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Few things in life managed the hard, almost impossible task of swaying Mythal from her course.
It was inconceivable, to imagine anything with enough power to prise open the tight grip in which she held all things; her focus was a knife that rarely dulled, her control an immovable force. But the moment her head decided to feel as if it had split like unripe fruit on the sharp edge of a rock, those were the rare occasions in which the world tilted dangerously on its axis and toppled her resolve.
She had felt the first vile stirrings of it as the sun had started to set beyond the mountains, its bursting golds and vibrant purples giving way to deep, melancholic blues. The stark shadows of dusk had had little time to take hold, for deft hands lit the room’s braziers in swift succession before retreating back to their silent corners. Night had fallen fast, and just as quickly had the migraine befell her, heavy beneath the bones of her cheeks. It had crawled, relentless in its procession, through the curve of her sockets, gnawing at each tender nerve it had found in its wake, until finally it had settled against her temples, like a horrible creature whose sole intention was to grow and grow and crack the walls that contained it.
She had tried to ignore it. She had responded to questions posed and she had answered to doubts raised with nothing but unwavering confidence — she was, if anything, a good pretender — but still the council had dragged on for much longer than she had hoped or wished for. By the time everyone’s roiling spirits had blessedly quelled and the war table had grown quiet with exhaustion, the pain had become unmanageable.
Mythal barely remembers leaving. She knows she has spared no more than one last pointed glance towards the mess of papers and maps strewn about the table, towards the array of sour faces gathered around them. She recalls having brushed against something cool and solid when she had turned on her heels, bidding good night in a clipped tone not so unlike her usual one as to avoid arousing suspicion.
The rest — getting to her quarters, tearing the suffocating cloak off her shoulders, letting herself slump on the nearest seat in robes that stuck to her skin with cold sweat — is but a blur.
How long she stays like that, unmoving, the heels of her palms digging into her eyes, she cannot say with any clarity. She lets the silence, broken only by the occasional call of a night bird, soothe what little it can, albeit with not much luck.
A knock at the door of her chambers, quiet and polite and familiar, wrenches her back to the present. Solas’ voice, though muffled by layers of wood and stone, still manages to break through the fog of her thoughts. His tone is careful, gentle. "Mythal?"
There is a brief pause, one during which she fails to respond, before the door creaks open slowly, his silhouette appearing in the dim light. She doesn’t turn towards him, not immediately. She drops her hands from her face instead, folding them in her lap with the slightest tremor. The way she is angled partially shields her from view, but she still tries to compose herself into something resembling a person, willing the throbbing ache in her skull to subside.
"Are you well?" Solas asks, his voice soft and apprehensive. She does not hear him move any closer, but she can feel him there still, standing by the threshold in troubled patience. Turning her head ever so slightly to the right, Mythal looks at him.
Gone is the armor, the carved bronze and polished leathers fitting over his form in striking elegance, now replaced by the quiet simplicity of draped silk. Gone are the braids, woven with care and mastery. There, in the warmth of a summer evening, all that remains are her branches, a crown of service anointing his brow.
“It is of no consequence, Solas” Mythal replies, but the lie falls flat even to her own ears. She can hear the fatigue in her own voice, her words coming out hoarse and strained.
It is futile to keep pretending, to try and convince him otherwise, for nothing escapes his scrutiny. Even now, in the corner of her eye, she can see the way his head tilts in observation, how his gaze narrows and focuses on her every movement. He had come to her rooms with complete certainty of her suffering, and she had just served him the final proof on a silver platter.
Mythal pinches the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes so tight she sees stars.
“Your temples again, mirthadra?”
The migraine was inevitable, after such a night. Despite his powerful magic and brazen personality, Mythal is certain that Falon’din’s true talents lay not in his dispositions towards the Fade, but in concocting the most asinine military plans and in mastering the art of ignoring his brother’s advice, pushing his skills and knowledge aside in order to make his voice boom louder. He reminded her too much of Elgar'nan, and in the quiet comfort of her mind she hated him for it.
She is silent, for a long minute. She can hear Solas approach her from behind, knows he is making his movements known on purpose so as to not startle her. It would have been very considerate of him, had he ever managed to catch her by surprise.
Solas’ hand suddenly covers her own, prying it away from her face with a gentle touch. She opens her eyes a fraction, holding back a wince at the sudden brightness of candlelight — but it is gone just as quickly as it had come, for he shifts just enough to eclipse the offending light before putting it out entirely with a small turn of his wrist.
“Allow me” he tells her, letting go of her hand in order to frame her face. He does not ask for permission, does not wait for assent.
His fingers are cool and soothing against her temples, thumbs pressing ever so gently against her skull in slow, circular motions. The pressure pacifies the thrumming in her head, calms the tide of rocking discomfort that hammers behind her eyelids.
“You should let me know when you are in pain. You know I have the means to help”.
He does not use magic to heal her. She knows he could — his brilliance as a healer has never gone unrewarded, his spells ruthlessly precise. He has aided hundreds within their ranks, his breath always steady, his hands never wavering. But there is no magic between them now, no soft glow but that of the moon outside reflected on the silently shifting waters of the stream. There is only the solid feel of his palms resting on her cheekbones as her skin yields beneath his touch, and she prefers it that way.
When Solas speaks again, his breath is a gentle breeze on her hair, his voice no more than a whisper.
“You need only ask”.
Mythal opens her eyes again, and finds him already looking. He is closer than she had thought him to be, hair falling in loose waves around his face, brushing against her shoulders when he moves. From up close, she can see the thin ring of grey around his pupils and the smaller freckles that dust his nose.
“If I call, will you answer?”
The words come out almost unbidden, the teasing edge within them both impulsive and intentional. She enjoys, perhaps more than it is wise, to play with the strings of what moves him. It is pure and greedy satisfaction, the moment one of them gives.
Solas’ hands still, if only for an instant. He tilts his head again as he meets her gaze, a gesture she is unsure he is even aware of doing — before he resumes his task, applying a bit more pressure than before.
“Have I ever denied you?” he asks, tracing the bridge of her nose with his thumb, letting it come to a stop in between her eyebrows. The slow, deliberate pressure he applies there feels more of an indulgence than a necessity.
It is not uncommon, for them to dance around one another in such a manner. If any external audience were to bear witness, the inevitable report would be that of the peculiar sighting of two predators, circling with enviable patience, each waiting for the other to falter to strike and devour.
Weakness is not always evident at a first glance, however, making it hard to ascertain the perfect spot where one might sink their teeth — yet once you know the heart of your opponent as if it were your own, to make them bare their neck willingly is almost effortless.
Mythal brings her hand up, brushing the inside of his arm with her knuckles in passing, and takes a lock of his hair in between her fingers. She wraps it around her index once, twice, before letting it come loose, free to fall like water against his collarbone. His cheek is warm when she cups it with her palm, and she revels in the way his jaw clenches beneath her touch, muscles shifting and locking in place.
“No” she admits, tracing the outer shell of his ear with her ring finger, nail dragging softly over tender skin. The points of them flush bright scarlet, and Mythal bites back a smirk. “You have not”.
Solas looks at her, unnaturally quiet and so very still under her scrutiny. She is sure he is holding his breath, his chest unmoving, a fierce blush steadily creeping up his collar — and she is quickly proven correct, for when she drops her gaze to his lips, Solas parts them with a quiet, shaky gasp.
It would be too easy, too natural to just lean forward, to close the distance between them, pull him down into a kiss she knows would turn into a heated clash of insatiable hunger.
But she does not. Instead, Mythal tightens her hold on him just enough to guide him gently down, to bring her lips a mere breath from his, and no further.
“Go on, then” is all she says in a low murmur, like a whispered secret. It is not a command, but it is no begging, either. She does not say please. She does not need to.
Solas lowers his hands from her face, letting them trail down the arched column of her throat, bringing them to rest on the curve of her shoulders. His fingers know their way to the clasp on her collarbone with unspoken familiarity, opening its lock with two fingers and a loud, satisfying click.
“Ma nuvenin” he says, the ghost of a kiss delighting her nerves, before he falls to his knees.
Once the clasp is undone, it is of little effort for her robes to unfold, falling open over her front with barely a nudge. She lets them slide off her arms as he watches, the slight chill in the evening air raising goosebumps on her naked skin.
Solas does not tease, but he does not rush. His palms are broad and warm as they splay over the sides of her legs, hitching up what little fabric remains, his lips wandering the now exposed flesh of her stomach in a steady, downwards line. He takes his time, nose brushing against her navel as his mouth dotes on the delicate skin just below, tracing the swell of her belly with just a hint of tongue and the slightest drag of teeth.
If she had been a more patient woman, perhaps Mythal might have let him go on for as long as he wished, indulging in his private kind of worship until she could take it no more, alight with tenderly coaxed desire. Many were the times in which she had been all too happy to give in to such veneration, savouring each burning kiss, every pleading, muffled noise. But, as it was, she is not a patient woman.
Mythal slides her fingers in his hair and makes him raise his head from where it nestles, spreading her legs further open. She does not need to look down at herself to know what he must see, can feel the hot slick stick to her thighs as her lips part with the movement. But it is still with immense satisfaction that she takes in his reaction, the way he swallows thickly, sharply inhaling through his nose, pupils blown.
She does not urge him forward, although her palm remains firm, nails dragging slightly over his scalp in carefully disguised impatience. Solas keenly dips his head down of his own accord, taking but a moment to look up, before prying open her lips with the flat of his tongue.
Mythal closes her eyes, letting her head fall back against the headrest with a barely suppressed sigh. She had missed this, in all those months of turmoil, when her time had stopped being her own and rest had been a luxury. Distractions were not contemplated, not in such dire circumstances — but she would be a horrible liar, if she were to pretend there had been no desperate nights spent in a haze of need, fingers buried up to the knuckles in her own heat, the thought of his hips against hers the tipping point into oblivion.
Solas’ mouth is cool against her skin, the pleasant contrast leaving each point of contact scorching. He wastes no time, does not need to find a way to make her reel; gone are the days where he had been no more than a pup, fumbling between the sheets in a tumble of clumsy limbs. He knows, now, what makes her fold.
A small, greedy sound escapes him as he presses himself closer, his lips coming up to wrap around her clit, his mouth wet with her arousal. He is not afraid to use pressure, working the tip of his tongue in lazy circles that make her mind swim, the pounding in her head blissfully gone and forgotten. All that remains is the erratic thump of her own heart in her heaving chest, faltering each time he sucks harder, eyes fixed on her like a pupil awaiting praise.
Mythal will ask herself, someday, as he will kneel for her not in blind devotion but in exhausted loyalty, face bare and eyes sharp and brow furrowed, how he had ever been that soft. She will ask herself, in thousands of years, when the echo of his unbloodied fingers tracing the curves of her in pious prayer has become nothing but a memory, if sharpening him to the keenest of blades truly had been worth the loss of such purity.
But here, now, she does not think. The breeze that comes from the silent gardens is fresh, the smell of blossoms heavy with dewdrops filling her lungs as she breathes in, mouth parted around a moan she allows herself to let out.
Solas does not stop, and he does not tire. Rare are the moments where he lets himself gasp for air, heaving beautifully with his cheek against her sopping curls. She admires him then, that breathtaking shape he has taken — molded and sculpted not in arrogance or vanity, but in simple, lovely beauty.
If he catches her staring, he does not remark on it. He is back on her before she can utter a single word, nose buried in the dark hair of her mound, lips parted in perfect obedience. She feels raw and real, stripped of anything that makes her revered in places that do not matter. She is adored in truth now, a warm hand on her waist reaching in supplication, a hungry hand on her thigh clawing in desperation.
She loses herself in the feeling of his mouth, bucking mercilessly against the rough drag of his tongue and the wet heat of his lips. Desire curls in the pit of her stomach, a ravenous monster that eats and eats and keeps on starving, dragging her with the sharpest of claws to the edge of a mighty drop. She knows she will fly, if she lets herself fall into the nothingness below — but it is the plummeting she craves, the rush of wind howling in her ears, the blissful denial of gravity.
When she looks down, Solas is already looking up, pupils dark beneath fair lashes. His brow is pinched in focus, but in his eyes is a plea she cannot ignore, an eagerness to push her to her inevitable breaking point.
“Don’t stop” Mythal commands through gritted teeth, a moan that is a growl that is Solas’ name falling from her lips when he complies, picking up the pace with such fervor it makes her tremble.
A chuckle escapes him, the sound low and deep in his throat, and the corner of his mouth tilts slightly upwards even as he laps with not a fumble. She knows it is a boast to his pride, each time he makes her forget herself — and she will never admit to him how it charms her, how it utterly endears her to see that smug glint in his eyes.
Tonight, however, she has little intention to be prey.
With a harsh twist of her wrist, Mythal balls up her fist in his hair and pulls, hard. It is a heady feeling, that of being in control of such a man, and she does not ask for forgiveness for her indulgence as a broken gasp tears through him, the sound of it filthy and wet.
She holds him there for a moment, the column of his throat bared and bent, suspended by her will and her will alone. He is panting, mouth helplessly agape, slick dripping from the sharpest point of his exposed teeth down to the branches on his chin.
It is not an inescapable hold. He could break free in an instant, of that she is aware. To know that he does not wish to do so, prefers instead to be handled like a puppet gladly surrendering his own strings, makes it all the more delectable.
Mythal toys with the idea that she might just wait, bring him to the point of begging, pleading, of giving up pride for pleasure. But he is right there, warm and hungry, and she is so very close it hurts — and so she guides him back to where she wants him, jaw slack around a mouthful of her.
She does not last very long after that. He is feral, feverish, whimpering as he devours her, wild and unrestrained. It is altogether too much and not enough, her body screaming both for respite and harder, closer, blinding oversensitivity clouding her mind. Her thighs close around his face, muffling his voice, keeping him rooted in place — and perhaps it is too tight, perhaps he cannot breathe, but all she cares about is the way it makes him press his tongue almost punishingly hard against her cunt.
When she comes, it is with a silent scream, hunching forward like a rutting beast, his hair still taut in her fist.
Eventually she stops, the roiling waves of pleasure slowly ebbing to calmer waters. With her breathing still coming in ragged, Mythal releases the hold she has on him, letting Solas sit back with a slight stumble. A string of slick still tethers her to the corner of his mouth, and when she raises her hand to wipe it off, he closes his eyes with a shiver.
He is quite the sight, panting on the marble floor by her feet, long limbs sprawled and trembling. His tunic had slipped from his shoulders some time before, laying pooled at his waist and letting her behold the long, red marks marring his skin. She does not recall the moment she must have clawed at him, but they suit him better than any jewelry.
She takes her time, examining him in the aftermath of her satisfaction, hair down and tousled, a high flush on his cheeks. She strokes the lines there with the back of her knuckles, allowing herself a moment to delight in the faint song they sing.
Solas does not seem to mind the way she studies him. He is docile and pliant under her touch, following the way she leads as easily as breathing. When she tilts his face upwards and rubs her finger over his slicked, reddened lips, he eagerly parts them, accepting the press of her thumb on the flat of his tongue with a quiet whine.
It is cruel of her, to deny him any further. She knows as much. His attempts to hide his need by shifting minutely under her ministrations border on pathetic, and it does nothing to quench the beast that paces in the hollow of her ribs. She can see his cock strain against his tunic, white silk wet and translucent where it pressed and leaked — but he does not complain, and Mythal does not pride herself on being a selfless woman.
With a small turn of her hand, she swaps her thumb for two of her fingers, rubbing the pads of them on the dip of his tongue, teasing them further in. His response is immediate, cheeks hollowing out to obediently suck on them, accepting the way she thrusts them with a quiet hum.
She is slow, at first, playing with him as one would an instrument that requires nothing more than a gentle plucking. He is receptive, eager to please, each nerve responding so beautifully to the smallest of touches. His parted thighs tremble, his hands dutifully fisted in his own robes to keep so very still, and she craves to the point of insanity. Keeping her gaze fixed on his, she picks up the pace.
Solas’ eyes are glassy, hazy and unfocused. His hand comes up to grasp at her wrist, so tight it might just bruise; she hopes it does, revels in the fantasy of hiding such marks of possession, of desperate lust. It is unclear, whether he wants to placate her or goad her. She does not think he knows, either.
In retaliation, she pushes her fingers in deeper, dipping them up to the knuckle in the soft heat of his mouth. Solas takes the slide of them past the ring of his throat with a muffled, needy sound, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, but he does not try to pull away. If anything, he tries to get closer, knees spreading further apart on the ground with the motion.
The moment she releases his throat he breathes in a shuddering breath, desperately gasping for air in a pained, disappointed moan. When he bows his head once more to kiss her fingers, trying to take them back into his mouth, she is quick to grab his chin, stilling him between thumb and forefinger.
“Enough” Mythal commands, words as gentle as she can muster, voice rough with want. Her self control strains beneath the weight of his eagerness, longs for nothing more than to ruin him beyond reason. “I reckon you have earned more than this”.
She lets go of his face in order to straighten in her seat, Solas’ expecting gaze following her every movement. He looks confused, winded, takes in the slow settling of her palms on the armrests with puzzled anticipation.
With a slow, deliberate shift, Mythal extends her leg towards him, slotting it in between his parted ones. It is both an invitation and a dare, a careful move in a game she knows she will always win. When her shin brushes against him, hard and aching, he almost screams, smothering the sound behind a trembling fist.
“You have been so good, love” she praises, carding her fingers through his hair in a soothing caress. “Take what you need”.
Hesitation flashes in his eyes, conflict waging an obvious war in his head. It is clear that he is growing more frantic by the second, if the involuntary bucking of his hips is of any indication; but still he stops himself, searches her expression for one last confirmation, for complete certainty that he is allowed to want this. When she gives him a small, perfunctory nod, all semblance of control shatters.
Solas’ arm wraps around her leg, nails digging half moons in the firm muscle of her calf as he presses himself flush against it, letting out a shaky, drawn out whimper. He straddles the curve of her ankle, all decency either lost or forgotten, hips desperately stuttering forward, chasing what little relief he might get from so little friction.
Mythal has seen desperate dogs, poor rutting mutts howling pitifully with need, trading dignity for the compulsory call of nature. He is not so different, she thinks as she watches his ears flatten further with each drag against her skin, humping her leg with frenzied abandon — for a wolf truly is no more than a dog, when leashed.
“Vh— ah” Solas bites down on his lip, words cut off by his own broken moan. He shuts his eyes tightly, turning his head to the side just enough to hide his face in her thigh. A quiet curse escapes him in a hiss from between clenched teeth, his breath laboured and hot when he exhales over her skin. “Mythal, please, please”
He does not even seem to register his own litany of supplications as they fall from his mouth, too lost in the heat, rutting helplessly against her. His movements, although laced with a modicum of embarrassment, are desperate and primal, one hand slipping in between their bodies to paw at himself, working faster and faster beneath his robes.
She takes pity on him. He looks dizzy, lost, his cock painfully hard in his own punishing grasp, leaking on her skin — and so she cups the back of his head with her palm, moving him about as effortlessly as one would a doll, to bury his face once more between her legs.
It will be too tender, too soon, but she pays it no mind. The way he groans, breathing her scent in like a fevered animal, doting over the mess of his own making, is way above any brief discomfort. His tongue is soft as he warms her with it once more, lips buried in thick curls, leaving open mouthed, drunken kisses over pleasantly sore skin.
She knows he is close by the way his muscles shift, drawn up like a whipcord ready to snap. He thrusts into his fist harder, rubs against her faster, and when he comes it is with a muted cry, the sound breaking low in his throat. It reverberates through her bones by point of contact as he spills into his hand in short bursts, hips working helplessly forward, chasing the sensation for as long as he is able.
It subsides slowly, erratic strokes turning into placid, shallow thrusts, his cock twitching still by her feet.
“Thank you” Solas chokes out in a strained whisper. His mouth forms the words clumsily, slurring them as if drunk, eyes half lidded with exhaustion. “Thank you”.
She cannot help the way she smiles as she pets his hair, taking in the way his shoulders relax and his breathing quiets, the tumultuous hammering of his heart evening out to a gentle drumming. He is so very sweet, temple resting on the inside of her thigh, fingers absentmindedly tracing lines on the tender skin of her heel.
With one last, deep sigh, Solas cracks one eye open. That grin she so adores is back, his expression filled with languid mirth. He looks at her fondly from his spot on the floor, nuzzling his cheek on her lap with a soft chuckle that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
“Feeling better?” he asks with a teasing lilt to his voice, but the question is genuine, the faintest hint of worry lacing the words. He cares for her, perhaps to a fault, his heart bared like a delicate bloom.
A sudden laugh of her own startles them both, bubbling up her throat unbidden. She still feels boneless from release, her head blessedly devoid of thoughts and hurts alike, leaving her pleasantly giddy with freedom. Bowing forward in one fluid motion, Mythal takes his face in her hands, placing a cool, lingering kiss on his lips.
“You could say I’m quite cured, yes” she smiles, reluctant to pull back just yet. Solas’ hand comes up to cup her own, tilting his head to the side to meet her touch. He beams up at her, as bright as sunlight over water, and she loves him so hard it takes her breath away.
Tomorrow, the world will unavoidably press on closer, trying with all its might to break them beneath its wretched duties. Tomorrow, he will once again stand one step behind her, the mantle of worship as heavy as her crown, leaving the fragile and fleeting hopes of lovers at the threshold of a dream.
But for now, they have the night.