Work Text:
He smirked, the expression darkened by the wavering shadows of the fireplace dancing across the walls. The heavy scent of cinnamon swirled in the air and bringing him peace in this moment. An indulgence in sinful delight as the moon had long since come to hover over Skyhold, leaving only the flickering candles and burning fire to light his room.
Burning. That is what it felt like in the moment, tingling and searing warmth beneath his skin as his fingers danced across her, pulled across her body and admiring every curve of her figure. A form caressed by the Creators themselves and here he had her beneath his gaze, worked by his lithe fingers to be completion.
He leaned further over her body, fingers slicked as he plucked at her strings and making sure she was wound tight. Watched as she trembled with each slide of his fingers, wet and nimbly pulling and rubbing. Trailing across her in such reverence and passion, his eyes sweeping over her laid out before him; opened and glistening in the firelight.
She would never be his, not truly and this right now was the most delectable of sin. Should her partner, her master, her true love find her molded by the hands of another, it would mean the death of him by her lover through her. It would be a death of pleasure, but a death nonetheless.
With a chuckle he slipped his fingers within her smooth depths, spreading the dampness that he caused to settle there. Lightly trailing away down the grooves of her body before returning to his original task, wanting to draw out the time before he’d have to return her to the hands of her dearest.
The taste of cinnamon smoke and sweet liquor finally fading from his tongue as he pulled away, his hands grasping at her with the utmost care and pulling her into his lap from the table with a sigh.
“He is quite the lucky man, to be blessed with such a beautiful vanity as you.”
His fingers plucking and pinching at her string as he reached for the bottle of smooth malt, tossing his head back and letting the soft alcohol slid back down his throat. Setting the bottle back down and letting his eyes wander over her one more time. Her body as smooth as the spirit, curved in all the right places, glistening wet, and adorned in polished metals.
“INQUISITOR!”
Lavellan shot up in his seat, careful not to knock the crossbow from his lap. The rage of the dwarf breaking the sweetened mood of his buzz and calm focus of working on a masterpiece with his hands. His mind instead trying to think of what he could possibly say to get himself out of this one, after all one did not just steal Bianca from Varric to polish and mend her.
Not that a single thought mattered as the door slammed open and a very pissed merchant dwarf stood there, looking ready to choke out the Void-damned elf.
“Well, shit.”