She laughs, pulls him down onto the meditation couch and says, "Shh, quick, quick."
His mouth covers hers, pulling out another high giggle for him to catch on his tongue. The sensation of his small, neat mustache against her lip is new and exciting, as is the taste of his mouth--clean, vague tea. He tastes like his own wise words and the way that he smiles. Intense and gentle all at once. He tastes like this stolen moment, and fun secrets, and not as much like death as one might think.
She can't remember how they got here, or what she was doing before. It feels a little like her life began when he knelt between her thighs.
"C'mon," she says into his mouth, his searching tongue, and she hikes up the hem of the skirt she doesn't remember putting on. The smell of him is amazing, heightening the experience of his body against hers in a way that feels almost intoxicating. She is so desperate to feel him inside her that every second between now and their iminent coupling seems to stretch for an eternity.
"Sweet girl," he says against the hollow of her throat, and her back arches off the couch as pure reflex. He's face-down in her tits now, sucking a bruise onto one of them while his beringed hand skates up the swell of her thigh, dips underneath her ass and pulls her leg snug against his waist. Her hips accommodate the shape of him effortlessly, like they were hewn specifically to cradle him in the heated curve of her sex.
She thinks he was wearing trousers and a sash, as he usually is, but they are both gone all at once. In fact, very suddenly they're both naked aside from the tantalizing drape of her bright red skirt around her waist and his gold, clinking and singing as his body moves. She feels the head of his cock slide against the inside of her thigh, hot and damp and erotic. The anticipation of being fucked, being fucked by him, strikes through her body from the back of her throat to the depths of her cunt.
"Fuck me," she breathes, arms around his shoulders, thighs spread. "Please? Please?"
"You needn't beg, my love," he says, reaching down--his rings slide against her, cool amongst her heat. She shudders and giggles--ticklish despite herself. He smiles, a gentle curve to his lips and an echoing one in the facial hair above his lip, and there is so much love and sex flooded in her belly that she feels almost sick with it. His eyelids flutter as he slides into her. The apple in his throat bobs. She drags a kiss onto it.
"Yes," she sighs, head falling back against the couch cushion. "Oh, yes."
She wants him to go fast--because there's a feeling in the back of her head, though she doesn't know why, that they don't have much time. She thinks it has something to do with the door hiding behind the back of the couch, or the number of hours in the day. She wants him to go slow, because she feels safe here. He is inside her, around her, and she has never felt more cherished.
"Oh, oh," is all she can bring herself to say. She curls her fingers into the dip of his shoulder blades, indenting his skin with her blunt nails. He gasps against her ear, a shaking hand ghosting down her side and coming to rest around the thickest part of her thigh.
"I love you," he whispers. "Oh, I love you."
She groans, finds his hair with one hand and digs all five of her fingers into it. She has never felt so fucking wanted--
It falls away. Everything spins and, when she refocuses, she's on that Maker-forsaken cliffside. The gray expanse of Solas' Fade prison stretches out before her, stale air suffocating.
Mortifyingly, she can still feel the ghost of Emmrich inside her. The spectre of his hands and cock. Wetness between her thighs brought on by the dream of him.
"Fuck completely off," Rook snarls at Solas--the looming visage of her stoic, dis-a-fucking-proving God lurking on the other side of the crevasse. "I'm not talking to you right now. Are you kidding? Let me wake up."
Because he doesn't know what's good for him, Solas opens his mouth. "My apologies. I am not privy to what dreams your slumbering mind offers you before our link establishes itself."
"I'm sure you can assume," Rook says, patting at her body just to make sure her clothes are back. They are, as usual in this place, her Watcher's apron and armor. She wonders what her face looks like. "Fuck off, Solas. Let me wake up."
"You are in control of that particular function."
Rook offers him a middle finger for his trouble, and then she seems to fall face-forward.
Waking from the Fade prison is usually jarring. She snaps up, still dressed, sweating and hot as hell. She is still aching for a fuck--for the dick of a man who has never touched her with anything approaching lust.
"Shit," she breathes, palming her face. "Oh...dammit."
It isn't even the memory of his mouth and hands that stands out from the rapidly-fading dream. She has no way of knowing if the shape of his rings against her or the length of him are true--they are estimations of her dreaming mind. But she knows what his voice sounds like. She knows his smell from a few occasions where he'd stood too close.
She can still hear him say that he loves her.
"Fuck," she says, mourning the dream--and a few tears fall into her palms.
