The Herald and The Apostate

III

Solas enters the war room in a huff.

She can tell instantly that there is heated rage under that pale, lyrium laced skin.  

The others know to leave.  They know something must be up.  Solas never comes to the war room.  Only in emergencies has he ever crossed the threshold to survey her progress against Corypheus.  

Cassandra grins over her shoulder wickedly, that impish I-know-what-you're-up-to look plastered all over her face.  Cullen, Josephine, and Leliana on the other hand seem entirely oblivious to the situation.  

Maeve can feel herself heating up with every purpose-filled stride he takes toward her.  It warms her, makes the space between her thighs clench excitedly, makes the pool in her trousers slick and lake-like.  

She knows he can sense it, the need in her, the untempered desire for his attention.  

He had been careless with it, had given it so freely that she was becoming greedy.  He knows he should do something about it, get her to understand that things cannot always be this way.  But now is not the time. 

Right now, he needs her.  

He picks her up with ease and places her on the edge of the war table.  His lips take hers, kissing her fiercely, giving her his tongue and relishing in the feel of her lovely, hot mouth.  As he kisses her, he forces her back, down onto the table, looking up at him with lust-lidded green eyes. 

"You didn't lock the door, Vhenan."  His eyes flick upward, to the door which he faces, his back to the stained glass windows.  She hears the bolt click as his own nimble hands work the ties on his pants and she smirks.  

She aches to touch him.  But it's clear he needs this.  He needs this control, this... whatever this is that he's feeling.  All she can  do is lie there, waiting, aching, writhing with heady need.  

He pulls her trousers from her legs without effort.  They come free with the simplest and quickest of movements, exposing her every vulnerable bit as he stares down.  

There's a glimmer of acknowledgement in his eyes, the acknowledgement of her lack of small clothes.  She's been waiting for him all day, hoping he would follow the trail of notes she'd left so carefully hidden for him.   

They were filthy, all of them.

Seeping with words of what she would beg for him to do to her.  The things he had and hadn't done.  The ways she wanted him, and where, and when.  The things she would gladly do to and give to him in return.  

Then, as suddenly as winter turns to spring in the Frostbacks, he's inside her.  

She can feel every twitching inch of him as he sighs in great, pleasurable relief.  His size is always a shock.  But she adjusts, reveling in the feeling of the magnificent stretch.  

Solas wastes no time in allowing her this adjustment though.  

He gives her every inch with speed and careful roughness.  Every thrust is calculated, angled to maximize pleasure and friction and need.  Maeve arks her back off the table, feeling the spiky poke of several war pieces biting into her shoulder.  Still, she relishes the pain, the glorious heat of it all adding to the climbing, raging fire within her.  

Solas holds her hips to the table, his pelvis meeting hers in a one-two-one-two beat.  Every movement is ecstasy, every caress of his lengthy cock by her dripping sex is heaven.  He can't control himself, can't stop himself from going harder, faster.  

Maeve only takes it with stride, forcing her hands up into her unruly brown locks, aching to do something with them rather than just ball them painfully at her sides.  

She can feel the minute slap of his lower sack swinging against her heat with each jut of his intoxicating, gyrating hips.  It only adds to her growing climax.  Everything builds and builds and builds until it feels like fire in her stomach.  

Not a peep from Solas, only minor grunts and gasps of white hot bliss generating vibrations from his groin.  His dick throbs with pain, a need to release, to let go of all the build up in him, all the blood she so expertly rushed into him with a few words on a page. 

"Fuck, Solas!  Faster!"  He obliges her sexy plea with a hearty growl.

Doing as she says, hammering into her faster now, he holds her by the shoulder and the hip, keeping her perfectly still for every hefty, sundering thrust.  He slams into that tight, hot core over and over again, watching as her eyes roll into the back of her head, as her limbs start to shake with frailty, as her voice starts to crack with the onslaught of ravenous orgasm.  

Everything goes black for a moment.  All life is struck from Thedas as she comes around him and there's nothing that matters more than she does, squeezing and constricting around him with high pitched cries of his name on her oh so alluring lips.  

There are spots in his vision as his cock unfurls within her, loosing everything he has to give, pushing it inside of her with a Godly skill none could possibly match.  

He groans, a loud, full, hearty groan and leans down to kiss her.  

Maeve is so out of breath, she can hardly form a coherent thought.  Somehow, words manage to escape her.  "What has gotten into you, Dread Wolf?"  She says teasingly as if unbeknownst to what she'd done to him so slyly.  

"I found your note, Da'ean."  

She giggles at this, peppering his collar with feather-light kisses.  "My note?  As in singular?"  He stops kissing the crane of her neck, going rigid suddenly. "There are more?"  He questions, nervous or incredulous or surprised.

Her laugh is full this time, heavy with the weight of giddy amusement.  "Many more, Vhenan."  She whispers against his skin, shifting her bum against the edge of the table in the slightest.  

Solas groans as she gyrates up onto him, stroking his hard cock with her soaking heat so aptly.  "You're trying to kill me, woman."  He mutters into her flesh with a smile, kissing her again and again as she pushes her pelvis up, meeting him with thrusts of her own.