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She reminds you of a snake—yellow-eyed, sinuous—and it feels foreign; it is utterly different from the Dalish girls you kissed against tree trunks over youthful summers, humming into each other’s mouths, laughing at the accidental jabs of elbows and knees. Morrigan is tall by comparison, and when she turns to look over her shoulder to see if you are following, she seems impossibly so, drawn up with the firelight glinting in her eyes.
You take off your boots and pause when you get inside, just for a moment. Her tent is practically as bare as yours: a bedroll, a leather bag of sundries, a pile of clothing in the corner. She huffs, seductive in her impatience, and beckons. It sends your heart thudding (the crook of her fingers, the arch of her brows) and you let her draw you in.
Barefoot, you have to stand on tiptoe to kiss her. You can feel her smirk against your lips and you dig your fingernails into her back, into the skin bared by her robes: retaliation, maybe, or maybe the way her teeth are worrying your lip makes your grip tighten on its own. She hisses and bites down, draws you flush against her.
It’s clumsy, getting to the floor-level bedroll, but her eyes are locked with yours and you do not feel the urge to laugh. She presses you down and you register the fabric of it rough against your back, which is bared as she, nimble-fingered, undresses you. She draws her top over her head and unties her hair to let it tumble down her back, loose in a way you have never seen it. She looks towering, infinite, a long column of pale skin—for a moment she looks like this, and then you set aside romantic notions in favor of the solidity of her weight against your hips, the movement of her hands on your chest as she arches over you to meet your mouth with hers again. Her skin burns against you; her mouth is hot on your neck. She pulls back to breathe and you strain up, enough to mouth the trail of a droplet of sweat between her breasts. “You were worried about cold?” you breathe into her skin, and she nips at your earlobe to express her displeasure.
“’Twas so last night,” she says. “Perhaps the fire is hotter now.”
“Perhaps.” You drag your fingers down her back, recapture her mouth with your own.
She draws back after a moment, and you lift your hips to help her remove the last of your underthings. She kisses first the hollow of your throat, tongue drawing a stripe up your neck, and then down your chest. Your stomach muscles grow taut and strained as she draws lower, and when she bites the flesh of your thigh, you let out a low, frustrated growl. “You’re teasing,” you say. She looks up at you and her eyes sparkle, wicked.
“I’ve won you, have I not? Do I not now have the right to take my time if I choose?”
You don’t have time to decide how to feel about being won; she sucks at your skin, leaving what is like to be a purple mark on your inner thigh. You reach down to draw her closer, but the attempt to direct her is in vain. She circles your wrist with her fingers and moves your hand to the bed, holds it there. (You forget, for an instant, to breathe.)
She gives up on teasing then, and the breath comes out of you all at once. Her tongue is clever and quick and she digs vicious nails into your hip; you use the hand not trapped by her grip to tangle your fingers in her hair, a low groan rising in your throat. She hums against you and the vibration sends you spiraling.
You fall slack all at once, releasing the strained muscles in your legs and stomach, relaxing the arch of your back. You feel Morrigan draw up beside you. In a low voice by your ear, she murmurs, “Not tired already, are we?” She bites, sharp, at the tender skin of your neck. “Where is that Warden endurance I’ve heard such tales of?”
You take in a slow breath and let it out (let her think, for a moment, that you are not going to answer) and then you roll over, swift, to pin her beneath you. “I'm wounded that you underestimate me.”
“You are confident, then?” Her daring and composure have not left her, even trapped under your weight.
“Only determined,” you reply, and the derision in her laughter only makes you more intent on setting her off balance.
A little teasing, you think, is fair turnabout. Your hand moves slow against her, and she sighs as if settling in for a particularly dull lecture, but her hips roll up to meet you. Her hair is spread out on the bed and you notice, unexpectedly, the freckles scattered on her cheeks; a flush is creeping behind them, and as you watch, the eyes that were looking at you with a challenge in them flutter closed as she takes in a sharp breath. The pigment she uses around her eyes has formed darker lines in the creases of her eyelids; there is something beautifully mundane in it, and you try to ignore the blood rushing to your cheeks.
She makes a sound that reminds you she is sometimes a wolf, and her eyes open. “If you aim to take all night, ’tis simpler to use my own hand over yours.”
You kiss her hard instead of answering, teeth bumping teeth, and grind blunt pressure against her with your fingers. Her breath turns fast and shallow; she reaches for you in a way that you think, maybe, is involuntary, and comes on a desperate moan of a sound.
You move to lie beside her. Her breath, as it slows, is warm on your face, and it takes you a moment to notice that her hand has come to rest on your side, fingers tracing slowly up and down the angle of your hip. When you glance at it, she pulls it away.
“Should I stay and warm your tent?”
Her eyes, golden and bright, fix on yours. “If you like.”