Solas stared at the open book on his desk with growing disgust. The scholar--if he could even be called that--who had written it was ill-informed at best and deliberately inflaming the humans’ fear against magic and the Fade at worst. Worse than that, however, was that he couldn’t seem to focus. His mind kept wandering to the week before, when Ren Lavellan had innocently stumbled into his dreams. To her supple body conforming against his as he returned her chaste kiss with a fire he hadn’t thought he still possessed. To the guttural groan that leaked into their kiss and the way her back arched when his thigh slid between her legs with practiced ease.
It had been so long since he felt the touch of another.
A surreptitious glance at the library above his rotunda told him that even the most nightowlish of scholars had already retreated to bed. Even the crows further above were fast asleep. He abandoned pretense then and unknotted the lacings of his trousers. Perhaps if he just… worked out this frustration, he could cease fixating on her. His left hand curled around his hardening cock and pulled it free. As he stroked himself, his mind began to wonder what her hand would feel like curled around him.
Her hands were much smaller than his, but he didn’t think they would be softer. He had calluses from wielding his staff in the past year, but they would be nothing to the years of knife-fighting and wilderness survival she had lived. He imagined a firm, even grip, perfectly controlled but for the tingle of energy through her anchor as she held him, other hand slipping down to cup his balls.
His mind wandered to her face, to the mischief that always hid just beneath the surface of her large, pale green eyes. The way her mouth would quirk at the corners as she concealed her laughter at something inappropriate. And nothing would be more inappropriate than her sliding down in front of him to kneel under his desk. She would fit there perfectly, he realized, small even for the diminished stature of modern elves.
He imagined her pink lips, perfect in spite of the scar that split the lower one unevenly, and her tongue flicking out to wet them before caressing the head of his cock. He strangled a moan and his grip tightened on himself as he pictured her smirk before she took him in her mouth. His hands would come to rest on the sides of her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones, fingers buried in the short feathery hair behind her long pointed ears. He’d lose himself in the wet heat of her mouth and the fire in those large green eyes.
It would take all of his willpower to not drive himself deeper. He was not a pup in his first rut, but he would feel like one.
He would moan and grunt praises in elven as she worked herself down his shaft. The pink of her cheeks and ears when he taught her forgotten words of her people gave away how it affected her. She would try all the harder to wring more from him, taking him deeper, her marked hand working the base of him while her other massaged his sack.
His grip in her hair would tighten like his balls, signalling his release. She would take it in, drinking it down and milking him for all he was worth. She would sit back on her heels, self-satisfaction emanating from her like a cat that had gotten into the cream, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Her eyes would glitter in the shadows under his desk, promising more to come later in the sanctity of her chambers.
The thought of returning the favor, of the possibility of drinking deep from her, was what finally set him over the edge. With a strangled moan, he came hard onto his hand and the underside of his desk. He reclined back in his plush chair, the haze of satisfaction lasting only momentarily before shame began to rear its ugly head.
It was disgusting, that he would use her image, degrade her like this for his inability to control his urges. He was a pup in his first rut. He grabbed a rag resting on the edge of his desk and roughly wiped the spend from the desk and himself, and then tucked himself away. The rag, he incinerated with a thought. He slammed the book closed and stormed out of the rotunda to his room.
Perhaps a trip to the Fade could steady his resolve. He needed to speak with Wisdom.