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Tipping the Razor's Edge

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The jawbone necklace rattles as the fabric around him shifts and moves to accommodate his flesh, Solas gulps down air, his lungs filling with panic, desperation, and unease. His eyes occasionally flick back and forth, they hover over the shadows that lay just outside his vision, showing that, even now, the apostate never truly let’s his guard down: he’s too cunning, and calculated, and experienced. This gets him close though, it always does. The primal instinct is curtailed by long fingers that ache to sooth the bulge between his thighs, warm digits encircle and press against throbbing flesh.

The quick strokes tip him over the razor’s edge. His mind fills in the gaps, his jawbone rattles this time. Sound pours out like steam from a kettle: It’s her name, always her name, but why? It swims through his mind, echoing and reverberating but never quite reaching the outside world like the muffled growls do. The sounds are quieter now, they have to be given that the sun’s coming up. The vibrations travel up his spine instead and settle inside his throat, the feeling itself contains pleasure with hints of loneliness sprinkled in, and yet this must persist for his own sanity and peace of mind. He may be an elf, but even an elf has needs, he gets up and washes his hands afterward.

Tired, satisfied, and most importantly, alone… Until she shows up later that day, she shines like the sun and sets like the moon. At night the wolf howls, his voice caught inside his throat like always, pleasure packed together with the pain of an aching heart.