room, something none of them had expected, what with the woman in a room off to the side, connected by a doorway at the back of the room. When it hit him, it had taken considerable will to not physically react. Years of discipline saved him from embarrassment – but only just. The younger of his brothers were not so lucky, with flushed ears and armor no doubt becoming altogether too tight.
And when Solas had appeared, reeking of the Inquisitor’s desire? Abelas had been hard pressed to focus. Yet, he had the presence of mind to agree, pointedly asking how it was they are expected to woo, or seduce, a woman if they didn’t have the time needed. The Wolf’s answer was not ideal, but nothing in their situation is. With too few females that share their longevity surviving into the current age – things are already tense. The remnants did not welcome them- and the Sentinels had tried.
The transient ‘clan’ of elves they’d encountered had been openly hostile when they’d learned the truth of the Sentinels. It hadn’t been an edited version of their tail, a mistake. The Dalish did not want any who claimed to know the real will of ‘their’ goddess Mythal to come into their lives. Worried about a challenge to their version of history. He shakes his head, refocusing on the scene before him.
While the others left to claim their own spaces, to plan and plot on how best to bring the gaze of the Inquisitor on them; Abelas had been drawn back to the doorway. The woman’s scent is intoxicating, it calls to him. He is envious of Fen’Harel, able to be on his knees and feast upon her desire so enthusiastically. The Sentinel Commander studies the way her golden skin warmed with color the more her arousal heightens. How her modesty gives way in the face of her lover’s intentions, how her hands slid over her body aimlessly, as if her touch would never be as good as Solas’. Abelas watches as she is deliciously tortured, applauding Solas for learning his woman’s body so well to keep her very safely on the pleasurable side of such treatment. Her head tossing, white locks shifting with the motions as her breath comes faster, cherry lips chewed on, bitten, licked as she tries to wordlessly coerce the man between her thighs to give her more than he is willing.
And when her strange liquid silver eyes catch his? Abelas does not waver, doesn’t move. Her cheeks, nose, and neck all blaze red under his gaze. Her body responds to him as surely as it is to Solas. Her hips roll more insistently, voice becoming more unrestrained – the young mage singing under his gaze and the Wolf’s touch. The moment her orgasm hits, she is taken by surprise, that much is clear to him in the way her eyes widen to near comical proportions, how tense she becomes as Solas pushes her higher. It’s beautiful. Abelas is envious of Solas. He is also hopeful Trevelyan might allow him to have the same pleasure someday soon.
For now, he contents himself watching their coupling, knowing his presence is known. The Dread Wolf is aware of him, aware and uncaring of his presence, too focused on his woman – as he should be. He did not lay wards or make any sound to warn the other male away. Can’t, else his words of them all putting aside jealousy for Giselle and the fruits – the goal – of their plan would be lies.
The bald elf allows the hooded presence to intrude minutely on an intimate moment. He is allowed, by the lover, to watch as lips crash together and breath is stolen from the human’s lungs. To see how sweetly, how quickly, her body becomes ready and wanting again. There is little interest in the man, more in how the man treats her – and that is reverently. Those hands that have been covered in blood, that have seen thousands of battles and should be rough – they touch her soft, supple skin, and they are gentle.
Solas never draws a single sound of pain from his wife. Even when he unceremoniously seats himself in her heat, Elle isn’t pained. Her body stretches and accommodates him as if she were made specifically to lay with men of their ilk. She so easily accepts the length when it is slowly pressed into her, whining when it retreats. Absently, the Commander wonders how well he would fit into her. How well her body would accommodate him. He aches to be one of the ones chosen to grace her bed.
The slight man stays; watching until her back arches and a stifled sob signal her second fall. After, when she calms, he leaves, uninterested in seeing the Wolf seed her. The Sentinel Commander retreats into house, looking for a room to claim as his for a time.
Abelas lets his younger men attempt to woo the young Inquisitor first. He speaks to her only to greet her, bowing in respect whenever they meet. He doesn’t encroach on her time spent with Solas again, and does not seek to put himself in the woman’s path more often than what happens by providence. This game of seduction was not to be played to her standards, no matter how much Solas has urged them to make things fit into her life experiences. Abelas respects the woman, but knows just from that single encounter some two years’ prior, that she respected the Elvhen way. It is confusing to her to be so bombarded by the affections of men who need only her body.
He can see it. Her smiles aren’t as free, and she becomes more guarded as the younger men trip over themselves to catch her eye. The snow haired woman gravitates toward the presence of old people. She entertains letters from her former companions, all delivered in such a circumvent manner she often did not receive the missives for weeks at a time. The only one of them she spoke to her with any frequency, and did not fit her established habit is the Altus. He speaks with her at length with use of a crystal she keeps. A trinket that Giselle-Sophia seemingly never lets out of her sight – a smart woman. It makes Abelas pleased to know that for all Elle has declared Solas’ home and people her own, she doesn’t trust anyone but Solas to touch her things and not have them come up missing.
It is a good security measure for such a woman to have.
Prowling around the woman’s dreams, he watches as she plays with joy, a wisp of a young spirit flitting along her alabaster tresses, tickling at her cheeks. She frolics with it, playing as one would with a child, with the spirit. She is laid bare in dreams like these. The essence of herself is viewable for any who held the power to walk the Fade – a fact she must know, mated to the man she is.
Yet, she allows the unknown presence to skirt her dreams. That trust speaks to Abelas in ways he had not anticipated. She trusted here more than the waking world. He has no doubt that Giselle-Sophia is aware of his presence, no matter the fact she doesn’t know who he is, just that he is there. She lets him watch her, watch over her, and never calls out to him. Never beckoning or inviting his presence closer. It is fascinating. He sees why the Wolf coveted her so – a rare spirit indeed. One that learns and accepts during a time of intolerance.
He is once again prowling outside her dream scape – as he has for some weeks now. Tonight, she lays on the bank of some unknown lake. It is one that Abelas doesn’t recognize, it is not a memory, it doesn’t have that taste to it. He is forced to surmise that this lake is one she’s created for herself. This tract of the Fade is completely hers in this moment. Interesting.
As he has in the weeks prior, Abelas watches over her, walking the perimeter of her dream, listening as she hums songs to joy. The passage of time is not marked in her dream, the sun does not move from its perfect position, affording the pair shade and comfort. It is a peaceful dream. But Elle is a beacon, and her dreams attract Interest – quite literally.
The spirit has taken the form of an elven youth, and goes to her not long after Abelas arrives. The spirit brushes against him, humming soft welcome with mischievous delight before stepping across the barrier of his dream and hers. It lays beside her, speaks with her, its attention every so often flitting back to Abelas who paces just outside the dreamer’s awareness.
“Have any of them caught your eye?” The clarity with which their conversation reaches his ears amuses Abelas. Interest must be facilitating this. Spirits – so eager to see things play out.
“You mean beside my darling, Pride?” Those quicksilver eyes glint in the light as Interest laughs. Its form shivers with delight at her response, head tilting at the human dreamer.
“Of course, Pride has asked to share your affections, has he not?”
“He has,” she answers at length, and Abelas wonders at what she must think of the request. “Though, it was not out of some greedy desire to take more women into our bed.”
“The Wolf is too enamored for that. Ever has he been loyal to a single woman when love takes his heart. No, I know what Pride desires of you. All of us do.” That perks the Commander’s interest. Spirits are well known for watching the goings on of the waking realm, but – for all the spirits to be paying attention?
“Wha – “Elle sits up on her elbows as Abelas watches on, still skirting her domain as he paces. “I will admit, it distressed me, the idea of taking more than my husband, my lover, into my bed.” Her hands fidget with her robes, eyes on the horizon. “I had thought, now that I’m here in Solas’ arms, that he’d be more interested in his machinations to bring back the world that was lost.”
“He is not often deterred, that one.” The spirit sits up as well, curling so its arms rest upon drawn up knees, cheek laid over them. “He still wishes, and works, to bring the old world back. He treads more carefully – mindfully – with you in his grasp. With the idea of children on his mind, the Wolf’s intentions change, forming a new in his mind as he seeks to improve rather than raze.”
“It can’t be so simple.” Those words are whispered with such hope, and Abelas can’t hold it against her. Fen’Harel wanted to bring back a world that had been so rich in magic, to do so now would plunge the world into chaos and fire, much as it had when the Veil had been erected. All the Sentinels had been brought to speed on the plan, they are serving as his Generals on the matter. The Humans would rebel, would fight to their last breath not to die. That plan would bring much pain to the shores of their world.
Already the Qunari were against them. The Dwarves, their halls echo with memory of a time before the blight, thought their minds might not. The durgenlen would survive the Veil’s fall.
“It is. Surely, you’ve seen it?” The spirit’s head lifts, incredulity in its multilayered voice. “His presence within the fortress has renewed, attentions focusing more surely upon you than upon his agents. Can you see the man burning the world when his children stand to burn with it?” The head shakes, “No. This is the better path. We all see it. The elders of us, those who remember the days where we and the living mingled…”
Abelas feels his eyes narrow at Interest. The spirit spoke too surely to be young. There was too much investment in the idea of Solas being a father…
“It was a wonderful existence, the world as mutable and permanent as all needed it to be. The memories are lush. However, the younger of our number,” Interest tilts its head, looking no doubt, for words to use that Giselle and likely himself as well, would better understand. “It is not only your world that would burn again, Lady. Our youngest, they would not survive the reintegration. They would twist, the trauma too much for them to hold their nature as the barrier came down. Already as the veil weakens with each passing year, we lose some of the youngest.”
That has Giselle-Sophia sitting up properly, her eyes narrowing at the spirit. “So you ask if any of the Sentinels have caught my eye – as a way to ascertain whether your people will die?” There is no malice in her tone or words, but there is a sharpness to them. Elle, it would seem, does not enjoy being used or manipulated. Joy presses itself against the woman’s stomach to attempt to sooth her. In response, her hand settles on it, making an unconscious petting motion. The gesture is extremely maternal, so much so that Abelas is unable to take his eyes from her.
“Partially. One way or another, Pride will have his way. I – well, we would prefer it to be a way that does not cause to much pain and death again, to our people or yours. You are our hope, my Lady. We do not pressure, we watch over you – much as your silent suitor does.” Its head nods in Abelas’ direction, making the elvhen man stiffen. Spirits could be so sneaky at times, even if they are the embodiment of their named emotional state. Perhaps it had been boredom or repulsion in the past and changed its stripes.
Whatever the case may be, the spirit has now put Giselle on Abelas’ scent. That pristine, colorless hair shifts, her attention changing and the borders of the dream shifting with it. Abelas dances back and away from it, farther into his own dream that lies against hers, which is also pushed back as hers consumes more ground.
Tinkling laughter fills the Inquisitor’s glen, and he know it is Interest. Yes, it must have been twisted at some point and come back to its original purpose to act in this way. He cannot find it in him to dislike the spirit however. It is, after all, only attempting to help.
“I suppose he may watch a while longer,” Elle’s words are shy, and have Abelas’ attention snapping to her once more. She is watching just to the left of where he stands, likely having trained her eyes on where she thought she felt her presence. “He hasn’t attempted to cause me harm, and keeps away the spirits who twist my dreams with their natures. If he isn’t comfortable speaking with me yet, I will wait. As I understand it, courting takes much longer for his people than it does for mine.”
“And yet, Pride fell under your sway quickly. One might even go as far as to say – in an instant.” Interest leans forward, supporting its head upon its palms. It’s quite probing in its questions. Abelas wonders at the spirit’s goals.
“He. Well. I wasn’t quite so sedate in making my desires known. Not only that, I had no idea he called the time before Andraste home.” Those eyes leave where he hides, and her cheeks suffuse with a gentle pink hue. It makes the woman’s freckles stand out, the haphazard dusting along her cheeks and nose, so very like her wolf’s and yet far more alluring. He wonders where else she has freckles and blinks, appalled at such a thought. He is not even courting her yet and he finds himself distracted by his baser instincts. Interest laughs, thoroughly amused with Giselle’s confession, and settles back against the grass. Quiet settles over the dream, and Abelas relaxes in his own.
He returns the next evening. Again, the woman and spirit wisp flit around one another. Joy dances between the strands of white that fly as the elder spirit turns. She is, in a single word, breathtaking. That she so readily plays with spirits, speaks to them is highly uncommon among the shem’len. It makes her stand out among all those he had met in memory.
He had approached the wolf, questioning the Inquisitor’s willingness to traverse the Fade, thinking that Solas had taught her to do so. His surprise was visible, palpable, when he was told that Solas had simply unlocked the door for her. Apparently, Giselle-Sophia took to dreaming as she takes to most things – quickly and with fervor. The Sentinel had felt annoyance when those blue eyes crinkled, while a knowing smile settled on the other man’s face.
Tonight, Abelas sits upon his own grass, made by his own mind, to watch her. Lullabies spring like water from a fountain from Giselle’s lips, as she twists, turns, and wiggles in a silly dance. It is a dance meant for children and their mothers. Joy sings its own gentle replies, swirling around and around the woman who it has claimed as its own. A rare thing, for a spirit to so completely claim a Dreamer. Yet, he can see it. Joy has claimed Giselle-Sophia. Her life will be forever ‘plagued’ by small and random instances of intense happiness from now on, with that little spirit at the helm of it all.
“Abelas,” her honey sweet voice calls to him, caressing him softly from afar. It startles him, surprising the immortal, making him look at the boundaries of their dreams in confusion. She has not moved hers at all, but Joy is moving toward him. That little sneak, a childlike entity to be sure. It has told her he is there.
“On dhea'lam, Lanalin or’lanen. It would appear I have been found out.” Abelas shifts to stand, his long limbs cooperating without so much as a protest. As she has called to him, the Sentinel steps across the border, feeling his dreamscape collapse and evaporate behind him. To be in her presence with her attention on him is different. Year ago, she had been cordial to him, worried about the state of the temple, about what drove the Blighted magister to that place, and the deaths of his fellows – but she had been ultimately uninterested in him. At the time, he knew she had to find solutions, had to choose to tie herself or another to his Lady. Now, so tied, bound as he is, she looks at him. He never imagined the weight of her gaze to be as heavy as it is.
“What did you call me? I don’t recognize that phrase. And what, pray tell, do you mean by found out?” Her lips curl, and oh, if she had been a true spirit, with no body to house her, nothing to prevent her from moving with the flux of time and magic, he wonders what she would have embodied. Curiosity? Affection? Sincerity? Perhaps she might have been joy, much like her spirit child.
“I think I will be keeping that information to myself for now, my Lady. For now, take comfort in knowing it speaks only to your qualities.” He tilts his head to her as he speaks, a belated physical greeting. Straightening, he moves toward her, eyes sharp as he watches her body language. While he is at ease with her presence, Giselle-Sophia has not had long, or truly any time at all to become at ease with his, and Abelas readily acknowledges that. “I have been the one to surround your dreams with mine, my Lady.”
“Oh,” the word is breathed softly, quietly, those pretty, wide, quicksilver eyes trained on him with curiosity sparking in their depths. For a drawn-out moment, neither speaks, Joy hovers by their chosen – mentor, protector, playmate? Abelas cannot tell what Giselle is to the spirit, but the moment of silence passes before he can think more on it. Her cheeks flush gently, and her fingers tuck strands of her hair behind her ears nervously.
“I suppose, this means that you saw –“
“I did,” he readily interrupts her, seeing how uncomfortable she is. “It was a most curious conversation, my Lady.” Unbidden, a smile plays at the edges of his mouth. Usually such a thing is rare, as rare as the days he and his woke to defend the temple from would be defilers. There had not been many reasons to do so in the past. He only ever experienced – but that is not presently important. The woman standing in front of him, she is important. She’d called to him, and now he is here. Curiosity reigns. She’d said, just the night before, that he could hide a while longer, watch a while longer. Such a thing implies she’d meant to allow him to make the first move, the first connection as it were. And yet, here they are.
“Will you sit with me, Abelas?” Her request is quiet, her head ducked, eyes looking up at him from beneath her lashes. It is an alluring look, but still, he can see the hesitance in it, the shy way she speaks giving more away than even her eyes do. Elle likely doesn’t mean to look coy, she is, after all, quite short. It is far more likely because of that, than anything else.
“Ma nuvenin.” He gestures for her to lead them to a place she most desires to share his company. Almost immediately, the meadow is replaced with a sitting room. It is a simple thing, walls of whitewashed stone; heavy curtains pulled shut over the windows, a pair of overstuffed chairs with a small table between them sit at the center of the room. A fire place merrily crackles and pops opposite.
With a smile, Elle takes the chair at the left, and Abelas lowers himself into the remaining seat. Silence falls over them, for Abelas is not, and has never been, a man who is prone to idle chatter. Perhaps when he had been very young he could force it, but now, there are far more important things to do than fill the air with pointless words that have little relevance to the world around them.
The Herald is nervous. Abelas – he’d intrigued her at the Temple of Mythal. He is so steadfast in his belief, so protective of things precious to his people, how could she not be even a touch curious about him? However, they had been at the end of a long war when they met, and she hadn’t the time to make friends. To have that opportunity presented to her again, now, is something she can’t possibly pass up. Even if they do not suit one another, at least Giselle-Sophia might gain a friend from this enterprise.
Not that the other Sentinels were displeasing to her. They were – are – simply aggressive. Elle hadn’t been prepared for that, now after learning her lover was of the ancient days. She didn’t think the men would all but abandon their culture’s courting customs to adhere to human ones. It is a disturbing, and frankly, often off putting situation. And, again, it has brought Abelas into her view.
Of all the men, he stayed away from her. Apparently, not because he didn’t like her, he has always been polite, but he doesn’t pursue like the others did. It made her approach him, though she hadn’t thought it to be him who watched her dreams every night. She’d thought it might be the other sentinel who had yet to approach her. The youngest looking sentinel, with flaxen hair and eyes of green. He’s kept his distance from her, but watched too. Giselle has yet to even have an opportunity to ask about him, to learn his name.
And now, she has Abelas in her dream. They may converse without being interrupted and observed, but Elle has no idea what to do, where to spark a conversation. He is silent, and she has never been one to excel in the theater of small talk.
It doesn’t seem to be a detriment. Neither needs to fill the air with sound for the sake of it. Still, they do need to speak, if only to attempt to get to know one another well enough to have a true and earnest conversation at a later date.
Elle’s fingers twist at the ends of her hair, braided, just barely long enough again to do so, and sits back in her chair, wiggling to become more comfortable. As the silence stretches on, and her nerves settle, Elle takes the opportunity to observe Abelas. In two years, he has lost that sallow cast to his skin. He is rosy cheeked now, likely a side effect of living in the mountain peaks of Thedas. Still, it is good to see his skin with color, and a night healthy, even one. Sun touched, no freckles, those haunting golden eyes that captivate. His nose is too big for his face, but somehow it suits him. Abelas’ mouth is wide, the bottom lip full where the top is thin. Even with all those details, it is his hair that grabs her attention the most.
In just a handful of years, he’s grown it into a full mane, rather different to when she’d met him, covered in his hood, hair nowhere to be seen. It’s styled with the lower half of his mane shorn short, the lengthier part currently residing in a haphazard bun at the crown of his head. The bun that looks like something an apprentice might throw together while running for lessons, is the deepest red, Elle has ever seen. Rich, bordering more on the Auburn, brown side of the spectrum than red when she looks closely. It shines in the light, healthy and cared for.
In that moment, it occurs to Elle, that even relaxed as Abelas is now, the Sentinel Commander cuts an intimidating silhouette. When they’d first met that day, what feels like ages ago, she’d noted how tall he is. Now appearing before her in clothes suited for leisure rather than armor and leather meant for war, she learns he is truly built for battle. Arms and legs that she’d thought enhanced by armor, are in fact quite muscled, his middle lean, but lending itself to strength, chest and shoulders broad. Yes, Abelas is an impressive, but intimidating figure.
Elle isn’t sure how long they’ve been sitting together quietly in the sitting room within her dreams, but it’s not awful. It’s different, but it not at all an unsavory experience for her. The silence, his presence, little joy who bobs about the room – all of it is truly pleasant for her. She wakes with a smile on her face.
Abelas continues to visit her dreams. He does not appear as Solas does, hiding around a corner or waiting for her to sense him. No, he takes a different approach to the practice. He stands at the edge of her dream, waiting for an invitation to enter. Neither Solas nor Abelas’ approach to dream sharing is wrong, and neither upset Giselle at all. She quite likes the difference in them. She feels less and less as if she is choosing a replacement for Solas and simply another person to stand beside.
Each night, she and Abelas sit somewhere together. The night after the first, it is within the Temple of Mythal before it became overgrown and fell into disrepair. He guided her through memory, and took in the awe with which she viewed his world, before settling her within the modest chambers he’d been afforded by his station. That night isn’t silent. She asks him questions, about his beliefs, his service. Abelas finds it’s easy to answer her.
On the third, Elle shows Abelas the circle. Her lips are pulled tight into a frown, eyes distant as they walk halls that had been her home for most of her life. He questions the harrowing room and cells silently, the large bedrooms designed to hold three or more mages at a time once they left the apprentice halls. He looks through the books, preserved in the Fade by the strength of the people who’d lived and survived in this place. They speak of magic, but not of the people, not the Templars who stalk the halls, nor the sometimes-skittish mannerisms of the mages. Abelas knows it’s taken strength for the Herald to show him this. He doesn’t make it harder by making her explain the horrors of it.
He shows her his village. Town, really, the stone houses and hard packed dirt roads seem to fascinate Elle. She walks along the buildings he grew up amongst, watching the memories be replayed. She watches the school children play with a smile, and frowns when the Nobles come to collect their tithe. Tithes that often included magically inclined children and teenagers to be pledged into service of the Evanuris. She doesn’t ask him questions about that, focusing instead on his daily life there. It’s the first time, weeks into their dream sharing, that Abelas touches her, and it is only to take her hand in his.
Such is how the pair spend their nights, exploring one another’s memories within the Fade, asking for clarification when the need arises. They teach one another this way, slowly, carefully, the walls around themselves slowly eroding away the more they learn of one another.
A month has been and gone before Abelas takes it upon himself to present Giselle-Sophia with a courting gift. A month of their exploration, seldom shared words, and even more seldom touches. The gesture takes her by surprise, as none of the other men who’d made their attempts to court her had given her anything. Oh, they took lunch with her, went riding, went hunting, flirted endlessly but not one presented her anything. Not that Giselle had expected it after the first, and certainly not after the fifth, though she knew it to be an elven tradition. Her surprise now, shows clearly on her face.
The gift is small, but none the less important, both to her and Abelas. It is the traditional first gift of a courtship, an intricately woven bracelet made of leather. The leathers are dyed, and it is clear the colors were carefully chosen with her in mind. They go beautifully together, deep reds and bright silver and white. Elle marvels at the detail of the weaving, the care it must have required. Immediately, she presents her wrist to him, asking abelas to tie it properly so it wouldn’t be lost. He does so, letting a small lick of magic bind it properly to her person.
That night, as she lays in Solas’ bed with him, wrapped around each other as is custom, Solas eyes her newly decorated wrist and smirks, nuzzling into her hair affectionately.
The next month passes them by quickly in their eccentric but easy courtship. The Herald learns Abelas is quite skilled in hand to hand combat. It wasn’t something the young woman had doubted, but she’s never had the occasion to see any sentinel really fight. They had been all but running through the Temple when last there was an occasion, attempting – succeeding – in beating Corypheus to the Well of Sorrows. Now she watches him as he demonstrates the proper way to disarm a man three times her weight and Elle can see how Abelas came to be the leader of his men. He shows infinite patience with her, never hesitating to praise when she executes a movement correctly, and equally unrestricted in his criticism when she fails.
This is not the only thing the human woman learns about her quiet elven suitor. Abelas has a soft spot for music and poetry, surprisingly enough. In his youth, he’d told her, he’d indulged in writing as a hobby, singing just to learn a new song. So, in response to such a private story, Elle sings for him in the Fade, where no one could interrupt her, or if they so decided, make fun of what she considers to be a very reedy singing voice. That night is the first night Abelas baldly shows her his desire of her, placing a lingering kiss upon her hand before they wake.
Two weeks pass after that night she sings for Abelas, when he asks her to accompany him for a walk after supper. Supper which they had taken privately. Curious, Elle agrees. She misses the curious looks of the Sentinels they pass in the halls, her arm tucked into the crook of his arm. She misses Solas watching them leaving the court yard for the garden from the window of his private office, smiling down at them, pleased she is finally taking an interest in someone. Had he had to choose – Abelas would certainly have been on his list of people he’d entrust her to without fear.
In the garden, Abelas guides Elle to a place he’s claimed as his own. It’s secluded, butting up against the wall of the fortress on the south side of the keep, a small pond surrounded by flowering willow trees. One could not find these trees in Thedas proper any longer, but he’d heard whispers from agents there were signs of them on the island known as Llomerryn. Amber eyes watch, quite greedily, as Elle takes in his little corner of the garden, his spot, the place he came to meditate or simply be without being interrupted. She sits herself down by his pond, letting his arm go in the process, beaming up at him, hand brushing against the grass as she looks back at him.
“It’s beautiful, Abelas.”
“Saornehn.” The word – name – is whispered softly, his cheeks heating up as he folds himself down onto the ground. This was to be her gift, the true gift. His hands clasp together and wait. The elven warrior isn’t disappointed either, he barely has to wait a heartbeat.
“Pardon?” Those guileless pools of silver fix on him and Abelas wonders if the Herald realizes she’s leaned forward toward him.
“It was my name, before the end of the empire, before we closed the temple and went into uthenera.” He looks at her steadily, unwilling to think of that day, when he first woke from sleep to know his world was gone, his people – well. “I give it to you now, for when we are alone. I must confess, I do not enjoy hearing you call me sorry any longer.” He measures is words, carefully pacing them out. Abelas may as well be holding his breath. To give her this was – well, it’s not conventional by any means. The lover’s knot, that had been a traditional courting gift, her song, but his name. Lovers or intended lovers, they didn’t give names, the need wasn’t there. But that was a different time, and now he takes different measures to ensure Elle’s heart will turn to him.
“Abelas,” the look he receives from the young mage makes his heart flip, sends his stomach fluttering. “Will you teach me to pronounce it properly, please?”
“Ma Nuvenin.” In the end, Abelas neglects to give Giselle the second half and more tangible of her gift that night.
Solas is curled around his lover, nuzzling against her neck as she wakes from slumber. She still, after nearly a year from the start of this endeavor, largely smells of only his scent. Her hair, her skin, her clothing, it all carries his scent, wrapped around and mingling with hers. The only trace of Abelas on the woman is her bracelet. It surprises him. After the Commander had watched them that day, months ago now, the Wolf had thought his courtship of Giselle-Sophia would be a swift one. He’d assumed that his Vhenan would respond positively to such courtship, given the memory of their own. It had been scant months from the first time her interest was made known, to the first kisses shared in the fade, and only weeks after that before he’d claimed her as his during their stay with the Inquisition. Yet, with his Sentinels, she shied away. The more they pushed, the more they adapted to human convention to attempt to woo the woman, the more she pulled away from them.
Abelas has been the only soldier whose company she’s entertained for more than a fortnight, the only person who could get her to beam with joy upon walking into a room. It should bother him, that Abelas so clearly affects her. Affects her as much as his presence does. Yet, Solas finds himself accepting of it instead, he even feels pleased. He has no personal interest in Abelas, no physical attraction to the man, but to see his bondmate happy – that makes his heart beat easier. It makes him feel settled in a world where everything feels just the slightest bit off still.
“Wake, emma falon’saota. We need to leave our bed,” his whisper draws those gray eyes that he so adores, open. Not wide, nor fully cognizant, but awake, blinking slowly. That smile, her pretty lips tipping just so, that she favors him with is lazy, slow and warm, one only he sees. The kiss that follows is sweet, loving. It only serves to reinforce his comfort, eroding his resolve to get up and go about his work. Giselle-Sophia is his mate. Nothing could, or would, sunder them. Perhaps she would take Abelas as well, but only time will tell what bond they form together.
“Solas,” her voice is soft in his ear as she nips at the lobe, ‘stay in bed with me.” He could have written it off as an innocent request, even with the attention to his ear – had she not proceeded in dragging her lips up the shell and along the sensitive tip of said ear. It dashes any hope she’d had to appear sweet and innocent that morning.
He curls himself around her more fully, taking in the changes within her. They are always subtle when Elle comes into her fertile days. The unobservant would completely miss them, the changes are so small. However, Solas knows her, a year in her bed, two years by her side, he knows her. Her desire for red meat increasing, the increased craving for contact, the way her inhibitions drop bit by bit. These things happen over the course of a week, before the week she spends in a near constant state of desire. At first, this had always inevitably snuck up on Solas. He’d been ambushed by her time and time again in their early months together by her desires. Now that is his intent to bring children to the world, now that he has bonded to her, he pays closer attention to the signs, noticing more each cycle. Her complexion is radiant, her scent has a darker tone to it, one that draws him in, invites him to touch, to take what is his, what is freely offered.
And he would, happily, as he has nearly every month since her return to him, and any day she expresses such a desire in truth, but, not today. He won’t take her today, nor tomorrow. Not one single day this fertile cycle will end in him buried inside her. He hadn’t the last cycle either, much to the Herald’s utter frustration. He likely wouldn’t lay with her the next month either. Solas knows his little lover isn’t ready yet.
Oh, she is far healthier than she’d been during the Inquisition’s days of power, but not enough for him to let his seed seek a home in her, to grow in her. Not yet. There are preparations, considerations. He needs to consult his friends, just a few more times yet, and there is the courtship she is engaged in currently to, respect.
A wicked smile curls his lips as his mouth finds her throat, gentle sucking kisses laid upon her that draw blood to the surface of her skin temporarily. He lets his fingers find and pluck at one nipple, then the other, stimulating them to delicious peaks that beg for his mouth and attention. It’s something he won’t deny her, if only to see her writhe under him. He refuses to touch her past the swell of her hips, his hands groping at her buttocks, drawing her flush against his front as his lips make a trail to those nipples that strain for him. He closes his lips around one, suckling gently, hands shifting, thumbs pressing into the divots of her hips, building the hope he will touch her where she is wanting him most. He trades from breast to breast, only to stop entirely when she is breathless, when she is most hopeful that he will take her before they rise to wash and attend their duties.
Solas feels Abelas should know how beautiful their Inquisitor is when she is wanting. This is a gift to the younger elf.
“Saornehn, on dhea.” Her voice washes over him in a gentle wave, making Abelas look up from his coffee. It is a luxury drink, one that he’d not become accustomed to until he’d joined up with Solas, one he’s had need of the last few mornings. The Inquisitor’s dreams of late, have become quite intense. The Commander has been away from women with blood that runs as hot as hers does for a very long time. It took him by surprise in almost a strangle hold, though Giselle didn’t actively call for him, he could be nothing but allow himself to be drawn in like a moth to the beacon of her dreams. And what dreams she has.
“On dhea, da’lan’ehn.” The greeting is rough, partially from sleep still plaguing him, and partially because of the response she evokes in him. She’s started to forsake her customary travelling clothes, trading them for garments no doubt made specifically for Elle. The garments are reminiscent of that which would have adorned the women of Arlathan, but distinctly human. The garments aren’t half as delicate as what a noblewoman of the old world would wear, but they still lend a certain softness to the woman who he knows is an accomplished battle mage. Her leather breeches and vests, the fine tunics had given her more of a hardened edge.
She sits beside him, all sweet smiles that make his ears warm. The scent of her, not as muddled for once with Solas’ crashes into him. Giselle-Sophia favors wearing lavender oil, but underneath that, he can detect her unique scent. She is always warm, her eyes, smiles, her soul. It makes sense to him, with her being a fire mage; one would assume because of that, her natural perfume would be spicy, to evoke the idea of heat. It couldn’t be farther from the truth.
Elle is sweet, but not saccharine, like a light cake, the lavender adding a calming element, and because of the choices made in the fabrics used to create her clothing, the barest hint of linen hovers around her. Today, however, the whitehaired woman smells like sugar just shy of becoming burnt, with hints of cinnamon and sharp, musky desire. The Sentinel doesn’t stop himself from taking a deep breath, eyes closing a moment as he savors it. She is – better than any dessert he has ever had a craving for. It is torture that he must hold himself away from her. This is not the first cycle either. Still, in the still of the morning, he leans forward into her space a touch.
“Did you have good dreams?” The question is intoned darker than he’d wished it to be. Still he knows the answer already. Abelas has seen the images her mind conjured within the Fade. They will be seared into his memory for all of time. What he wants, is to hear her honey sweet voice tell him, yes, she had, making some attempt at passing those dreams off as innocent. He wants to see if she can – if she will – be coy, or if she will be bold.
“My dreams were very pleasant, thank you.” Her answer is simple, but not over as her eyes slide from his, teeth digging into her lip a moment before she focuses in on him again. Her eyes are warmer than usual darker than usual. “Though, I must admit, they lacked a quality that only your presence seems to have added to them over the last weeks.” She speaks the last lowly, as if it is a secret for him and him alone, she even leans in to the space that is quickly dwindling between them. Reaching across him, she plucks a sweet roll from the basket.
Her eyes, the desire in them, stab at Abelas. With such intensity that his formerly slow blooming arousal flares suddenly in response. It comes in the form of a sharp jolt of desire, warmth that leaves him hard and uncomfortable, the linen of his pants too tight. He has to break eye contact with the bold little human, an attempt to stifle and hide the fact from her while drinking his rapidly cooling coffee. She had decided to be bold. It makes his lips curl – she had not been exceedingly overt, nor offensive, for him, it is just enough to make his interest pique.
They speak quietly as Sophie breaks the night’s fast. It is such a simple act, something so mundane, that it should not, but does, keep Abelas in a state of arousal the entire time. With them seated the way they are now, he can feel the warmth radiate from her, scent her without having to try. The vanilla sweet scent of the sweet roll clings to her, he’d like nothing more than to chase the taste of it.
Such a thought is enough in and of itself to make him want to leave, to find a place to meditate and cleanse himself of the licentious thoughts. But, just her presence and scent are not all that torture him. Would that she takes mercy on him, he may do the same for her later. Alas, instead the elven man is tortured continually, treated, to the single most erotic display of eating a sweet roll he has seen in his long memory. No one need lick their fingers as often as she does. Nor does she need to make those needy, pleased, sounds over something as simple as food. In all his years walking this planet, he has not envied a food stuff more than he does in this moment.
“Have you plans today, Saornehn?” The need to douse himself in cool water rears its head as Elle purrs his name. As he cannot, he instead tamps down his reactions, his desire with all the will he can muster, his hands gripping tight around his cup. Abelas closes his golden eyes for a moment to take a breath and center himself. He purposely tilts his head, making it seem as if he is thinking. Really, he is talking himself down. He is only three gifts into their courtship. Scant months into something that should take years – though adjusting to Giselle’s short life time…
“I do not, da’lan’ehn. Did you wish to spend time in my company?” The stoic man’s voice never wavers, but it has a new quality to it that Elle hasn’t had the pleasure of hearing until today. It sends a shiver of delight up the young mage’s spine. She’s been feeling increasingly out of control for days. Her skin is too sensitive, her clothing alone sending her to distraction. Elle is ravenous, she wants, she aches. Each night she walks with Abelas, receiving kisses on her hand, on her wrist, and later curls around Solas to sleep. Solas who does not sate her wants, but stokes them, leaving her desiring more. She desires something that will leave her sweating and satiated, not a mere romp.
Of her men, and they are both hers, Elle expected Solas to be the one readily showing his interest. He should be the one to make her curse and yell for him as she falls apart. Yet he hasn’t, isn’t, and just teases her, driving her mad with arousal and unleashing her onto the world, onto Abelas.
A flash of heat rolls through Giselle as she wonders if Abelas would do the same to her. Would he be cruel, if she offered herself, or would he happily take the offer, happily pleasure her, lose himself in her? Would he lay her out on a bed, or secret her out into the gardens and fuck her against the wall, or perhaps behind one of the flowering trees in the grass and dirt?
“Giselle?” His voice calling her attention breaks her from her daydreams. She doesn’t startle but her cheeks warm. She laughs softly to cover her lack of attention, fingers brushing over her cheeks to hide the flush coloring them.
“Apologies, is brae, I lost myself a moment. I would like to spend the day with you. I have been wondering if you might help me with combat techniques. As I am a human mage practicing a bastardized form of your Dirth’ena Enasalin, I thought perhaps I might learn the old ways, to keep them alive a while longer. I could, in time, help to teach a new generation if all goes to Solas’ plans.” Her words are soft and shy, hitting Abelas with a force that surprises him.
The Wolf had been right, there are no women in Thedas quite like Giselle-Sophia. The Commander is sure that the alternative women, the ones who’d led history only to give the reins of it to Giselle, are capable, strong. But they are not Giselle-Sophia. They are not his Sophie. She respects him, his people, their history and teachings, the truth far more than any they might impart the knowledge to. She wants to learn just to keep the information alive, to see the good traditions continued into the distant future.
“I would be honored, da’lan’ehn. Come, we will start now, if it pleases you.” His cup is placed at the center of the table, empty. It is left knowing the small but eager staff of the fortress will see to it. That notion still catches Abelas off guard, to have servants around that serve him is a foreign, less foreign now of course, concept. At least he knows these servants are paid, and not bound to one of the capricious members of the Pantheon. His Mistress, Mythal, had treated him, and those of his ilk with a kindness most of her fellow did not.
Golden eyes shift to Sophie, half lost in thought, and the warrior nearly chokes as he sees her sucking icing from her fingers once more. She will be the death of him before the month is over. Before the week is over if there is any mercy in this world.
“My lady?” His voice rasps, and Elle internally celebrates. This had worked on Solas in the past. He’d said eating breakfast with her and the Inner Circle had become an exercise in restraint by the time they reached and settled within the walls of Skyhold. Elle had wondered if Abelas would react positively to the same display. She’s pleased to know she won’t be the only one fighting against base instincts and desires today. Not that she can tell for certain, Abelas has yet to move or stretch enough for her to see concrete proof he has been effected. So, she hopes instead, waiting for a moment to confirm or disprove her supposition.
“I apologize, Saornehn. I’ve been out of sorts all morning, but yes, let’s start now. Perhaps it will return the focus I am so clearly lacking.” Elle is in fact, entirely unrepentant. There is nothing wrong with being distracted after all, within these walls she is safe. With Abelas – she is safe.
Her auburn-locked elf nods, her eyes on him as he stands, offering her his hand. Elle happily places hers in his, leaving her seat while placing an unused napkin to the side of her plate. Her eyes trek over the tall male slowly, giving him a thorough once over, more than pleased to see the linen pants that he favors outside of his armor do little to hide his interest. The inferno mage is eager to see just how far she can push her quiet suitor today. If Solas is unwilling to pay her attention, the attention she craves, surely Abelas will, given the right encouragement. After all, isn’t sex and babies the entire point of all this?
“Your potion, my lady.” He holds in his left hand the slim vial that contains her prescribe regimen. IT looks dwarfed in his grasp and has been offered like an afterthought, as if he had forgotten. It was likely left to him to remind her to take the fortification brew by Solas himself. Her sneaky wolf.
These brews taste awful, a metallic tang that lingers. However, she can’t deny the good they’ve done her. Her hair is longer, stronger, and she feels better, more energetic. She feels over all healthier. She no longer tires half as easily anymore, and it’s for that reason alone Giselle accepts the vial from Abelas, not taking her hand from his. The cork is caught between and pulled with her teeth before being offered to him with a smirk. The potion itself disappears in two gulps.
“There, is brae, done. Let’s go and see to this training now, hm?” Her smile is her usual, but for some reason it’s got the man in front of her swallowing, straightening his posture as if showing off, though his nod is once again curt. He sweeps from the room, releasing her hand with the slightest squeeze. That he can manage such a thing, sweeping from a room, is rather impressive; as nothing he wears supports such a motion. Even so, Elle follows eagerly behind him.
She enjoys watching her Sentinel. He radiates power and grace effortlessly, much like Solas does. It’s harder not to look at him than it is to simply watch and enjoy the way his muscles bunch and release under his clothing. All too soon they are in the training yard beside the barracks of the fortress. Gray eyes take in how Abelas easily sheds his affection, expressive side of himself, the side he only seemingly shows to her, in favor of the stoic, hard face shown to his men and enemies. His arms cross over the expanse of his chest, stance opening as Elle sets herself across from him.
“Start with your warm up forms, Giselle-Sophia. We will continue from there.”
Those words signal the start of a very long morning for the Inferno come Knight-Enchanter. He puts her through her paces, every kata, every sweeping motion of her blade that she’s ever been taught. Her Commander would be, pleased, that she has retained her lessons this well. Abelas, however, is far more critical than the Commander ever was. He inspects the hilt she’d made, fingers running along it, magic pulsing and pushing at it gently.
He both insults and praises the way it’s designed, the balance of it, and all manner of other things about it when he’s done his inspection. If she weren’t used to the way the Elvhen spoke of this age’s magic, Elle would be offended. As she has been around Solas for years now – the critical nature of the comments rolls off her shoulders.
Abelas doesn’t leave it at the practice routines, even for the first day they’re working together. No, He places the hilt in her hands, walking behind her, placing his hands over hers, and guides her magic with his to show her exactly what isn’t quite right with the hilt. His magic prickles along her skin, leaving her shivering in his arms. It’s different than the easy wash of Solas’ magic over her skin. She finds it isn’t unpleasant. Different, but not unpleasant.
It’s all in all an easy lesson, that is until he places his mouth beside her ear to speak as he notices an error. Such a simple action has Elle’s concentration wavering within moments. And when Abelas fails to notice he is what’s causing her lack of focus, it only gets worse.
It is well past the noon hour when Elle is ready to call the quits to this training session. Her clothes are nearly soaked through with perspiration, her skin slick with it, her core is pulsing with desire born of the Sentinel Commander’s presence and her exertions. She needs a bath to calm her body, or she might very well combust spontaneously. Her Sentinel, he is a torturer in his own right, just as surely as Solas is. He is patient, he makes her work harder, having corrected each stance and every form that she doesn’t have perfect.
At first, Elle had taken it as an invitation to make mistakes; to get him to touch her. To give him an excuse. Not to mention, it had been the perfect opportunity to wiggle her hips against his and feel the length of him before he shifted away from her abruptly. She knew it was a tactic to hide his arousal, but honestly, there is no missing it. At first, it had been fun. Now, however, she is making mistakes because all she wants to do is crawl up the tall elvhen warrior’s body and let him have at her. That, or kneel on the ground with her pants and smalls gone to beg him that way.
It truly wouldn’t be so bad if she’d not dreamt of him the night prior. She’d dreamed of him, of Solas, of all of them together. Just a tangle of limbs and sensation. It’s worse than when she’d been in the Circle. There she had the option to find a willing tryst. Though, she never had, not after Alhannon. She could here as well, but to what end?
The men she wants aren’t touching her. She’s been waiting for Solas to ravish her, and he only teases. Abelas keeps her at arm’s length, still courting her slowly even as she tries to tempt him. Her fingers push through damp strands of white, removing the hair from her face while eyeing her suitor come trainer. He isn’t even breathing hard! Though, he hasn’t done enough to be sweating like she is. He has only been telling her what to do, showing her on occasion, before stepping back to watch her practice the correction. Damn the man.
Plucking at her clothing, the Knight-Enchanter straightens out of her stance, peering at Abelas. Her eyes make a slow trek over him, lingering, a touch awed, at his present arousal. She hopes he hasn’t been continually arouse the entirety of the training session. If he has – poor man, he must be in pain.
“Might we break for water or even midday meal? Oh, and a bath. I am in desperate need of a soak.” Her words are breathy, partially because of the effort she’s put into this, and partially because she’s aroused. Her suitor blinks twice, slowly, yellow gold eyes confused before realization dawns. They’d been at this quite a while. He must be realizing that now, that or he’s now understanding how little stamina Giselle-Sophia has in comparison to his troops.
“Ma nuvenin, Giselle-Sophia.” Is it just her imagination, or has Abelas’ voice become a touch ragged? “Freshen- soak – as you see fit. I will venture to the kitchens and make a small meal for us if that is your desire.”
“That would be lovely, Saornehn.” She chews on her lip, considering the offer. In the end, Elle isn’t entirely comfortable with Abelas taking on anything remotely like a servant’s roll. “You should rest, however, we can go to the kitchen together. You needn’t fetch it for us.” Her lips curve into a gentle smile, one that is specifically for Abelas, one he’s only seen in his presence. This is his smile. Her smile for the Wolf is different. He gladly lays claim to this expression as his own. The tall man shifts, taking his attention away from her mouth, those plush pink lips with a perfect cupid’s bow. He isn’t entirely comfortable, yet dips his head in acknowledgement of her suggestion.
“As you like. I will take the time to refresh myself in the communal baths. Shall I escort you to your quarters?” The statement takes her off kilter, he can see it in her face.
Elle forces herself to not let her nose wrinkle. Abelas was going to go to the baths, while she is going to go to her rooms. He hasn’t seen the invitation she’s made apparently. Elle is sure she’d been clear. Her bottom lip is caught between her teeth, and the alabaster-haired woman regards her beau from under her lashes.
“I would like that, yes. But, you needn’t trek all the way to the baths you know. You’re more than welcome to use mine.” Elle pitches her voice lower this time, hoping that perhaps this will give Abelas enough of a hint as to what she wants. Honestly, she’d not thought it would be this difficult to get the man into bed with her.
The russet haired elf can see why Fen’Harel didn’t court this woman properly. She is temptation incarnate like this. Walking this morning had been of no difficulty for him, even fully engorged as he was. He assumed his arousal would wane, allowing that to be the end of it for the day at least. How wrong he’s been. Pressed against her, letting his magic mingle with hers, taking in the scent of her begging to pay attention to her – his arousal barely flagged the entirety of their training lesson. It is only the years upon years of training his will that keeps him from dragging the generously curved human woman into a dark corner with the intent to ravish her.
And now the woman would be offer up her bath, the one in her private quarters, for his use. Presumably after she’s used it. He closes his yellow-gold eyes, taking a deep breath into his lungs, holding it for a beat before releasing it. As much as Abelas would enjoy going into Giselle-Sophia’s sanctuary, especially with the possibility of being gifted the sight of her nude – Abelas is aware he would be too rough with her at present. The woman didn’t need such treatment foisted upon her during their first encounter.
Making up his mind, the Sentinel moves toward her, valiantly attempting to ignore the way the linen fabric of his pants and cotton of his small clothes rub at his erection. His head shakes, a small smile forming on his lips as Abelas looks for the more polite and sincere way to refuse the offer. Giselle perks up at his approach, a smile mirroring his writing itself upon her lips. He’s got her anchored to spot, so much she doesn’t back away as he comes within an arm’s reach of her. His hand reaches out to cup her cheek gently and she looks quite anticipatory. His poor girl, she’s going to be so disappointed with his answer.
“Da’lan’ehn, the day I walk into your rooms – it will not be for a bath.” The timber of his words is low, dark and promising. Elle unconsciously leans forward, one of her hands settling against his chest. This is good. Very good even. If Abelas won’t come to her quarters to bathe, then-. Her thoughts cut off as his head dips to hear ear, and his words promptly cause her brain to short circuit.
“When I come to your rooms, it will be as a mate, Giselle-Sophia. It will be to spend my days buried inside you with aim to get you with child, little one. Do not doubt that I will highly enjoy the process, either. I won’t leave until it’s certain I’ve bred you. So, you see, Giselle, I won’t be going to your rooms today. I refuse to be near your bed, with you naked in a tub only feet away. Not until I know I’ve you over, until I know I’ve been given a piece of your heart, and that will be when I ask for you to lay back and submit for me. I’ll ask when I know that you will do so gladly.”
Abelas takes encouragement in the way her silver eyes dilate, a thing ring of gray visible. Further encouragement is found in how her scent increases in pungency the more he speaks. He’ll enjoy making good on these promises to her, but for now, as he watches her tongue dart from between her lips to wet them, he’ll take just a single thing from her. One thing to tide him over until the day he’s sure of her.
Giselle-Sophia holds her breath as Abelas leans down toward her. She hadn’t pegged him to be a talker. He’s so quiet, but then, it is always the quiet ones who will shock you. Hasn’t she learned that already through Solas? The speech had her smalls wet through, however, and for once she doesn’t mind the thought of being bred.
She hadn’t honestly minded when Solas suggested it, but somewhere between the fifth date and thirtieth it had lost its appeal. As a fantasy it still holds potency, but not without her men by her side. The way Abelas spoke just then, it rekindles the interest in her. It excited her, and adds to her frustration that their courtship hasn’t already come to its natural end, where a relationship foundation has been built and continues to grow.
With Abelas so close now, it would be nothing to lift onto her toes, and press her lips to his. Elle, does it without thinking, lashes fluttering while they hesitate, watching one another, almost unsure of how to proceed. It is their first kiss after all. They hesitate long enough that the snow-haired Inquisitor becomes uncertain.
She moves away from Abelas, sure now that this isn’t going to work, for all their heated looks and subtle flirtations, neither is responding properly. Elle shifts to take a step away from him, and Abelas snaps into action, his hand moving away from her cheek to cup at the back of her neck, pulling her back into his orbit. His free hand presses into the curve of her waist, and this time, Abelas doesn’t hesitate. He kisses her properly. It starts with a gentle, featherlight brush of lips, then a gentle consistent pressure that waxes and wanes until Elle is wrapping her arms around those broad shoulders.
Things evolve rather organically from that point, faces shifting to find the best way to fit together, lips parting as they kiss, tentatively exploring one another. That tentative exploration doesn’t last long, it morphs into familiarity quickly enough. So much so, that it isn’t long at all before Giselle-Sophia is pressed tight against Abelas’ chest, still on the tips of her toes, happily learning exactly what her Sentinel tastes like.
His fingers have curled into her hair; the hand resting on her waist sliding up to rest against her ribs as one kiss becomes many so they are afforded opportunities to breath. The auburn-haired man nibbles at her bottom lip, and she catches his tongue between them in retaliation, sucking at it once before releasing him. The groan the act pulls from him is more than enough encouragement for Elle to continue. It’s enough encouragement that the young woman hops up a touch, rightfully assuming he will do the rest.
She stifles a laugh in their next kiss when Abelas lifts her as she’d hoped he would, catching her securely around her waist, guiding her legs to curl around above his hips. The rumble he lets out when her ankles lock at the small of her back has her shivering. This kiss is ravenous, her hands finding things
to occupy them. One tracing along his ear, the other buried in those nearly red locks.
This is getting steadily more and more out of hand. He’d meant to take a kiss. But, surrounded by her scent, overwhelmed with the taste of her on his tongue, Abelas is fast losing his resolve. She’s warm, pliant and wrapped so eagerly around him. She’s more than yielding in their kisses, too. He steals her breath just as they pull apart, foreheads pressing together. Her silver eyes sparkle like she’s won something precious.
“Are you still not coming to my chambers, Saornehn?”
The low rumbling sound coming from Abelas’ chest has Elle smiling brightly, squirming excitedly in his hold. Elle believes she’s won, that she’s worn him down. That by the time he lays her upon her bed, he’ll have his way with her. Abelas supposes that his woman isn’t entirely wrong. He’ll go to her chambers, he’ll lay her on her bed, but, she’ll not know what it is to feel him within her body today. He’ll court her properly if it kills him. He’ll seduce her properly, prepare her for what’s to come.
In the end, the specifics of how Elle comes to be pressed against the wood of her bedroom door, with Abelas’ mouth on her neck, are indecipherable amid the wash of desire and pleasure that accompanies the journey. She can’t remember when they moved first, and she doesn’t care to in this moment. What she does care about is the way he nibbles and bites at the sensitive skin of her throat, how his hands have moved from her waist to splay along her hips and thighs.
He’s holding her too high for her to feel his arousal, and it annoys her to no end. Her hips shift restlessly in his hold, yet she’s given no quarter. The grip he has on her is iron, and when the mage presses too close to him, his teeth dig into the meat of her shoulder, where the curve of her neck meets it, in warning.
He is hanging by a thread, and Sophia is pushing for more than he wants to – feels prepared and that it’s proper- to give her. There’s no holding it against her, to be very honest, were the tables reversed, he would be groveling at her feet for more than a kiss or cuddle. More than a dream that’s watched from the shadows. However, as it stands, the Sentinel is determined to be the one who leads this encounter. He must be or he’ll be in her bed far sooner than planned. If any of the men had the ability to hear his thoughts, they’d be absolutely appalled, likely think him addled, but, there is a rhyme and reason to this plan of his.
Pulling away from the door, he lifts his head from where he’s placed a line of bruises on her golden skin. The door opens, with them sliding into the room and it shuts again behind them. Her bed is easy to find from that point. It lays in the middle of the room, and Abelas moves straight for it, laying her in the middle. Helpful little thing that Elle is, his mageling kicks off her boots, though, he catches her hands up in one of his with a dark chuckle as he shifts forward into the space of her legs, leaning down over her.
“No, Giselle-Sophia. Let me do as I will, just enjoy yourself. Surely you aren’t so needy yet?” He speaks as he leans into her personal space, nuzzling at the left and unmarked side of her neck, pleased beyond measure as her head tilts. He’s further rewarded with a soft and eager sound leaving her parted lips.
“Ah –“ she arches when he nips at the skin below her ear, “Saornehn!” Her tone is gentle yet reprimanding, her legs lifting to curl around his hips, flexing and tightening them around him so she can lift herself to press against his cock. The action has him bucking against her, growling before she continues to speak. “This is the point, isn’t it? I’m supposed to choose my men, I choose you. Now, you’re supposed to bed me.” The little human sounds so sure, and so confused as to why she’s still got clothes on, why Abelas isn’t already hilted in her channel.
“No,” the elder man corrects her gently, voice rough as chaste kisses intersperse his words. “I am meant to breed you, meant to know the signs of when your womb will accept my seed and create a child.” He inhales deeply, pulling his head away from her, his eyes pining her in place as surely as his hands are.
The Herald is a beautiful sight, this petite human woman, her face flushed, golden skin warming to bronze, her eyes barely more than the faintest hint of silver already. He can make out the outline of her nipples through the garment she’d chosen to wear this morning through training. He thinks of leaning down, capturing one and then the other in his mouth. He thinks of playing and teasing at them until she goes mad with her desire. He can’t, however, not at this moment. There are things about their arrangement, relationship, to make clear.
“Do you know the best method to getting a woman with child, Elle?” He speaks conversationally, gently moving her farther onto the bed, crawling up between her knees, barely overextending himself in the process. It’s an inching process with her hands in one of his, but still. It works.
He watches her, with molten gold eyes when he’s settled them where he wants them. There’s no struggle in her, and it prompts him to sit back on his knees. That prompts her to tighten her legs around his waist once again, bringing the heat of the apex of her thighs into contact with an erection that very soon needs to be dealt with. Not only that, the move has her back arching in a most pleasing manner, making him twitch within the confines of his breeches. Abelas has to close his eyes for a moment upon seeing her like that, upon feeling her pressed up against his length. She’s so warm he feels like she might burn him.
A deep breath is pulled into his lungs, let out slowly, and another. He has to in order to calm down. And the Commander must calm his own passions. Later, later he will take himself in hand. For now, he’s to see to hers.
“You have sex with her. Sometimes repeatedly.” Elle is frustrated, it shows in the sharpness of her tone, the way her vocabulary changes. A shift to the more common vernacular within the common tongue. She isn’t so frustrated as to use vulgarity, but enough to be frank. It makes Abelas laugh, his eyes not guarded for once, shining down at his captured lover.
“Yes, and no, Da’asha,” he shifts, rolling himself in a tight circle into the cradle of her legs. Torture, for both himself and her, but well worth it to hear such a needy sound coming from Giselle-Sophia’s throat. “I have done this before, not that I think the Wolf has made you aware of such.” His hips roll again, and he continues to speak as if he were talking about the weather. “Random couplings of people who aren’t fond of one another, who don’t know one another – it’s rare if they bear fruit, but if they do, it is the work of months and years. Her body wants pleasure, not seed. His body wants the release, not the connection.”
The three hand that had been supporting him, keeping him from leaning too much of his weight on Elle’s wrists, moves. He places it in the space between her hips, right on her lower stomach, brushing at the band of her smalls through her dress. “Now, a woman who is mated, loved and cared for. A woman who wants a child, she will crave it, accepting her mate’s spending eagerly. Likely as you do your Wolf’s seed.”
Again, he shifts, a quick roll of his hips against hers, not waiting for her to answer a question he hadn’t asked. He doesn’t care about the answer to it. His fingers flirt with the idea of pulling her garment free of her legs. In the end, he does, pulling it up, up, up, until her torso and legs save her breasts are bared. “For me to be of use to you, da’asha, I need to court you, you see? I have to win my place in your heart, must wait for you to think of me as yours.”
Those fingers, calloused, gentle, trace along her side, down over the waist band of her smalls. Elle sucks in a sharp breath. Her eyes wide as they stay locked on Abelas’s face. “I need to wait until your body grasps eagerly, until I see and feel how reluctant you are to let me leave your embrace.” Her hips lift when his fingers tuck into her smalls, sliding into her curls, past them, teasing at her lips. It isn’t the most comfortable configuration for the pair of them, but Giselle is past caring.
She feels like she’s on fire, caught and kept in a position that isn’t at all comfortable, affording her only fleeting pleasure if she rocks against his hand. The words, they make her mouth go dry. It seems like an old wives’ tale. Fun to imagine, useless in reality. If only women with spouses, or lovers whom they loved could produce children, the world would be a far less populated place. Perhaps this is the way of the old Elves. Old traditions, rumors, practices from the Elvhen culture that Abelas can’t or won’t leave behind. Whatever the reason, Giselle can’t say that the combination of his voice, the words, and his fingers aren’t arousing. It makes this all the more frustrating.
“I am fond of you, Saornehn.” Her protest is little more than a whine, and he laughs throatily as his fingers curl, brushing across her pearl. She’s wet enough he doesn’t need to dip into her to slick his fingers. It delights him as he begins to draw slow circles on the bit of skin and nerves.
“I’m sure you are fond of me, little one.” He leans down, stealing a quick kiss before retreating just as quickly. “I am sure you will accept my cock eagerly, but your body won’t be receptive, not like it should be.” His hand moves carefully, the position causing strain, enough that soon he will have to remove her smalls or succumb to a cramp. He makes these moments count, watches as her eyes darken from silver to a more tarnished color. He listens, to the noises she makes, to the way her body responds to such a simple touch.
“I would have you need me, Giselle-Sophia. I would have you crave me, I would see our coupling result in children within a single cycle, so everyone can see the claim I have on you. But, right now, you are like water, too slick with your desire.” His hands leaves her abruptly, the one locked around her wrist and the one that had been in her smalls. They disappear only to grasp either side of her smalls, tugging them off her. She releases him, eager to help him, laughing when he moves her legs against his chest, whipping the panties from her legs before his hands return to their previous places.
It’s different, this time around, as he leans over her, her legs caught over his shoulders. His fingers slide unerringly into her channel, making her back arch, hands straining against the hold he has on them. Little waves of pleasure wash over her as he moves. He’s confident, he knows what he’s doing, the smooth and steady thrust retreat just enough to drive her higher. “Yes, ma’mithan lath. You are slick, your cunt is accepting of my fingers, but it’s not enough, not right, not yet.”
Elle finds herself panting as he leans over her, caging her further as his fingers continue their leisurely pace. There is something in his expression, something in the way he looks at her, now that he’s hovering near her face again, that has her moaning. But as it happens, the reaction doesn’t displease Abelas. IT makes him smile, a wicked thing, sharp, and coupled with the heat in his eyes, promising. “You have to be thicker, like sap at the first thaw. Your body must want it, Elle, you have to want it. Have to want me so much it drives you past distraction.” His thumb shifts, sliding across her clit, and Elle almost howls, biting her lip and whimpering instead.
Her auburn hued lover smiles, looking as if he will devour her, leaning in to steal a kiss. He steals more than one, nibbling along her jaw, tongue flicking at an earlobe before his teeth dig in gently. Her legs tremble, her passage squeezes around his fingers. He has her near bent in half, and if he keeps it up she will be in pain, but for now, she likes the feeling of being at his mercy. It’s different, makes her wonder what else Abelas is hiding behind that calm veneer of his. He pauses in his nibbling and kissing, breath flowing over her ear as he speaks. “I know I can make it happen for us, emma da’len, so why do you rush me so?”
He uses the opportunity of her distraction to slide his fingers along the upper wall of her channel, searching, pressing gently until she yells, her chest pressing against her thighs. Her cheeks flush so prettily, she’s approaching a precipice, he can see it. His fingers continue, but slow, gliding in and out of her with unerring aim. “Are you not sharing your bed with, Fen’harel, da’asha? What has you so needy you press for what I had not yet planned to give?” He keeps her locked beneath him, not able to move to quicken his pace. He can’t help the way his lips curl as her hands tug against his hold in a useless attempt for freedom.
“He won’t,” the words are breathed out, bitterness coloring the lust in her voice. “He hasn’t laid with me in some months now.” A soft cry leaves her lips, eyes fluttering shut as Abelas presses more firmly against the spot inside her that makes sparks and heat flash through her body.
It makes sense now, why Elle has gone from being happily courted in the old traditions – to desperate for him to throw those same traditions to the wind. The Wolf is waiting for what he’s waiting for – to see her more filled out, to have her be healthier, have her so twisted up she’ll let him, them, take her for days when her fertile time hits. Or perhaps Fen’harel enjoys the way his little bondmate demands what she wants from her lovers. It is a gentle demand as far as such things go, Abelas can fathom the appeal of it. Or, perhaps, the Wolf simply enjoys seeing Giselle-Sophia frustrated.
But, seeing the way she reacts to the touches she desires and demands, were Abelas in Solas’ position, he wouldn’t deny her. Her muscles are tightening the longer he plays with her, his fingers and palm soaked with the evidence of her lust. She’s so close, her breath coming in sips, heart pounding against her ribs, eyes lidded to slits. That won’t do. Abelas withdraws his touch even as she growls lowly in threat and annoyance.
“So, he leaves you unfulfilled, yet covered in his scent?” Abelas knows it’s likely only because she’s hit this part of her cycle that he can scent her so easily. While Solas’ scent does hang around her, shrouding her, broken only by his gift sitting around her wrist, Abelas can still smell the tang of her under that burnt sugar that indicates her readiness for sex. Readiness for attempts at pregnancy.
“Perhaps I should help you, and send you to his bed smelling of sex and me.” The words are purely for show. After all, Solas is the one who proposed this arrangement, had facilitated it. It’s highly unlikely and counterproductive such a thing would antagonize the pantheon member. It also wasn’t Abelas’ goal to piss the other man off. If anything, the closer Abelas comes to Elle, the more he realizes he must become friends at least, with Fen’harel to make this work in any lasting capacity.
“Sathan,” the elvhen word flowing off her tongue makes him refocus on Giselle-Sophia. “Sathan, Saornehn. Help me – I ache, I need to cum.” Elle knows she’s lost her footing, that Abelas is the one who will decide what happens from here. She wouldn’t, care as much if she’d had a satisfactory release in recent weeks. If he hadn’t taken her to the edge of orgasm, keeping her hanging on that ledge cruelly – she might have been able to take back the ground lost to him.
It is a bit of a marvel to Giselle that her Commander can form coherent sentences still. He’s been aroused for hours now, how is he not mad with it? How much restraint does he have in reserve still?
She asks so nicely, so politely that it makes the elvhen man decide that helping her a bit, just a bit, will not completely derail his plans anymore than his fingers had been moments ago, buried inside her as they had been. He can see it in her eyes, Giselle doesn’t believe his assertions. That’s fine. Abelas knows the truth of it, however, and will not be steered from it.
He begins to rock his hips against hers once more, his shoulders shrugging so her legs fall to his sides before he leans over her. He moves insistently this time, shoving the dress up and off of her. Her breast band blocks him from her chest, but it is the work of moments and eager hands to have her bared to him. He leans in, tongue flicking at the hollow of her throat before he begins to kiss over her collarbones, making his way steadily south. He pauses on a spot that has Elle shivering, paying it attention as her legs clamp against his sides, hips trying in vain to get him to move faster. Abelas smiles against her skin, shifting so he can cup her right breast while his mouth lavishes the other with attention. He doesn’t go straight for the kill.
The tall elf has learned that isn’t always the best course of action. It depends upon the partner, but with Elle keyed up as she is, it will not take her long to fall over the edge of orgasm. Drawing it out a little is for his benefit, illustrated as his thumb and forefinger of his left hand roll her right nipple between them. He tugs gently at it before returning to the previous movement, all the while covering her breast and sternum with kisses and gentle nips until he finds a peaked nipple.
They are so lovely, dusky in color, tall and so responsive. As he smooths his tongue over the ridged flesh, Elle lets out a low whine, her hands that are free now, digging into his hair. She holds him to her, not that Abelas had plans to move, lips closing around the peak, mouth applying gentle suction that makes her gasp and moan.
Abelas enjoys her reactions, enjoys the taste of her skin, the tang of salt from earlier pleasant. He laps at the nipple, worries it between his teeth gently, before returning to suckling at it. He establishes a pattern, much like he has with his fingers on the other breast. While his hips are grinding against hers giving her as much stimulation as he can. He keeps it up until she is moving without stopping, pressing herself to meet him, her fingers gently tugging his hair. It’s then he leaves her nipples be, looking up at her with a grin on his lips. “You’re so very polite, da’lan’ehn. I am always pleased to have and please polite lovers.”
It is a little piece of himself that Abelas shares with Giselle, one that will likely not be brought up again for months, while learning hands on what she might withhold from him during normal circumstances. He watches how she arches, lip caught between her teeth, lips already a deeper pink from their kissing and rapidly becoming red. He feels her thighs flex around his hips, her legs locked behind his arse, pulling him in while she strains to press harder against him. Those quicksilver eyes had fluttered shut while he was playing, but now open to slits. She is chasing release, and he takes pity on her, though, this is exactly why he wouldn’t be having sex with her right now.
His mind wanders a touch as he replaces his hands and lips on her body, switching sides, caressing her gently to build her back up. She is too focused on the climax rather than the connection, the point of the coupling. His lips curve, just a touch amused at the grateful murmur of words as her hands find their way into his hair again. Hair that has come undone thanks to her attentions, falling around him a bit like a curtain as he works her over.
Soon, however, Abelas has to stop rolling and grinding his hips against hers. He isn’t immune to the delicious pressure that resulted from the movements. He isn’t here to satisfy his own needs, however close to the surface they are presently. So, he can’t continue in that fashion. With that in mind, he makes space between them, shifting to give his dominant hand the ability to slide down between her legs. The air that swirls around them is saturated with her scent, and chills him, the linen of his pants has been soaked by her, but it helps him beat back the need for his own release. Not much, but every little bit at this moment counts.
His fingers slide into her, two for a few moments before a third eases into her. Though she’s wet, so wet, he wouldn’t chance harming her. He reestablishes the rhythm his hips had kept, sucking harshly at the captured nipple, the other hand increasing the pressure with which he touches her.
Elle’s mind is going three million different ways. At least it feels that way. She’s surprised that Abelas seemingly doesn’t care a whit she’s nude and covered in sweat that’d dried. She’s sweating again, the exertion, the need in her making her temperature rise. Though, she reasons, if he kept up as he is, she’d soon be dirtier than when they started this little escapade. And when he flicks at the peak of her breast before sucking at it harshly, Elle is sure her spirit is going to part from her body. This is all a result of Solas letting her be.
When they’d come together that first night in this fortress, she’d half screamed the place down around them before she was seated properly in her. It’s a fact, a gem of a memory, that Solas holds close to his heart and lets swell his pride. To that point – Solas and Abelas are like night and day in terms of the way they make love.
Solas takes a wandering route, made her need rise at a glacial pace, soft touches that increase in pressure over time until she is sobbing under him. Abelas is sudden pressure, steady forward, controlled, keeping her exactly where he wants her. This mouth detaches from her, his breath cools her wet flesh and she squirms, whining plaintively. It’s as if he has no intention to do more than this. She worries he intends to bring her to climax this way, without properly fucking her.
Giselle bucks her hips against his hand, riding his fingers as she tugs at his hair. It’s not a violent motion, but firm. It’s telling him to move back up, that she needs his mouth on hers. She needs something, anything, other than this torturous ride of his that keeps her at his mercy. Perhaps they could play this game another day, any day but today.
“What is it you’re after, Giselle-Sophia?” She’s always hated her name, loathed it really, it’s too long, too pompous, a mark of a nobility she’s never had claim to. In Abelas’ mouth, however, it sounds like a sin. In his mouth, she loves it.
“More, I want more. To- ah, to touch you.” Her hips and fingers flex against him, and he laughs, the air making her skin turn to gooseflesh. His teeth drag across her nipple seconds later, before it is grasped with his teeth and pulled gently. He rumbles low in his chest as she cries out, releasing her nipple with a satisfied look. The warrior straightens, and it helps him drive his fingers into her deeper now he’s got more range of motion. Her back arches as her hands leave his hair to drag down his body.
“You’re doing so beautifully like this, da’asha. You’re clinging to my fingers, I can feel your thighs tightening against my sides. It won’t be long before you shatter for me. What more do you need?” Impulsively, Abelas rolls his hips against the back of his hand, making fire rip through her as his fingers curl up against the roof of her channel. Never has Giselle been toyed with in such a manner. Solas kisses, touches, slides his fingers into her and plays until she cries, until she’s come apart so many times she can’t form his name with her lips. This – this is not part of his repertoire.
“I – I don’t,” she gasps it, twisting her face to the side, half against the bed, flexing her hips in a slow back and forth movement with those fingers. Skin. It comes to her suddenly, as lips, teeth, and tongue descend on her again. Her nipples ache with the amount of attention he’s given them, she feels hollow and needy from his ministrations. His skin. She wants to feel his skin on hers, needs to feel him properly, wants him buried inside her, damn the need to have a child. She didn’t want his mocker of a far more intimate and satisfying act.
“Skin,” the word is almost sobbed, “Saornehn, I want your skin on mine, sathan.” Dimly she remembers his praise for being polite. It thrills her, strangely, to know her plea will please him.
Abelas pauses, considering her request. Should he give her this? Would it only come back to bite him when she overrides his resolve to not fuck her today? Does he truly care when he has tasted her, scented desire on her skin and heard her cries?
“Ma nuvenin, ma’isalathe.” He would give her this, let her have him now, far before he ought to, because she was honest, because she’d told him her desire, because she was polite in her asking. Direct approaches are something Abelas appreciates, and readily rewards others for as it is appropriate. His hands and mouth disappear from her body, backing up so she can sit up with him. Elle seizes the opportunity for what it is, bolting upright as her legs fall from around his hips. She tugs at the laces of his pants, while he pulls his shirt over his head.
When she’s got them undone, when his shirt is off, Elle looks up at him, those big silver eyes taking in his face, shoulders, arms chest. It’s quiet, as she does this, the room still, despite the energy of the scene. His snow drop of a human leans up, a hand lifting to tangle in his hair, dragging him to meet her in a kiss.
She isn’t learning what makes him happy this time, and comes for him with fire. The ancient warrior welcomes it with a smirk, meeting her, following her, letting the kiss drag on far longer than they should let it. A kiss that consumes them both, even as he draws away from her. Her lips are red, eyes glazed but coherent, pupils large. There is desire all over her face, soft fondness behind it, but not enough. Still, his hands settle on her naked waist.
The chill of the air hasn’t cooled Elle’s ardor a bit. Her hands slide greedily over his abdomen and chest, over his shoulders and arms. She is learning him, watches when she slides her fingers over his nipples to see if he reacts at all. It is a sensation Abelas can take or leave in truth, and he smiles sheepishly down at her.
It takes a moment, a few precious moments before Elle starts to murmur in common and elvhen, leaning up so it is spoken directly against his lips. She is earnest in her want, so much so he finds his will to deny her, while only barely there, eroding all together as her tongue darts against his lips. The sun kissed woman who held the power of a god in her body, plasters herself against him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling as close as she can manage. It’s Abelas that guides them back to the bed. It’s his mouth that seeks hers, his tongue that plunders her mouth and making her moan wantonly. Yet, he lets her lead him to her collarbone, biting at his gently, leaving marks only to kiss and lick at her when she yelps in disapproval.
As all things with Elle, it seems; this is getting out of hand again. He wants her, he’ll have her, but he still needs to rein this in somehow. Else he’ll lose himself in her within seconds. The whisper of his name in his ear distracts him. That cunning slip of a woman manages to roll them over, getting astride him in that moment of distraction. The grin on those reddened lips, with the flush on her cheeks and her quicksilver eyes brighter than ever is beautiful. It is equal parts wicked and pleased with herself and he has to laugh.
It is a sound that dies in his throat when her hips roll down against him. He surges to meet her instinctively, hands clamping on her hips. He is bare, the pants loosened from her earlier ministrations enough they’d slipped down as they moved. She is slick and hot and right there on top of him. Her open-mouthed cry of delight pulls at the threads of his control. She moves again and he responds and again she gives a cry. This time it pulls at his control and snaps it. He guides her to establish a rhythm between them, more awkward than they’d like because of his breeches caught around his thighs, but it’s still there. While the position is one Abelas hadn’t intended, it works so well for his spitfire mage. He is bestowed with sharp cries of encouragement and praise as his cock slides between her lips, rubs along her clit. It’s hard to ignore them, much like the rising of his own pleasure.
His plans are unravelling, reforming with every twitch of her fingers on his chest, every soft request for more, each moan and sight that comes with praise for a well-place, well-timed thrust against her. A hot ball of tension begins to form at the base of his abdomen, and it curls ever tighter as Elle’s cries become louder. Abelas sits up, supporting himself with one hand while the other arm bands tight around his little lover’s waist, pressing kisses to her skin, sucking marks onto her here and there, anywhere he can reach. It makes her pull him closer, grinding her hips against his all the harder.
Too soon, far too soon, the world upends itself for Giselle, as Abelas disengages from her again, tossing her flat on her back and hovering over her with wild eyes. She can feel the barest hint of frost magic, a touch of healing as well, watching him with wide eyes as his squeeze shut in mild discomfort and then relief, that well-sculpted chest heaving.
Her breath is coming in gasps, and she is not at all happy he stopped when he did. “Sao-“
“Peace, Giselle-Sophia.” He cuts her off with a ragged smile. “I am not done with you yet.” Even with the frost magic he’d pulled to keep his climax at bay, the healing to fix any discomfort all this edging has caused him, he is still too close to the edge. His breaths are faster than normal, but he betrays no other signs of how affected he is.
“You’ve done so well for me to this point. I don’t want it to be over just yet.” He sounds wrecked, as destroyed and pulled thin as Elle feels. She aches, burns with her need. It claws at her, and he would play. In an instant, she takes matter into her own hands as he declares they aren’t yet done. If that’s true, he won’t be needing his pants. Thin, sure fingers, shove at his breeches, intending to get them down far enough Abelas must take them off, or deal with being able to barely move. Her legs shift, held apart by his body, and the movement draws his eyes. Draws them to where her thighs glisten, her soaked curls. His molten gaze is intent, dark when it reaches her face again. She barely has to push his breeches to midthigh when larger hands take over for her. He disappears just for a moment, and is back again, settling between her legs.
This – he can’t get the reins on this. It’s been far too long, and Abelas, quite frankly, enjoys Giselle-Sophia too much. Looking at her, seeing the evidence of how far he has taken her, how flushed her upper body is, though it is fading now, telling him how close she had been – his mind shuts down. The usually stoic and controlled sentinel allows hormones to reign and his hands slide against her legs. His plans, his resolve, are dust in the wind. This little human who saved Thedas from a mad man, who still holds magic that should have killed her, leans up, kissing him soundly, her hand on the side of his face. It’s almost timid for a kiss between them now. She’s pushed for this, wants this.
Abelas finds himself pressing his small woman back against the bed and her pillows. He urges the kiss to become deeper, steers them into less innocent waters, hands shifting her legs, manipulating them around him so he can throw both over one of his arms. Taking himself in hand, he rubs at her slick lips. The effort is rewarded with a little hand grabbing at his thigh, a low groan sounding between their mouths.
Feeling she is perhaps well past ready, Abelas proceeds to seat himself. He moves in a single long stroke that has her pulling away from him, gasping with wild eyes, the hand on his face slapping against his shoulder, nails digging in. He stills, hips pressed tight to hers, watching her, breathing heavily, waiting. He is not the smallest of men, but she is a rather small woman, for all that her body swallowed his prick whole. The Sentinel Commander waits until she relaxes, until her eyes come back to this moment, to him. There are questions in that quicksilver gaze.
“I thought,” he adores the raspy, low quality that has been added to her voice by this. “I thought that you weren’t going to take me until I was ready to carry.”
“You pushed, da’asha.” He growls at her, tilting his hips back and away from her slowly. He is reluctant to leave her searing heat, the welcome grasping softness of her. He only withdraws slightly before pressing back in. “You pushed, pleaded, and praised so prettily. How can I deny you this? You aren’t ready yet, that is true. You want the pleasure of the act, just that, tell me that isn’t true.” He pulls her legs tight against his chest, lifting her angle at touch as he speaks, sliding into her carefully.
“Saornehn,” Elle sighs his name as he slides into her, her back arching, eyes fluttering. He keeps pressing in at just the right angle to make her see stars. “I just, I just want you.”
“But not a child.” It’s a statement as he rolls into her, pulling farther out each time. “You don’t want me to take you again, and again, do you? To spend in you until it runs from you, coats your thighs and stains your blankets, until there is no chance you won’t get with child?” His voice is rough, eyes intense, and that’s getting to her almost as much as the weight and drag of his cock inside her is. He is deliciously heavy, stretching her pleasantly, sliding deep without much effort on his part. Solas is certainly not lacking, the two are simply differently shaped, and their ways of coupling are mountain ranges apart.
His words make her twitch, cunt clenching around him. Why when he says it, staring at her like that, does she want nothing more than that? She missed children. The apprentices had always brought a smile to her face, and her son… She shakes the thoughts from her mind, concentrating on this, on Abelas. He surges into her, and she gives a low groan.
“I – I. Fuck. Sathan! Sathan emma eth’alin. Emma isalathe, gara emma I esha’lin o da’lin.” Her pronunciation is a disaster, borderline butchered, as her mind scrambles to form the language of Abelas’ people. Her mouth wraps around the old language perfectly when her mind is focused on it. It makes his ego swell to know he has pushed her so far, and the plea still hits Abelas in the stomach. It won’t happen today, not this cycle, she hasn’t fully accepted the idea yet, doesn’t likely want it outside of this moment, but it will happen. She will want him, will want his child in her belly. Even so, knowing that, Abelas snaps his hips against hers. He snarls his ascent, basking in the shriek he draws out of her, the way her body moves, the blush that starts at her neck, traveling down her chest and up to her cheeks.
“On emma da’lan.” He moves her legs, leaning back, a single moment of pause before he is moving again, her legs around his waist as he leans down, catching and ear with his lips, tongue flicking against the shell. “You are perfect, ma da’asha. You are perfect for this.” Lips press against her neck, her collarbones, thrusts not letting up in speed. “Ma emath em gaelathe. Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din..”
Elle’s hands scrabble at Abelas’ arms. He’s got her pinned after a fashion, his legs spread wide, so she is tilted at an angle with her legs wrapped around him. She can’t pull him close enough without sacrificing rather vital movements. Her half common, half elvhen cries are music to the Sentinel Commander’s ears. He shifts, just enough he can cover her body with his. He lets himself get lost in her, in her cries, in the hug of her body around his cock. A hand slips between them, finding her clit, making her shriek for him.
Solas, having seen a few of the maid scurrying away from his mate’s room with red faces, ventures down the hallway. He is quite intrigued. Abelas was rather meticulous in his approach to such things. Yet, Elle’s voice fills the hall, shrieks achingly familiar to his ears. The answering low rumble of his troop Commander, the praise, the whines of jumbled common and elvhen make him laugh quietly. It would seem his firestorm has swept yet another into her embrace.
Shaking his head, the most infamous man in elven history turns back toward his study. It would seem, his gift was quite well received. From the sound of it, his little wife is in capable, safe hands.
Da'lan'ehn - pretty little girl/woman, note that I cobbled that shit together by myself and it barely translates out properly but the message is there.
Falon'Saota - Spouse, husband, wife - marriage friend ( lit )
Sathan, Sathan emma eth’alin. Emma isalathe, gara emma I esha’lin or da’lin - Please, Please my Sentinel. I desire you, give me a little girl/little boy.
On emma da'lan - Good my little one
Ma emath em gaelathe - You surround me perfectly
Jupalan ma sule tel mar sule’din. - I will fuck you until you have no endurance left
Ir da’fani, ma da’asha. Ma sildeara on’ala - So small, my little woman. you feel wonderful
da'avise - little fire
El’asha emen a bre isala nunven'in - Our woman has deep desires
Bal'naras or lanen - shadow of the people
Chapter 2: Alas'nir or tan Falon'saota ( Enter Ilensul )
Chapter by Tay Queen (Washedawaycloud), Washedawaycloud
Restructuring and re-uploading. The new chapter two.
It is the sixth bell the following evening when Solas returns to Giselle-Sophia’s chambers again. No one has seen Abelas or his firestorm since they had been seen in the training yard, and then when they had stumbled through the halls wrapped around one another. He is interested to know if Abelas is still fucking Elle or if they’ve fallen asleep, worn out from multiple rounds of mutual pleasure. He wonders if Giselle looks different having been ravished by a hand other than his. Such thoughts have hounded him since the previous afternoon when he had first investigated what had driven the maids from the halls holding Giselle’s rooms.
They hound him even now, so much so, that his length is heavy with his arousal, trapped, pressed tight against the rather unforgiving confines of his customary green breeches. As he travels down the corridor that leads to Elle’s rooms, not at all far from his own, connected in fact, the elvhen man listens intently. His lover is no longer shrieking down the castle around them. A pity, he does so love when and how that woman sings for him. He loves it almost as much as he enjoys making her sing.
The halls stay silent, disappointingly so, right up until the Wolf shifting mage stands outside the former Inquisitor’s door. Even with it closed, he is assaulted by the scent of burnt sugar, cinnamon, sweat, and sex. Not only that, but Abelas with his scent of spice, lightning and metal. His hears pick up soft sounds coming from behind the wood, ones that make him throb and twitch in his pants. Knowing Giselle won’t be offended, and not at all worried about what Abelas will or won’t say, Solas lets himself into the room, shutting the door quickly behind him.
The scene that greets him makes his eyes widen, the arousal he’d already tamped down a touch, flaring bright absolutely unavoidable. Giselle-Sophia is a voluptuous woman for this era of Thedas’ history. Not fat, as she’s never had the privilege, Circle food was not rich, even given her station, and needing to trek across half of Thedas for the Inquisition burnt what fat she’d had. Still, her hips are lust, meant to hold children -had held a child – perfect to be held onto in many a situation, her breasts are bountiful, but not overflowing, pleasing in their shape, ideal – again – for children. She’s got scares, his brave beautiful woman and they tell the story of her survival. The scar above her brow, a silvery line, the keloid at her left hip, the one on her leg, the stripes across her back.
Giselle-Sophia Trevelyan is a whirlwind of life. She is seemingly impossible to kill, though many had tried. This little woman, with cropped snow white hair just barely long enough for him to be able to wrap it around his hand once, is riding another man on the center of her bed.
Her head is tilted back, silver eyes shut as she basks in her pleasure. Her skin is radiant, covered in a fine shine of perspiration, her hands braced on a pale well-built chest, equally pale hands digging into the skin of her hips as she rises and falls on top of him. The sound of their skin meeting is obscene, the glitter of her slick and his spending in the light as it coats the Sentinel Leader’s prick should be revolting to him. That is, surprisingly, quite far from the truth. Solas lacks attraction to Abelas, but he doesn’t lack in respect for the man. It’s enough that he can admire the form of him, and very much desire to climb onto the bed with them, to help Abelas ensure their woman will not speak for days after this.
“Emma lath,” her voice is harsh, gravel and smoke as she whispers. His cerulean eyes snap to the quicksilver gray, noting with a smirk that her pace does not falter as she watches him over her shoulder. The ripple of her flesh as it connects with Abelas’ is quite a sight. The former member of the Evanuris hazards that his presence has aroused her further; made her body tighten, proven as the man under her presses his head back against the pillows, a low moan flowing from his mouth. They are lovely to watch.
“Falon’saota,” the words roll forth like thunder and Solas casually strides toward the bed, his lover, and her lover. His eyes flick to Abelas, noting the molten gold eyes are on him, curious, just the slightest touch wary. “I had hoped you were spent – the both of you. I find, instead, a far more pleasing reality. If you would have me –“
“Vin!” The word is out before he can finish, making the elf smile. “Vin, falon’saota.” Her hand reaches out to him, reaches for him. It amuses Solas that she hasn’t consulted Abelas at all in this decision. Greedy little thing. Solas snorts, shaking his head at his eager young love, directing his attention to the Sentinel in question.
“Have you any objections to the arrangement?”
“None,” the answer comes at length, with the taller elf anchoring Giselle to him, grinding into her rather than thrusting. “Just know that I will not be fucking you, nor you I.”
The pronouncement has Solas barking laughter, hands lifting to start the removal process of his clothes. The pieces of cloth drop haphazardly as the Dread Wolf stalks farther into the room from where Giselle had stopped him with her call. He circles the bed, watching as Elle writhes on another man’s cock. He admires the flush of her cheeks, for her neck and chest. He’d interrupted what would have been her orgasm. They’re both making soft noises as he watches them, but Elle’s attention has snapped to him. Those quicksilver eyes trail him hungrily, watching as his skin is bared to her eager gaze. One would think after being together for so long (for her people), that his bare form wouldn’t entrance her so. He doubts there will be a day that Giselle doesn’t captivate him.
When he has come to the foot of the bed, naked as the day he was born, he wraps a hand carelessly around his erection, starting a slow stroking rhythm. For a long moment, Solas watches Elle watching him. Then, he speaks again.
“How many times has he had you today, emma lath?”
His little human wife doesn’t respond immediately, sucking in a breath when one of her lover’s hands shift, thumb rubbing circles over her clit. “Fo-ur? F-five?”
Solas hums, nodding his head a touch, climbing up onto the bed with them. “And you still are not yet sated?”
“She is in rare form, because of you I’d wager. El’asha a bre isala nuvenin, Fen’Harel.” Abelas’ hand tightens on Elle’s hips as he speaks, dragging her down harder against him as they return to the lift and fall movements. He delights in the way she groans, head rolling toward him. He’s lost count of the times she’s shivered, quaked, shattered, shrieked, and cried out her release. That she’s not passed out yet is impressive. More so that she has demanded he spend inside her each time his orgasm nears. He’s sure the woman is attempting to make a point, or hurry along the desires voiced yesterday. The Commander currently isn’t at liberty to puzzle over it.
Solas’ brows raise, eyes taking in his largely boneless mate. His purposeful neglect appears to have driven her to new heights of desire. Fascinated, he shuffles forward, skin whispering on the coverlet. He doesn’t give thought or care if his skin makes contact with Abelas’. He’s got no sexual interest in the man, nor the Sentinel in him, but it was unrealistic to think they would not come into physical contact with one another. Especially if they were going to enjoy their woman together with any kind of frequency.
Solas presses up against Giselle’s back, his arms wrapping around her, palm sliding up and down her sides, kissing at her shoulders, sitting low on his knees to do so. He chuckles lowly when she shudders, hands becoming firmer against her ribs, where her skin inexplicably becomes more sensitive during sex. His teeth nip at the back of her neck, at the first vertebra he can feel. There is satisfaction that flows through him as her back bows, her head falling back, he adjusts so she can lean against his shoulder. He knows what she wants, a desire he knows well and attends to with a smile. Their kiss is nothing like what she and her Sentinel partake in.
Solas is a gentle wave, coaxing her tongue out to him as he retreats. There could be roughness, but it is a rarely seen thing, instead, the man who would burn the world, treats his human wife like spun glass. He drinks of her moans as he slides his hands against her skin, fingers dancing up her body. He toys with her lovingly abused nipples as Abelas’ hips lift up to grind his length into her body. It’s different.
When Solas had been young, arrogant, and foolish, he had been supremely possessive of his lovers. There had been no depraved orgies within the halls of his home, or later homes that included him. Nor when he was with guests in his private rooms. Others were welcome to such distractions, yet he’d had no interest in such things. To share Giselle in a new adventure, such as this, it is rather telling how much he has grown during his time in uthenera.
“Shall we really share you, da’avise? Shall I slide in beside Abelas and help him satiate you in that way?” He speaks the words into her ear as he parts from her lips. Elle’s breath hitches, lust filled eyes widening at the notion, fingers digging into the man under her. The Wolf busies himself with pressing kisses along the little fire mage’s jaw, patient as ever for his answer. His hands abandon well attended, and over sensitive nipples, smirking when she whines. He settles his hands just above her buttocks. He presses his thumbs into the skin there, a little massage as she and Abelas roll together.
“Solas,” his name is breathed like a prayer, and he can’t say he doesn’t adore it. His hips press languidly against the swell of Elle’s ass, delight rolling through him when her eyes slide closed, a low whine breaking her concentration. He presses closer, not hindering the roll of either lover’s hips, his left hand moving to slide up and down her side, over her belly, down through her curls to where she and Abelas are joined. Long fingers, artist’s hands, press and play, soaked in short order as Abelas doesn’t pause or slow moving, even while both still wait for her answer. Solas doesn’t allow himself to penetrate her, though he teases at it, not willing to overstep a boundary if Giselle isn’t quite ready for this yet.
“Do it,” a breathy command that both men are inclined to comply with. Abelas slows, hands leaving her hips while Solas urges her to lean forward. Abelas takes to running his hands over her back, while her arms curl under his. The sentinel catches her lips as Solas shifts back to give himself room to work. His hands pet at her flanks before positioning his fingers at her already full hole. He lays his right, free hand, on her back, fingers ever gentle on her skin.
“Are you sure, falon’saota?” He presses kisses along the knobs of her spine, and Elle, now impatient for things to get moving, rolls her hips down against her redhead before they roll back against her bald lover’s fingers. He needs no further prompting after that, Solas presses his index finger into her entrance, just the one for the moment. It makes the mage let out a soft moan, face turning from Abelas to rest her forehead on his shoulder.
In a breath Solas is wreathing his hand in healing magic. Even aroused as his little wife is, she’s taken Abelas into herself at least a half dozen times by this point. She must be sore. He eases the tension in her muscles, the soreness of her lips. It aims to help her reax. The spell is one the Inquisitor is well acquainted with, leaving her shivering against Abelas’ chest.
Her younger – relatively speaking – lover nuzzles at her cheek, pressing gentle kisses there, to her lips, her eyelids. For Solas, her preparation is a slow process. He is eager, but Elle’s comfort is paramount. He waits for her to become relaxed, starting to move his finger inside of her. It has the Commander’s brows drawing together, attempting to ignore the other man’s hand moving against his length. Solas keeps on, waiting for Elle to become used to the slight additional stretch before adding a second. His little mate’s face hides against the redhead’s shoulders, her soft mewls and moans leaving her without pause, assuring her bondmate she is far from feeling pain.
Keeping the healing spell going, Solas stretches her as best he can. His fingers scissor inside her, around Abelas’ length at times, pressing gently against the walls of her channel. He must make sure that when he presses inside he won’t tear her. A third finger is pressed inside her, and he pauses as she wails. Solas only continues when she nods and whimpers his name. The wolf repeats his pattern, pushing at her walls until she keens, and siding in the fourth and last finger.
Abelas and Giselle are panting, sweating, Solas rumbling soothing noises at them both while he continues with his preparations. His movements are steady, shallow for the most part, as she makes sure she’ll be able to take his prick without pain. Or at least, as little discomfort as he can ensure for her. His fingers rock in and out of her carefully, continuing until Giselle begins to make soft desirous noises, her hips grinding back against Abelas’ cock and hand buried in her quim.
It’s then he removes his fingers from her slowly, leaning off to the side to open a drawer, pulling out a small vial of oil kept in that bedside stand. Settling behind her properly once more, Solas removes the cork from the vial, measuring out some of the lubricant, slicking his length with quick, steady strokes of his hand while he maneuvers the cork back into the vial. The rest that is left on his hand is slathered over Elle’s lips and Abelas. A soft word has the taller elf stopping his gentle rocking motions, distracting their lover once more with kisses and attention to her clit while Solas presses gently against her hole. There is a tense moment, four hands petting her, two voices showering her in relentless praise as Solas slowly slides into her. Inch by inch her body gives way to him. It makes her near unbearably tight around her elves’ cocks, and the process of seating himself completely in her is steady and unhurried.
The Inferno mage can’t even make a noise, her teeth digging into the shoulder below her, nearly drawing blood from her Sentinel. He hisses, hips jerking up into her. The motion has Elle sobbing out a cry and Solas swearing behind her, but effectively stills them both. Together, Abelas and Solas’ hands touch her, distracting her from feeling so full she might burst. She can’t – her walls ripple around the lengths ensconced in her body, making her whine, prompting her to shift restlessly between them.
“You did so well, ma’vhenan.”
“You’re so tight around us, so wet.”
“Such wonderful noises, da’asha.”
Elle, caught between two immortals, feels like she may burst. While the idea of having both men inside her like this is appealing, when Solas started she hadn’t thought herself able to accommodate both cocks. Even now that he’s seated inside her, Elle isn’t sure she can handle this. Neither man demands to move, nor tells her to move, or moves without her permission. It’s a godsend. They let her have time to adjust. Their fingers press and brush over every spot they know that makes her shiver. Their mouths find places to bolster the fires of her lust.
Neither man flags while they stoke her arousal, and their groans when she shifts her hips is well worth her doubt, their patience. Gray eyes squeeze shut as she carefully slides her body away from their cocks, no more than an inch, two at most, before sliding back. Even that much has her body singing, and abrupt and gloriously loud cry ripping from her throat. The pleasure that sings through her, up her back, centering itself in her most obvious erogenous zones. Encouraged, Elle pushes herself up, keeping in mind to stay partially inclined to keep Solas from becoming unseated.
Carefully, at a snail’s pace, Elle establishes a rhythm. The sun-kissed woman doesn’t shift off them more than a few inches at a time, seating herself carefully on the pair. Neither lover complains, though both are tortured by her cautious movements. They’re old enough, learned enough, to know not to rush something like this. To rush would mean they’d end up hurting Giselle. Beyond the fact that is utterly unacceptable, it would also mean she’ll never be amenable to such an act again. Or anything remotely adventurous for a time. Hurting her is very simply not an option for either man.
“, Elle.” Abelas breaths the words onto her skin as he leans up to nibble and suck along her collarbones, lingering at the hollow of her throat. He cannot stop the twitch of his hips when Giselle squeezes around them both, a response to his words. It only makes her tighten again, and Solas presses his forehead to her shoulder, swearing colorfully while his hips jerk into her a single time. Their woman is panting between them, breathless, shifting just a little faster as she becomes used to the stretch, to the sensation of both lengths fitting snuggly inside her cunt. It, it’s interesting. Solas is wider, where Abelas is longer. Even if Giselle-Sophia were blindfolded, the snow haired woman would know who is who when and if they couple like this again.
“Sul-“ She sucks in a breath, starting again, her eyes opening, pinning Abelas to the bed, while one hand reaches for Solas behind her. “Sul’ema em bel. Ea tundra.”
This time she lifts farther off them, dropping abruptly and making them all yell out. “Please,” a gasp cust off her sentence as Solas sets his teeth into her neck, biting none too gently as Abelas thrusts up into her. It keeps her from taking when Solas retreats, thrusting as Abelas withdraws. They keep her full, fanning the fires of her desire carefully, in a singularly determined fashion.
A strong arm from behind her, stations itself just below her chest, the hand palming and manipulating her breast; while equally strong hands keep her hips where they need them to be. Lips on her shoulder soothe the sting of where her husband had set his teeth. Her heart kisses her wherever he can, murmuring his love for her, how beautiful she is, how he will never let her go. Elven and Common blend together, slide into one another as they love her. Abelas is reticent, reluctant to voice his feelings, though now that he is sharing her bed, knows what her love can feel like, he’s far from eager to leave her.
The sounds of their coupling are quiet in the room, very quiet considering what they are engaged in. Elle is the loudest, gasps and cries filling the air, but there is no sapping of skin or telltale rattling of a bedframe. She loses time, suspended between Sentinel and a once revered God. They keep her floating in sensation, her climb toward ecstasy slow, steady as the men fall into pace with one another. Kisses are traded between her and each of her lovers, their hands continuing to touch her, brushing against obvious places that would rile her before straying to lesser ones.
It could have been minutes, and it could have been days before Elle finally moans a demand for more from them. As if rehearsed, they speed up. A hand sneaks down to her pubic mound, and a lesser lightning rune is drawn onto her skin. A gentle rush of mana pushes into it, making her convulse around them, pulling as shriek from her lips. A different hand releases her, moving to where they are joined, ice and fire runes drawn in rapid succession, mana carefully pressed into each in turn. The Inquisitor howls, her head tossed back as she struggles to make sense of the world, and smiles are hidden from her, gold and blue eyes looking over her shoulder at one another conspiratorially before their faces are pressed to her skin or half hidden in a pillow.
Auras thread into hers, gentle intrusions of their magic, their man, that makes her shiver, crying out as her body becomes tense between them. More mana is pushed into the runes that linger, not yet snuffed out, a careful continuous dance. The ‘God’ and Commander adjust their movements to be in tandem while Giselle is sufficiently distracted by the way their magic wreaks havoc on her sense. It proves too much for the little human, the scream almost painful as she shatters between them.
Her orgasm heralds their ability to chase release, and both do, matching pace with one another, drawing out her pleasure as they listen keenly for any sign of pain from Giselle-Sophia. Her whimpers are a chorus to their groans and grunts as she flutters and squeezes around them. She’s so wet now, and the friction from both of them inside her is near unbearable. It makes that chase much shorter for the both of them. They stiffen in stereo, she is simply too snug, too accepting, too wet, it overwhelms the immortal men. They come within a handful of thrusts from one another, Elle and Solas collapsing in a heap against Abelas.
It is less than two full breaths before Solas gently pulls from Elle, groaning and rolling himself off to the side. Abelas in turn, shifts himself and Giselle onto their sides, with Elle between himself and Solas. He stays buried in her heat just a while longer before pulling from her slowly. Their little mage whines, pulling them closer, breathing slowly but still hard. They stay like that, wrapped around each other, basking in the afterglow of their little adventure.
“Elle, ma’lath, you are remarkable.” Solas smiles into her hair, curling his arm around her, fitting himself to her back. He isn’t at all surprised when Abelas is drawn flush with her front.
“He isn’t wrong, da’avise. You are a wonder.” It is to their soft praises that Elle falls asleep, effortlessly sliding into the Fade. They wake her sometime in the night, all of them drowsy and desirous, sliding into her together, delighting in the way she bucks and cries into the darkness. This embrace is just as slow as the first, but lasts far longer, ending with Giselle-Sophia’s face soaked in tears, her body twitching from too much stimulation as hands and mouths and cocks drive her to madness and bring her back.
Dawn draws Solas and Abelas from the Fade, though Giselle continues to sleep soundly. They had exhausted her, finally. Extracting themselves from her bed, they dress, leaving the room quietly. Together they walk side by side down the hallway. There are things that need to be discussed, plans that need to be made.
“She isn’t ready yet. She’ll breed for you, but not for me, not yet. That will take a while longer,” Abelas intones this softly, so he does not alert anyone but Solas to his words.
“We have the time to wait. Or have you fallen under her spell already, Saornehn?” Blue eyes watch the taller Sentinel while shining with amusement. Of any man, Solas can commiserate with the Commander. Trevelyan, with her earnest smile, tightly held morals, and sincere questions had hit Solas like a hurricane or typhoon. She swept him up into her affection. He hadn’t a chance in hell against her careful (though not more careful than she and Abelas’ courtship) quiet affections.
Abelas doesn’t even bother to deny it. His ears go pink, and he sighs in a resigned manner at the pointed use of his name. “I did not think I’d want her for more than our purpose.”
“She has an uncanny way of changing everything, does she not?”
“Mm,” the younger man keeps his eyes ahead, contemplating everything that has happened these last couple of months. It seems a whirlwind, too fast, but not quite fast enough at the same time. He would like nothing more than to become a permanent fixture within the sun-kissed woman’s bed. A permanent part of her life. This was not a danger that he’d anticipated when agreeing to the Wolf’s admittedly hair-brained scheme. It doesn’t seem so ridiculous anymore, or out of reach.
“Do you know of any other Sentinels that are attempting to seriously pursue her still?” Solas leads them into the kitchens, his intent to proceed with his usual morning routine clear. The Commander – General when it came to conversations with Solas now, follows without question. His mistress is still housed within the man after all. And now, because of Giselle-Sophia, he supposes he will follow, perhaps even request release from service when his mistress leaves Fen’Harel, so he can follow the two of them instead.
“The youngest of us has yet to press his suit. Ilensul, a rogue, is accomplished, considering his age. He’s been holding back, though I am unsure as to why.” The men serve themselves their beverages of choice, on the move once again and eventually sitting across from one another in Fen’Harel’s private study. It strikes Abelas as odd that he has breakfast served to him here, rather than in his or his woman’s rooms. Though, he supposes, this makes it that much easier to fall into his work.
“An exceptional archer, skilled with poisons and well versed in making them. He has the potential to fit well into the dynamic we are apparently establishing.” Solas hadn’t anticipated building relationships with other people while starting to rebuild their people. It is not unwelcome, simply strange. “I will be sending scouts in the next fortnight to find the Warden-Commander of Fereleden and the Hawke Champion. They’ll be needing modified potions, more than likely double the potency, and far more convincing than Giselle required. Elle was easy, considering she’s already bonded and sharing her bed with me. Speaking of which – I estimate we have perhaps two cycles at most before her body is physically readied for children. The potions I’ve made her are holding quiet well, her body is reacting positively to the new diet, she’s put on weight. Good weight. I imagine her response will be stronger to the aphrodisiac as well, given the events of the last two days as indication.”
“Is that truly necessary?” The Commander’s head tilts, eyes narrowed just a touch. “We’ve proven that she accepts us both quite readily and easily.”
“It is if we wish to have her ready and willing to couple more than a few times in a day and to have her heavy within the near or the next at the latest.” Solas’ retort is just a touch sharp. He can’t help but be sharp when he’s questioned about this.
“This isn’t going to be a simple task, even with her soul entwined with my magic, even with the Vir’abelasan running through her, Elle is not Elvhen or even a bal’naras or lanen. Those magics will ensure full blooded children, but not the seed taking like it would in one of our own women when ready for it. The potions will ease that particular issue.” Solas is ready to wait, however, for Elle’s body to catch up with its purpose. He isn’t worried if it takes more than a cycle. She’s had a child already – and a half elven child at that. Abelas, however, doesn’t know that, and looks pensive.
“We could entreaty a spirit to help our cause.” The suggestion is tentative and Solas shakes his head.
“I had thought to, but it is a very rare spirit now how will be able to help in such a manner. Not even Compassion could find a brother of that purview. I have had him looking. This will work. And if her ‘singing’ yesterday was any indication, I think your approach will do wonders in helping her along.”
“Mm.” A noncommittal sound as he sips the hot beverage. “As you say, Fen’Harel.
“My lady?” A melodic tenor captures her attention some days later, as Giselle-Sophia sulks in the training yards. She is inexplicably upset her impromptu efforts with Solas and Abelas had come to nothing. She’s not quite her potions, but the men have gone back to their usual ways. The only real change is, that one, or the other, or both, stay with her in her bed – often without sex to draw them there. A recent development.
Abelas had suggested she take a week or so for herself, for her cycle to end, for her body to recover, and then they would start again. Solas had agreed, gently kissing her as he spoke the same words. It frustrates her to no end. Elle wasn’t fussed about a ‘waste’ of seed. She rather likes having sex before, during, and sometimes directly after her cycle has completed itself. Sex isn’t a chore – it’s a connection. Honestly those men.
They asserted there are other ways to achieve satisfaction. Indeed, there are, but none so effective to Giselle-Sophia’s mind. Part of her ire lies in the fact she is cramping, desperate to move and keep the discomfort well in hand. But, it’s not to be, her men have stopped her training as well. Solas is going so far as to keep her staff and sword hilt in his study.
They treat her as if she is some delicate flower in need of being coddled. It makes her annoyed, sits heavily in her stomach. They apparently have forgotten she’s spent years upon years always active in some fashion or another. Be it engaging her mind and magic, or her body directly. Grumbling, ruminating, she crosses her arms tightly around her middle as the voice repeats itself.
“Oh!” She jolts, eyes darting about before settling on the voice’s owner. He is – young. Well, as young as any of the Elvhen men residing within the walls of the fortress could be. He looks to be as old as she is, perhaps a few years younger. He is all golden hair and bright green eyes, with a tentative smile on his lips.
“I apologize, Ser, I was lost in my thoughts. What can I do for you -?” She is fishing for a name. As terrible as it is, the former Inquisitor doesn’t know all of the Sentinels names. Even those who’ve attempted to court her, not all of their names stay with her. Her eyes widen at the notion this elf might be one of those Sentinels.
“It’s no trouble, my lady, my name is Ilensul. Well met. I apologize, this – it’s a very strange set of circumstances we find ourselves in, isn’t it?” He shifts nervously before continuing, “however, it doesn’t diminish the pleasure of the meeting.” The young man doesn’t move forward more than a few feet and just to her left, eyes looking at the seat beside her, but staying away. He’s skittish, easily scared off, Elle can see it.
“What brings you to my corner, Ser Ilensul?”
“I. I was wondering, my lady, if you would care for some archery lessons? I saw the Commander has taken to instructing your forms, refining your swordsmanship. I thought, perhaps –“
“That sounds like a marvelous idea.” Her excitement at the prospect of being up and moving has her cutting the blond off. She didn’t mean to, knowing how rude it is, but a chance to do anything when restricted by her lovers is a chance she is going to jump at with arms wide open. Archer may not be something she is particularly interested in, but at least she will get some exercise and be doing more than just sitting about, looking pretty. Her enthusiasm seems to bolster the young archer’s confidence and she is blinded by the sweetest smile she’s ever had aimed at her.
“Oh, that’s, yes. Well, I have some things for you in that case, and then we will start, if it suits you.” He is so tentative, so quietly kind hearted. He cannot be more than a few centuries old at best. He hasn’t got that hardened shell so many of the other Sentinels have. Perhaps he’s one of their offspring? The very thought boggles the mind as she stands.
“You needn’t have brought me anything. I’m sure Solas has things in the armory that I might use.”
“No. No my lady, it is my pleasure.” His ears flush pink and it makes Elle’s heart melt. Ilensul fidgets before her for a few moments before moving off, away. Curious, Giselle follows him without prompting, follows him off to a corner of the training yard. There are a few targets set, simple ones, not far beyond the marked place to shoot from.
Her presence when she turns the corner startles him, those verdant eyes getting wide, body rocking back onto his heels. The archer recovers quickly, however. It takes a moment for him to speak afterward.
“I.” He clears his throat, starting again. “These will be suited to you for learning, and perhaps later hunting or battle. Everything within Fen’Harel’s armor is suited to those of higher skill and taller stature, my lady.” Pale hands offer up to her a pair of fine tooled, rich brown leather bracers. They have pictures of halla embossed into them, carefully detailed, with Mythal’s vines accenting the scene. Elle is almost afraid to touch them they are so beautifully made. Ilensul looks so hopeful, however, with his big green eyes trained on her, watching for acceptance or refusal. Oh. It’s a gift. A courting gift.
Giselle tilts her head at him, tucking white strands of hair behind her ear, buying herself some time in answering. Taking a step closer, she inspects the gift carefully. They truly are beautiful. Reaching into the space left between them, Elle traces one of the halla, peeking up at the rogue through her lashes. “Did you make these yourself?”
His response is immediate, with his ears darkening to red, twitching as his eyes avert before returning to hers. It surprises her that he answers without stuttering or second guessing himself. “I did, my lady. I went to the Dirthavaren intending to gather from one of the older halla there. Instead, I found a little pig creature that had been touched by a wisp. It was from that kill I made you these. They are soft still, just enough to mold to your palm and wrist for comfort. To keep them molded, I’ve drawn earth skin runes into each, so the leather will harden when you thread your magic into them, becoming soft when it’s withdrawn.” He rambles on, confident and yet clearly disquieted. It’s just enough to know that Ilensul doesn’t have much in the way of social graces. Not like Abelas or Solas do. It’s remarkably refreshing, and he is darling. The gift is a thoughtful one, if dependent entirely on her desire to learn new and challenging things.
Her hands slides hover his as she accepts the bracers. He is kind, careful and best of all, not brash like the others had been. He respects her, unlike some of the others. That alone is enough for Giselle-Sophia to allow the courtship to begin. The touch of her fingers, the fine callouses on her fingertips sliding against his skin, has Ilensul’s jaw snapping shut; verdant eyes sliding over her features with a spark of hope in them. Her lips curl into a soft smile, accepting, welcoming as she speaks. “They are beautiful, Ilensul. I will gladly accept something so thoughtfully made, ni.”
The blond flinches a touch upon hearing Elle using the word for casual friendship, but hides it in a breath. She has accepted his gift, the first of them, that is enough for now. He will work toward becoming more to her gradually. For now, he takes one of the bracers back, helping her to put them on, fingers nimble as he laces them. He’d kept the latches off to the side of her left gauntlet to prevent the bowstring from catching when it recoiled after being loosed.
The silver eyed woman watches him intently, with interest, and finds he cannot keep his ears from pinkening yet again. It escapes him how anyone could meet this woman and not be floored by her. He’s been watching her, or rather, watching the others approach her. He’d noted every mistake to make sure he did not walk the same road the others had. It is part of the reason he’s the last to approach her.
He almost hadn’t at all. The Inquisitor took Abelas and Fen’Harel to her bed. Both are powerful men, and he. He is not. The youngest of the Sentinels, the last born in the Temple of Mythal before his mother and the others of her age had left their fertile cycles. Long before the younger women would come into theirs. He has the least accomplishments to boast of any Sentinel currently alive. He has the least experience of the Sentinels. It makes him terribly hesitant to dare court the woman who took down a corrupted Magister, who healed the unnatural veil, sealing the sky shut again. This is the woman who holds the Vir’abelasan within her, who honored the prayer path, who honors the traditions that, for the rest of the world, are long dead.
“Is this comfortable, my lady?” The question is quiet, and mentally the rogue berates himself. Lost in his thoughts, he let himself simply be, interacting with her naturally. Confidence was what had caught the Lady Trevelyan in the past. Intelligence, capability, these are the things she holds in high esteem from what Ilensul has observed. The willingness to court her, doing so without hesitance, in the ways of his people. He is going about this all wrong –
“Very, da’haurasha’assan.” Her fingers tuck up under his chin, and her lips settle light against his cheek. A think so quick he isn’t entirely sure it happened, though the shock still filters into his mind. This is not something he’s observed her doing with the Commander. He has yet to observe her engage in any sort of physical displays of public affections with her bondmate.
That knowledge makes the blond gulp, shuffling to the side without looking at her to pick up the bow. It is small, clearly made for her. She is shorter than any Sentinel, after all. The materials are all ones she recognizes, having used more of them herself for creating staves or choosing what Harritt would use to make equipment for Sera, and the other mages. Those chosen are ideal for the weapon to be light; while being strong enough to not bend, or break under pressure. It is a handsome thing.
“And did you make this as well?” Her hands are already reaching for the bow, running her fingers along the curve before taking it. A look of pride and ridiculous pleasure crosses his face. He is cautious, and rather shy for a rogue. It is, as she thought before, darling. One day, he may shape up to be quite the flirt.
“Yes. There isn’t anything small enough for you here. It wasn’t a hardship to do. I’d neglected making a bow for quite some time. It was an enjoyable process.” This time there is no rambling. Ilensul is becoming comfortable under her gaze, coming out of his shell at a much quicker rate than he’d anticipated – hoped for. But, now is not the time to ruminate on such a small thing.
He squares his shoulders, taking a breath, and hoping his instruction will be thorough enough to be beneficial to her. “If you will, my lady, I’ll go over the basics for you.”
Her answering smile is enough, and the young archer launches into the first lesson given to any and all new archers – safety. He can’t let Elle get hurt during her lessons, and she does need to be conscious of the bow itself. It is, admittedly, a fast lesson.
The blond is ushering her toward the draw mark, within a candle mark, stationing himself next to her. He illustrates how she should stand, having her copy the stance, and Ilensul finds himself quickly worrying less about courting the woman next to him. He is focusing more on being a good teacher for her.