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The Hunt

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He watches her closely, each one of her movements.

 

He’s lost in her, in all the confusion and calamity she is. The tension in her muscles is clear, confining and restricting. He wonders what could bother her so, to have her normal composure of coldness and indifference so broken.

 

“Inquisitor?”

 

“Leave me alone.”

 

The knives she’s throwing into the wall thwack as they hit wood, impaled with many other knives she has thrown with almost inconceivable precision. Inconceivable, perhaps, if she were not the woman she is. He knows her, though. He knows how different she is from the others. It’s what has cursed him, what he knows will no doubt be his undoing.

 

It is a careful thing, to step closer to her. He finds the fear near exciting, for it is not often someone who used to be a God feel such a trivial emotion. He walks with all of the grace and lightness he possesses, but also with a confidence that even her temper can’t tame.

 

Her Quarters are dark, the only light being the lick of flames pouring from the burning hearth. The moons and stars are hidden, offering nothing but blackness from outside. It is only him, and her. The rest of Thedas, the rest of the world – is not here, and the mere idea has his pulse throbbing deep in his throat.

 

Her back stiffens as he nears closer to her. “I said leave,” she snaps.

 

He watches as another knife is thrown into the wood. “You missed your lesson,” he says coolly.

 

“I am well aware.”

 

“Did I do something?”

 

That elicits silence from her, intriguing and frightening. Her thin clothes do nothing to hide her straight posture, how stiff her spine is. His stormy blue eyes roam over her form, his thoughts helplessly admire the curve of her waist, the fullness of her hips. He rarely sees her out of her armor, or without a staff strapped to her back.

 

The burning flames of the fire dance over her pale skin, and more of her is exposed as a draft blows in and ruffles her loose shirt. With one last sharp throw, the last knife in her palm is thrown at the wall. He watches as she turns in circles with a sigh, rubbing her palms on her leggings restlessly.

 

“No,” she says, such a simple answer after taking so long to speak.

 

“If not me,” he clears his throat, “then what is troubling you?”

 

“What do you care?”

 

“I care more than you think, da’len.”

 

He smirks, expecting the snarl she shoots him at the name. Little one, he so often refers to her as. He knows what she does not – that he is eons older than her, far too old to even be thinking of such a young one as he does. Her icy blue eyes are full of youth, of a vigor he once had and lost – of a certain arrogance, a pride that he almost mourns.

 

Her cheeks are flushed with warmth, a pink that colors her pale skin. The way her jaw clenches tells him she wishes to snap at him, but much to his surprise – she refrains, showing a control he has only seen in her when she has been defeated. When the battle is not worth the blood. When that beautiful, beating heart of hers knows she has lost.

 

“I’m just tired,” she whispers, a quiet sound that the howling mountain wind carries.

 

“Tired?” he murmurs, summoning magic he only used in his youth, he only uses on her.

 

His power is weak now, hardly a sliver of what he used to be, but he will give all of himself if it will ease her suffering. He understands the tired she means – not a physical exhaustion, nor a mental one. Her soul is tired. He can see it in her bright blue eyes, the dullness of war that has worn on one who was not prepared for it all.

 

His stride is smooth as he walks around her, then stands close behind her back before resting his hands on her shoulders. Tense. Stiff. He can feel it, even with such a tender touch through the fabric of her shirt. He smoothly slides his palms down her arms, then holds her fists and squeezes.

 

“Breathe, Inquisitor,” he whispers in her ear.

 

“Breathe?” she laughs the word cruelly, “I feel as though I’m being suffocated.”

 

“By?”

 

“I – I don’t know. Everything. It’s difficult to explain.”

 

Yet he knows what she means entirely, that feeling of lonely and tired that never seems to leave. He has felt it for ages, and has accepted he would for ages more. The closer he is to her, though – the less he feels that cursed sensation, the more the world fades to nothing and all there is, is the sweet purity of nothing.

 

He takes a selfish comfort in her, despite their professional distance. He has taken caution to keep his distance from her, to do all the little things she hates so that she would not be hurt. He knows it is too late for him, but for her – it is not, she has a life without his burdens open to her. Even so, he still constantly wars with his younger wants, and his older wisdom.

 

“Perhaps resting would ease your mind,” he whispers softly.

 

“Perhaps,” she mutters, “but I should – ,”

 

– he takes her wrist when she attempts to leave his embrace, to leave the room. To leave him.

 

Her neck snaps to look at him, and wild, scarlet hair flies in the air. He has to contain a possessive growl as she bites her lower lip, looking down at where he has her wrist trapped in a tight hold. He knows he should let her go. He has no purpose to care for her, to tell her what to do. He also knows he has nothing without her, besides himself and a twisted fate.

 

He pulls her close to him, lifting his other hand to brush wavy tresses from her face. Her breath hitches as his thumb caresses her cheek, still wet with paint. He looks at the stain of colors, smeared over her black vallaslin.

 

“Rest, da’len,” he says.

 

“I hate when you call me that,” she hisses, the venom he is familiar with back in her tone.

 

“I know.”

 

“Then why do you keep doing so?”

 

“Because I can,” he tells her, the easiest explanation he can think of. “Because you are very young,” purring his words, he traces his calloused thumb over her soft, plump cheek. Beautiful. Enticing. Tempting. To him, she is the sweetest fruit he has to lick but never bite. “Because you are naïve,” his tongue sharpens the last word, and he can feel her magic flare in her veins.

 

Damn the Gods, but her reactions to him shouldn’t be so arousing.

 

Damn it all, but she shouldn’t be so breathtaking.

 

“You only say that because I am Dalish.”

 

“I say that because it is the truth.”

 

His words irk her, and he can sense her irritation roll off her in waves. Without a word, she yanks herself from his hold. It is a simple movement, full of cockiness and desire, that has him wrapping his fingers around her wrist once more.

 

Her body lurches, and she hisses and shows him her hidden sharp fangs. He can’t help but think of her teeth, biting into his flesh as she lets out noises of pleasure. Each time, his mind falls victim to such thoughts. Each time, he pushes them aside. Though, alone in the darkness, it is difficult to think of anything but her.

 

“You are stressed,” though it is so much more, that is what he tells her.

 

“Maybe I am,” she says, “I do not need you to tell me the obvious.”

 

“You must relax, Inquisitor. You’ll hurt yourself otherwise.”

 

“I’ll be perfectly fine, especially once you leave.”

 

He isn’t sure what overcomes him. He is drunk on her, intoxicated with her closeness. He can smell her sweet scent, fresh snow and aromatic herbs. He can taste the scent on his tongue when he rushes forward, and pins both of her wrists above her head to a wall. Her back slams into the hard surface, and her breath leaves her in an evocative, desperate gasp.

 

He keeps her there, his strength not what it used to be – but still stronger than hers, more powerful and determined. What he wants, he gets – even now, after he has lost so much. He is unwavering like the wolf he is named after, resolute on his prey.

 

That prey, is her. What better, he muses, then to have her pinned like this, and so close.

 

He has caught her scent, and will not lose it. He knows what is best for her, and he knows that he is not included in there. That doesn’t stop him from indulging, from stepping on the line but never crossing it. He lets out a slow breath as he looks her up and down, tightening his hold on her. His restraint is shattering, and he knows he must leave soon before he devours her.

 

“I know you will not rest unless I make you,” he whispers.

 

“Make me?” her laugh is weak, oh so quiet, so only he hears her. Not even the magic of Skyhold can see them in this moment, or hear noises uttered from their lips. It is only them, all alone, together. “How will you do that, old man?” the taunt is a teasing one, a jibe that he welcomes with a grin.

 

“I have my ways.”

 

“Show me.”

 

This is the line. I’m on the line. I need to leave.

 

This is where he always does leave, this is where he hurts her by backing away and making up some excuse for his odd, bold behavior moments before. This is where he hides Fen’Harel, this is where he hides who he is deep down. This is where he finds himself wanting, aching for the very woman he knows he should not, should never, have.

 

Yet –

 

“ – to the bed, then,” he murmurs.

 

Her expression drops to one of pure shock. It fades to assurance in moments. This is a hunt, and she will not be so easily caught. He will not easily give up, either. “Bed?” she sighs, “but I am not tired, not enough to sleep.”

 

“I know, but I can make you tired, da’len. Then the bliss of sleep will ease your pain.”

 

“Make me tired? Hm.”

 

His heart thuds in his chest, too much, too far, and he knows it, too. This is a Game and perhaps she doesn’t want to play, but he had thought, had hoped

 

“ – make me tired then, and stop calling me a child.”

 

“How about vhenan?”

 

Her cheeks burn an even darker shade of pink, one he aches to lick and kiss and taste. He’s not inexperienced in seducing women. He’s done so many times, eons ago, when he had the ego and arrogance for it. That man is still inside him, though. He’s simply calmer now, more aware of his limits and weaknesses – even if he doesn’t have many, one of them is in front of him now.

 

He controls the smirk on his lips, not wanting her to think of him as the prideful God he was. Is. He will be Solas for her, he will be a man who will not hurt her, if it is what she needs just for tonight. He swallows a lump in his throat as she laxes in his hold, letting their bodies touch.

 

Warm. Soft. He has to suppress a groan, his cock swelling, straining against cloth.

 

“Vhenan is better than da’len, I suppose,” she says calmly.

 

“Then vhenan,” he hums, the endearment making his chest blossom with warmth. He keeps hold of her wrists, but slowly steps back towards the bed in the room. “To the bed, and I shall put your mind at ease,” murmuring this, he looks decisively at her clothes, “but you’ll need to strip.”

 

“Only if you do.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

This Game, this Hunt, he wonders – how long she will keep it up. Their voices are strained, hers more than his. He can tell she is wary, likely thinking he will back out any moment. He shocks her again by pulling his shirt over his head, and then reaches for the ties of his trousers. His gaze meets hers in the darkness, the icy blue stealing his breath.

 

Her stare is stuck on the planes of his chest, his rippling muscles that he flexes out of spite. He knows that any moment she will turn from him, any moment she will laugh and call him out for acting ridiculous –

 

– but she doesn’t – oh no – rather, she forcefully pulls her loose shirt over her head.

 

The fabric flutters to the floor, on top of his. No words are spoken, not as they look from the clothes on the floor, back to each other. He silently begs her to stop, but also begs that she doesn’t. He waits for her to make the next move, preparing himself for this thrill to end.

 

“I’m still not tired,” she teases. The Hunt continues.

 

He will not back down. “We haven’t started yet, vhenan,” he smirks wickedly, like a God would.

 

Like he is.

 

He reaches forward, now will full abandon, and takes her by her wrist. He throws her across the room so she stumbles, and the back of her knees hit the bed. He saunters towards her, and he lives for the way she attempts to crawl onto the bed. His magic is all-consuming, a subtle but powerful aura that leaves her weak and helpless before him.

 

His thoughts are blank, only painted with her as he forgets himself and traces a finger up her smooth belly. Her skin is soft, just as he thought she would be. He hooks the tip of his finger in her breastband, and then with a sure and powerful yank – he pulls it down so her breasts bounce free.

 

He can’t stop himself before he’s rushing forward, capturing her mouth in his. The kiss is rough, captivating and suffocating and all the things he needs. His hands cup her supple breasts, squeezing them before pinching her hard nipples between his fingers.

 

“Solas, please,” she whimpers.

 

“Given up so soon, vhenan?” he licks the words into her mouth, letting her feel them.

 

The Hunt is over, his prey is beneath him and bleeding. He must only take her, now. He knows he will. He knows he must. There is no turning back to that safe, confining line he had drawn between them. His hands roam the expanse of her body, finding the laces keeping her breastband on at her back. In one smooth pull, he tears the fabric apart.

 

The fabric falls to the floor, and he focuses on her leggings. He slides his hands underneath her thighs, and then lifts her onto the bed. He hooks his fingers at the hem, and then peels them off her skin and soaks in the sight of her – vulnerable, bare, trembling for his touch.

 

He knows he is not the right one for her, he knows there are better men for her – but he does not want anyone but himself to have her, and so he thinks that perhaps the wrong man is just who she needs in this moment. He throws her leggings aside and then undoes the laces keeping his trousers on, letting them pool around his ankles.

 

Her breath hitches, her icy eyes fixate on his hard cock.

 

“Not tired yet,” she breathes shakily – a temptation, a tell for him to keep going.

 

“You will be,” he promises, “soon.”

 

Her pink tongue darts out to lick her lips, while a shudder rushes through her and makes her burn more. The firelight offers little for him to see, to see her in all her wonder. He casts a few orbs of light in the air, smiling triumphantly as her naked skin is exposed to him. Each curve. Each perfection. Her vallaslin shows itself on other parts of her body, intricate and inviting.

 

He crawls onto the bed, slow and careful as he does so. With each movement closer to her, she crawls away from him – until she has nowhere left to move, to run from him. It almost looks like she’s pleased to be trapped, caught by the Dread Wolf.

 

He smirks, and then hides his smugness by laying flat on the bed and taking her thigh in his hands. He presses his lips to her soft skin, and then kisses his way closer and closer to where he knows she wants him. He can smell her, nearly taste her sweetness. Her thighs are slick and warm, her nectar coated all over her sex, dripping down her legs.

 

Her want. For him. What a maddening thing, to think he was the only one.

 

His hips thrusts against the bed as he holds her other thigh, and then lifts her knees above his head as he delves his tongue into her core. He licks up her nectar, tastes all of her and loves the way she cries out for him. He teases her with long, languid licks – flicking his tongue over her clit only one, twice, three times before licking his way down her slit.

 

It’s a primal, insatiable need that possesses him as he teases her relentlessly. He lifts his head for a moment and kisses her thighs, back and forth. Her breaths come out labored and strained, and he glances at her to see she’s undone – with wild, tangled scarlet hair and blown, dark pupils.

 

“You’re going to kill me,” she whines.

 

“On the contrary,” he murmurs, nipping her thigh, “it will be you who kills me, vhenan.”

 

He bites her thigh hard enough to leave a mark, and then resolves himself to lose himself in tasting her. He licks and sucks her sensitive folds and clit until she’s arching her back off the bed, screaming his name to the Heavens. For all to hear. He pulls back to breathe, to lick her sweet taste of his lips and commit it to memory so he can think of this, when it’s all over.

 

He’s content as he is now, denying himself pleasure simply to witness hers.

 

It seems she, though, is not.

 

Her smooth, slender hands cup his face as she leans forward, forcing him to lift himself up and kiss her as she pulls him closer. His body crushes hers, his lips smother her but he can’t stop. He’s too far gone, lost in her. He’s captured his prey and now he must make her his – devour her, and ruin her for any other man.

 

His lips find the column of her throat, smooth and flushed. He kisses and bites her here, to let them both breathe warm, damp air. Her hands slide down his chest, his abs, and then wrap around his thick cock to stroke him. He moans – moans, her touch beyond what he’s felt in eons.

 

“Ir abelas,” he whispers, nibbling her long, pointed ear.

 

“For?” she whispers, sweet and kind – unlike anything he ever deserves.

 

“This.”

 

“I want this. I want you.”

 

I know.

 

He bites his tongue, knowing words will just make this painful. He’d rather save the sorrow for later, when he is alone in the Fade and filled with regret. He kisses her to soothe her worries for the moment, this is for her – not him. He must ease her, be here when no one else is.

 

His tongue tangles with hers as he pushes her legs apart with his knees, and slides a hand between her wet thighs. He teases her slit, and then slides a finger inside her. Tight. Dripping. Hot. He moans, forcing another finger inside her. His cock throbs, leaking liquid onto her belly. He bites her lip before looking down, taking his hand out of her to hold his shaft.

 

He strokes himself a few times, and then rubs himself against her.

 

They both moan, a symphony of ecstasy, of wanting more. Their bodies move as one.

 

This is wrong. This is wrong. This is so very wrong –

 

– he ignores that voice in his mind, and pushes inside her in one smooth thrust.

 

“Oh, Solas,” she moans.

 

“Elé,” his name drips from her lips, “Eléna.”

 

He’s lost now, so lost. In her. In this damn woman he can’t seem to let go.

 

He thrusts deep into her, hitting a spot that makes her keen. His hips move at a steady, quick tempo. He does not relent, even when her nails claw down his back and leave burns. He kisses her harder, pressing the closer and closer as he braces his palms by her head, in her scarlet hair.

 

His breaths become choked, but he doesn’t take his lips off hers. He rocks his body smoothly, and slides even deeper inside her when she wraps her legs around his hips. He swallows each noise she makes, slanting his mouth against hers to melt them together as one.

 

“S – Solas, I – I’m – ,”

 

“ – come for me, vhenan, come for me.”

 

His words aim for her heart, but he strikes his own. He feels his blood burn for her as she comes, with his lips teasing her ears. Her head thrashes – her ears too sensitive, too vulnerable, but that’s exactly what he wants – he wants to drive her mad, to give her pleasure like no other can. His hips stutter, but he continues to pound into her tight, wet heat with abandon.

 

The long ago familiar blaze of heat rushes inside him, and his thrusts become more frantic. The obscene slap of their bodies connecting is a beautiful music to his ears, one he will remember for the rest of his endless life.

 

His lips capture hers again, and this time he slides a hand between them.

 

His fingers brush his thick, slick cock – making him shudder, but then he finds her clit and rubs her there mercilessly. He whispers sweet words of praise in Elvish – words she will never understand, words he is grateful she does not understand. With each thrust inside her, he lets out a moan, his toned muscles tense all throughout his body.

 

When she comes again, he knows he will not last much longer. He takes what pleasure he has left, lets himself be lost before he succumbs to lust and his own weaknesses and stills inside her. His hips halt their pace, and his cock throbs as he spills himself. Each spurt a scalding, shameful satisfaction that has been crawling under his skin for centuries.

 

He bites his lip as he forces himself to pull out of her, and stroke himself until the rest of his seed paints her pale skin. Her belly. Her breasts. Even her vallaslin is covered with his come, the black markings hidden and he damns himself because she looks more beautiful than ever.

 

Flushed. Panting. Covered in him, she smells and looks of pure, wanton sex.

 

He breathes, calmly. Calm as he can, really. He composes himself as sweat drips off his skin.

 

“Tired, vhenan?”

 

“Not – Not yet. I think you’ll have to stay a little longer.”

 

He smirks, shutting his eyes. He knows a little will turn into forever, somehow. It’s his curse.

 

It’s the Hunt. With her, it’s irresistible. He can’t let her escape, not her.

 

Especially not as her icy blue eyes flick down to the necklace still hung around his neck, swaying back and forth between them. The wolf jaw seems to entrance her, and that youthful pride he felt so long ago returns to him. Her fingers reach out and touch the bone, caressing it softly – a sensation that he feels, deep within him.

 

“What do you think?”

 

“I think – I have no choice, Inquisitor.”

 

“You always have a choice.”

 

“Do I?”

 

He thinks, somewhere along the line, he lost his freedom to choose.

 

After he met her. After he caught her scent, and chased her.

 

“You do,” she says simply, quietly. He feels her tug on the wolf jaw.

 

“Do I?” he whispers once more, before leaning down to kiss her, tender and hesitant.

 

He kisses her not like a God, but a fallen one.