Cool Justice

Present for Tasmen.

His hands are not gentle and it is exactly what you need. Every nerve in your body is tight with tension and anger and responsibility and choice and you want to scream out in frustration until your lungs give out but kissing him does just as well. Your back is against the wall and his weight presses against you and it is a twisted comfort to be with someone who has no illusions of your fragility. You pull at his clothes and he pulls at yours and no time is taken for passion. Even lust is vaguely absent in this as need courses through your veins and you step from your leggings, his shirt is discarded.

You are naked from the waist down and his hand is under your shirt, pinching and pulling and your mouth tears from his to gasp at the sensation.

He is looking at you with nothing but intent and his thigh pushes between your legs and slightly up and oh it's exactly what you need and his stubble is rough and foreign on your throat and this is nothing at all like what you've grown accustomed to. There is nothing bashful or sweet and your heart soars as you push him away from you and towards the bed and down. He works his own trousers open as you climb atop him and you are aching and wanting and ready.

There is no pretense here, you take him inside and rock your hips, fast and hard and he looks up at you with something between grim determination and reverence.

And you're riding waves of want and yes and please but you don't know why you've picked him. There were other options. Other men that could be below you right now, fingers digging into your skin and hips bucking with your every movement. Zevran would have been more than happy, no coercion necessary and you are sure he would have bedded you with skill and ease. Perhaps Teagan... a smile, some wine... you are confident you could have swayed him in your direction.

But both of those men would have been too nice.

Nice is not welcome here.

You picked him because he is not nice. He is rough edges and dirty fingernails and Orlesian which would have horrified your father but most of all he does not care what kind of lady you are supposed to be. His destiny is yours, burned into your blood by a calling you cannot control and there will be no hidden birthright, nothing bigger than yourself to tear you apart from this momentary expression of physical pleasure.

The thought is enough to push you over the edge, tightening and rocking your hips with each wave of sensation even as he tenses beneath you, one hand slapping your hip as he groans beneath you.

You do not speak afterward. Clothes return to bodies and you slip outside into the hallway of Redcliffe Castle.

You are not the only one going to another bed. But it is hardly surprising. Head held high your eyes meet his defiantly. Restless anger crawls under your skin and this is a new ache. Say something. Just try and act righteous now.

But he does not dare and you push past him, your body singing where you touch and all you can think is that you hope you didn't imagine his flinch.

Serves you right, your Majesty.