The Tower

Sometimes, the outside world gets the idea that the Circle Tower is a prison, with mages and
templars in the place of inmates and jailors. It’s not entirely inaccurate, but not entirely true
either. The two are locked in together in a spiraling dance that sometimes even the most
devoutly chantry-bred can get caught up it.

Like looking at a flock of beautiful, exotic birds in a cage, sometimes you want very much to let
them out – even if their wings have been clipped.

It was well known, although rarely spoken of, that templars and mages took each another as
lovers often enough. Sometimes they would stick to their own ‘kind’, and perhaps that was more
common, but nonetheless, magic draws magic, no matter what the source.

That’s how it was with Junior Enchanter Moira and Ser Tymon after all, although they only
skidded along the rules, never quite able to take that finally leap from appropriate to something
more. Not that it was terribly appropriate for him to meet her off duty in the library, tonight
forgoing his armor, for their evening session of reading. And it really was as innocent as all that,
even if the literature they chose was far less than virtuous.


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Tymon:

All he’d ever done was kiss her. Not that Tymon hadn’t thought of more, but it would have
hardly been appropriate. Or at least in his mind. He never quite understood what went on
between her beautiful pointed ears, but he assumed she was far more willing than he was able to
think about. Well, able to think about and not make an ass out of himself.

Tonight had been especially distracting. Templar discipline or no, the book she’d chosen had
been especially graphic, not to mention she’d looked beyond delicious in her flimsy gold robes.
She was also quite thrilled at his lack of armor for the evening, and had crawled into his lap as
usual, wriggling her soft bottom against him and making little sweet sighs of pleasure as he read,
which almost completely undid him.

Maker’s Mercy, Tymon almost wished it had. Because after spending a good hour afterwards,
lavishing praise on the shell-like curves of her elven ears, and having her tangle her little cool
fingers through his long hair and kiss the short stubble along the ridge of his jaw . . . when they
finally said goodnight and she sauntered off with a wink, she left him with the most ridiculously
insistent erection of his life.

Thankfully, the barracks were quiet, and fairly empty. His own bed was in a far corner, leaving
several empty beds between him and the nearest sleeping brother. Tymon undressed to his small
clothes and slipped under his threadbare blanket, closing his eyes and trying to think of
something decidedly not erotic. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Moira’s face danced behind his eyelids; he heard her throaty laughter as he stumbled over his
words reading a particularly descriptive chapter. It was doing nothing to calm him. Instead, his
erection throbbed miserably in the confines of his smalls and he knew there was only one way he
was going to get any sleep tonight, and it wasn’t going to be by quoting the Chant.


Moira:

She was a wreck. Tymon was ever the consummate gentleman, and it was making her want him
more than she thought was even possible. She always had a soft spot for tall, handsome human
men, certainly. But he was special, and she found herself caring about him more than was
reasonable. This never ending waiting, this seduction that seemed to go on endlessly, it was
nearly more than she could take.

Before she’d started spending her evenings with him in the library, whenever she got an itch,
she’d find someone to scratch it. There was always someone interested in a tumble with her,
even just for a few minutes hiding behind a door or in a closet. But she just couldn’t bring
herself to touch anyone else anymore. It wasn’t as if they’d said anything; it wasn’t as if they
were in a relationship after all. But the mere thought felt like being unfaithful, and she just
couldn’t do it.

So she resigned herself to her bed. She lay on her side and closed her eyes, hoping thoughts of
tomorrow’s classes and tomorrow’s annoyances would be enough to distract her. But instead all
she could think of was how stupidly long Tymon’s eyelashes were framing his green eyes, how
soft his auburn hair felt tangled through her fingers, how his breath felt against her ears.

She squeezed her thighs together, giving in to the sweet throbbing ache between her legs. There
was no point in trying to deny it. Gently, she touched her mouth, remembering the sweet honey-
lyrium flavor of his lips. She trailed her fingers along her jaw, down the curve of her neck,
against the ridge of her collarbones. Kisses here too. But never any further.

But she could imagine.

Her fingers danced lower, over soft curves of her breasts. Her tapered fingers found a nipple,
already erect with the thought of his touch and she squeezed, feeling the echoing response
between her legs.

She bit her lip.


Tymon:

He slid his fingers inside the waistband of his smalls, almost delicately touching himself. He’d
made it a point to not do this; not give in to his urges – the Chantry taught him this was not for
him. This was for normal men, for men would could get married and have wives. Not for
templars vowed to serve the Maker and his bride instead. But underneath it all, he was still a
man and no amount of guilt or promises could change it.

He gripped the base of his cock, sliding his smalls down over his hips. His eyes closed, and his
hand still. There was a part of him that very much just wanted to get on with it, do what he
needed to, and fall asleep with his guilty conscience. But he couldn’t fully muster the urge to
feel so guilty.

What was so wrong with wanting a beautiful woman anyway? Yes, she was a mage and an elf,
but what did it matter really? He was a man, and she was a woman . . . Andraste’s Flaming
Sword . . . she was beautiful and sweet and kind and why would the Maker give him such desire
if he hadn’t meant for him to act upon it?

He moved his hand along his length, forgetting it was his own calloused hand and instead
imagining her pale, slender fingers moving against him instead.


Moira:

One hand still gently caressing the soft curves of her breasts, her other hand snaked down along
her belly. She bunched up her nightgown around her waist, quickly slipping her hand between
her legs. Over her small clothes first. Despite a general freedom with sex, she did this often
anyway. Sometimes it wasn’t worth the trouble to find someone else to help. And she’d learned
to move slowly. Somehow that made it all the more delicious.

She could felt that her smalls were damp already; Maker, they’d been soaked before she’d even
left the library. Tymon hadn’t been in armor tonight, and she had the distinct impression he’d
been trying to resist, but in her customary place on his lap tonight it took all her own discipline
not to rub herself against the thick ridge that appeared under her bottom when she read that
particular passage in their current story.

The little Orlesian minx in the tale had been first on her knees, and then on her back. Both
seemed like an excellent idea.

Unable to resist any longer, Moira moved her fingers under the cloth, touching herself carefully,
sliding her fingers against her warm folds and finally finding that perfect sweet spot. She arched
her back as a wave of pleasure washed over her.

It only it were Tymon’s fingers instead of her own.


Tymon:

He might have been innocent, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a vivid imagination. As his
hand moved rhythmically, he could just see Moira, just like in that chapter that nearly undid him.
He on his back and her, kneeling between his legs, her long red-gold hair brushing against his
thighs. Her petal pink lips moist from where her tongue darted out to moisten them and then, so
delicately, against the head of his cock.

But that wasn’t what he wanted; not really. As sweet as her mouth would feel against him; as
much pleasure as that would give him – that wasn’t the particular act that he wanted more than
anything. No point in denying it to himself, after all.

His hand still stroking languidly along his erection, he let his mind wander to where it really
wanted to go. Moira’s round white thighs draped over his shoulders and his face buried between
her legs.

He wanted to make her scream.

There mere thought sent a pulse through his cock. He stopped his hand for a moment, squeezing
tight. This was an image he wanted to play out in his head before this was over. Tymon could
only imagine how she might taste, but someday . . . someday he promised himself that he’d find
out, and rules be damned.


Moira:

The memory of being in his lap just wouldn’t let go. And creative as she was, she let her mind
wander as her fingers did. She wanted to be in the exact same place, snugly in his lap, except her
preference would have been without clothes and facing the other direction.

She could almost feel how it would be. Her legs straddled around him, the length of his cock
throbbing patiently against her, his mouth . . . Maker’s blood his mouth was a wonder . . .
traveling along her shoulders, nipping at her sensitive ears, making those little unintended sounds
he did sometimes.

Eventually, she wouldn’t be able to resist anymore. She’d have to lift herself up and angle her
hips, just so, until she could move and . . . her fingers slid lower. One, then two slipping inside
herself as she mind played out the image of her slowly working his cock inside of her.

Moira shuddered, moving her hand so her thumb could reach her clit and her fingers could slide
slowly inside her. Just like she would do with him, if given half the chance. Her fantasy had him
gripping the flare of her hips, his fingers digging into the soft skin as she worked herself against
him.

Maker. This needed to happen, and soon.


Tymon:

He could almost hear her voice inside his head, soft, pleading whimpers, half incoherent. She’d
whisper his name and it would be too much. He’d move then, crawling up over her, seeing her
flushed, with her hair splayed out against the pillows. Moira would grin up at him as he settled
between her legs; he knew how she was.

His hand moved quickly now. There was no more holding back.

Tymon couldn’t say this wasn’t the first time he’d imagined it. But each time, it got more vivid,
until he could almost feel it. She’d almost be radiating heat, she’d be so slick, to tight as he
moved forward finally, her body accepting him like she was made for him. The walls of her
body clenching sweetly around him.

He wanted to bury himself in her and never leave.

Tymon felt his balls draw up against the base of his cock. It was too much, almost too much
now. His mind whirled from one image to another.

Moira sprawled up underneath him; her legs wrapped around his waist. And then, flipping her
over on top of him. She’d throw her head back, and the little wench that she was, she’d start to
move in an uneven rhythm then, drawing it out, making him wait . . . .


Moira:

She worked with both hands now, her thighs tense, pressing against her hands. She’d always had
a vivid imagination, but never like this before, never so much like it was actually happening.

She just knew what it would be like; he’d fill her so completely – he was so much bigger than she
was after all. But there’d be no pain, she knew. He’d be so careful, so gentle that she would
have to take control, push him down on his back. She’d be the one to set the pace, slow at first.
Disjointed.

But then, unable to resist, she’d move quickly, her hips rising and falling, her hands splayed out
against the broad mass of his chest. She knew her head would fall back, just for a moment, her
hair brushing again her bottom and his thighs behind her. But only for a moment. She’d want to
see his face and look into his eyes.

Her hands moved with urgency now. So close. It was so close to the edge – like the edge of a
cliff and she couldn’t stop herself.

“Oh Maker, Tymon, ” she whispered, quiet enough so only her own ears could hear her.


Tymon:

His lips formed her name, though he dared mot say it aloud. It was too much. The image of her
riding him, sweat glistening on her pale skin, her pale hair flung over her shoulders and her eyes
riveted to his.

He felt his pleasure gather maddeningly. One last, rough pump of his hand, his hips pushing
forward instinctually, and then . . . it started to roll over him like a wave.


Moira:

Her entire body buzzed with pleasure.

Tymon’s lips. His eyes. His body pressed up again her.

Moira bit her lip to keep herself from crying out.


They:

. . .both shuddered, and it was then that it overtook them. Unbelievable pleasure, like the sky
opening up with rain, like the sun streaking through the clouds, like everything was finally right
with the world.

Uncontrollable pressure finally released . . .


Tymon:

“Moira,” he whispered, this time, not caring if anyone heard him. Slowly, his breathing began to
slow again, but his heart still pounded against his ribs.

There was nothing dirty, or wrong in how he felt about her. He was going to tell her. He had to.
He wasn’t going to spend one more night without her.


Moira:

She slid underneath the covers then, her nightgown still bunched around her waist, but too
content, too comfortable to care about it.

The only thing that would have made her happier was if her fantasies had been reality, and now,
instead of drifting off to the fade in her solitary bed, he would have been there with her. Her
imagination supplied that too – his large warm body curved up behind her, his arm draped over
her and their fingers tangled together.

And just like that, in a contented curve of bodies, they’d sleep together, safe in each other’s arms.