... call this a companion piece to A Room of Her Own. :)
*
Teagan undresses Bethany slowly. He unfastens the buckles on her supple Warden armor and draws it down to her waist, taking the opportunity to press a line of kisses down her spine. She shivers under his touch. “Teagan,” she murmurs.
“Shhhh. Just let me.” She’s tried to tell him about Kirkwall several times. But every time she starts to put the battle into words, her voice breaks, and Teagan can’t bear to hear it. So, he turns her around and claims her mouth, swallowing any further words with a kiss that feels more desperate on his end than on hers. She took so long to come back to Ferelden, months during which the Wardens couldn’t tell him where she’d gone, months that he was sure she was dead. Months in which he realized exactly how much Bethany meant to him. There aren’t words for it - words would be unfair to her right now, with all the emotions storming in her eyes - but he can tell her with his hands. With his arms. With his lips, which brush reverently against the pulse in her throat. He lingers there, feeling the steady beat, letting it steady him.
Bethany’s arms come around him, and for a few moments, she cradles Teagan against her breast. He feels her lips in his hair, and she whispers something too soft for him to hear. Perhaps it’s nothing meant for his ears. The words he mouths into her neck aren’t for hers.
He pulls away long enough to remove her armor entirely. She has a new scar, a nasty line that runs down her entire right side, ending at her hip. Bethany closes her eyes and turns her head away from him when he touches it. He won’t ask - maybe not ever, not if she doesn’t want to tell him - but he leans over far enough to press his lips to the top of the scar. He trails down her side slowly, letting his tongue feel the texture of the healed flesh, the slight raise where skin has knitted together again. When he reaches her hip, he slides his hands underneath her buttocks and slides her farther up the bed.
She opens up for him instinctively, no longer shy about being spread out for his pleasure. Teagan looks up at her; her eyes are moist, her jaw trembling slightly. When he bends his neck and presses a kiss into the wet heat of her, he thinks he hears a soft sob.
He spends hours making sure her sobs come purely from pleasure, and not from pain. It’s all the comfort he can give her, or himself.
Language or the Kiss (Bethany/Teagan, R-ish)
*
Teagan undresses Bethany slowly. He unfastens the buckles on her supple Warden armor and draws it down to her waist, taking the opportunity to press a line of kisses down her spine. She shivers under his touch. “Teagan,” she murmurs.
“Shhhh. Just let me.” She’s tried to tell him about Kirkwall several times. But every time she starts to put the battle into words, her voice breaks, and Teagan can’t bear to hear it. So, he turns her around and claims her mouth, swallowing any further words with a kiss that feels more desperate on his end than on hers. She took so long to come back to Ferelden, months during which the Wardens couldn’t tell him where she’d gone, months that he was sure she was dead. Months in which he realized exactly how much Bethany meant to him. There aren’t words for it - words would be unfair to her right now, with all the emotions storming in her eyes - but he can tell her with his hands. With his arms. With his lips, which brush reverently against the pulse in her throat. He lingers there, feeling the steady beat, letting it steady him.
Bethany’s arms come around him, and for a few moments, she cradles Teagan against her breast. He feels her lips in his hair, and she whispers something too soft for him to hear. Perhaps it’s nothing meant for his ears. The words he mouths into her neck aren’t for hers.
He pulls away long enough to remove her armor entirely. She has a new scar, a nasty line that runs down her entire right side, ending at her hip. Bethany closes her eyes and turns her head away from him when he touches it. He won’t ask - maybe not ever, not if she doesn’t want to tell him - but he leans over far enough to press his lips to the top of the scar. He trails down her side slowly, letting his tongue feel the texture of the healed flesh, the slight raise where skin has knitted together again. When he reaches her hip, he slides his hands underneath her buttocks and slides her farther up the bed.
She opens up for him instinctively, no longer shy about being spread out for his pleasure. Teagan looks up at her; her eyes are moist, her jaw trembling slightly. When he bends his neck and presses a kiss into the wet heat of her, he thinks he hears a soft sob.
He spends hours making sure her sobs come purely from pleasure, and not from pain. It’s all the comfort he can give her, or himself.