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Bran blinks away blood and sweat and Maker knows what else as she limps her way back over to her companions. It doesn't even occur to her to heal her ankle—twisted in a fall running from a red templar—and the withering glare Mahanon gives her when she looks at him askance when he reminds her that yes, she is a mage with magic and an affinity for healing (no matter how much she may wish to deny it) is enough to have her ducking her head guiltily.
"Is everyone alright?" A grumble of assent answers her, and Bran allows Mahanon to pull her over to a fallen log, away from the others, who busy themselves looting the bodies of the rogue templars. He mutters something less-than-savory about stubborn shem women, tone as harsh as his hands are gentle. Bran grimaces as he removes her boot (she really should take Vivienne up on the older mage's offer to take Bran shopping for better-fitting clothes).
"By the Creators, woman. Have you no sense of self-preservation?" Mahanon's gold-green eyes watch her face with an intensity that borders on uncomfortable. One corner of Bran's mouth quirks up in a rueful smile.
"I do; I just—" she laughs. "I just don't listen to it."
Mahanon's expression darkens briefly; the mage cups his face in her hands and leans her forehead against his. His skin is warm and smells like the forest after a storm. "I am sorry, my love. I don't intend to get injured.”
The elf's hands slide up Bran's legs (hips wide, waist plump; curves in places he is unused to) and over her shoulders before coming to rest in a similar position. His long, calloused fingers tangle in the chestnut hair at the back of her neck and he sighs, "I know, vhenan. I just—" He pulls back, eyes studiously avoiding her grey ones. "I hate seeing you in pain. I—I couldn't help you.”
He's angry with himself, Bran realizes. She traces the green-inked vallaslin on his coppery cheekbones with feather-light fingers. "Mahanon. Mahanon Lavellan, look at me." She uses her Inquisitor Voice (the undercurrent of nobility; of one well in command of a situation), the one she only usually uses with visiting dignitaries or when she's saying something very important.
"Listen to me very carefully, my love: you do all that you can, and that is above and beyond what I ask—beyond what the Inquisition asks—of you. It is more than I would expect anyone to give, and I do not hold you responsible when you cannot rush to my side because you're fighting to stay alive.
"Just knowing that you care enough to tell me to get my head out of the clouds and that you keep my feet on the ground is more than anything I could ever ask of you. I wish I could be better, for both my sake and yours. I would not have you rush into danger for some perceived or actual threat on my behalf..." Branwen takes his hands in hers and stands (she's proud that she doesn't wince once), pulling him up with her. She stands on tiptoe to press a gentle kiss to the side of his mouth, lingering just long enough to meet his eyes.
Mahanon looks at her, fondness evident in his gaze. His lips curl in a gentle smile, "Ma’fenorain. Ma ema ma vhenan a da’laven. Ma’asha, ma’vhenan."
She cocks her head, hair falling like a wave of silk across her shoulders, "What did that mean? I understood the first bit..." Bran feels the beginnings of a blush creeping over her skin, tiny pinpricks spreading across her breast and neck. "Do you really—I mean, am I really—?"
His mouth is gentle on her temple. Voice low, he answers her, "You know I do not say what I do not mean. You are that and more. Ma ane ma’tarasyl." Bran's blush is blotchy and varying shades of crimson and he loves it.
Bran whines as Mahanon's teeth graze the shell of her ear (rounded and soft and her), one hand tangling in his blue-black hair and the other grasping at his breastplate.
"The others—they'll come looking for us when we don't—" Her voice is cut off as he closes his mouth on the juncture between her neck and shoulder (sometimes she thinks he knows her body better than she does). It's not so much a bite as a warning nip, really. Mahanon nuzzles the skin behind her ear, breathing in Bran's scent (the spicy cedar wood of her magic, the softer Orlesian honeysuckle cream she so enjoys). Home, he thinks. This is what home is, what home should be.
The thought does not startle him, and that in itself is what alarms him. Yes, he has become very... fond... of the human woman, and he enjoys her company more than he probably should, but he has seen the disparaging looks which the more important guests at Skyhold throw at them, at him, when they pass by. He knows - in the small part of his rational mind that still functions as Bran tugs on his lower lip with blunted teeth—that their liaison (he still hasn't figured exactly what it is they are) will do nothing to help Bran's reputation amongst her peers. But, with her mouth hot on his and the taste of her on his tongue, he really cannot bring himself to care.
Bran pulls back, eyes shining with mirth, mouth swollen and a delightful shade of red. Mahanon is breathing hard, pants uncomfortably tight as he steps towards Bran, intending to pull her back against his chest and kiss her senseless. She steps back again, a wicked grin spreading across her face, "Chase me." She darts away into the trees, merry laughter falling from her lips.
Mahanon's brow rises. Chase her? He smirks rakishly. If she wishes to be chased, so be it.
Bran glances back over her shoulder, pulling to a stop. The clearing was empty. Completely empty. What? She moves to go back when a blur of green and brown barrels into Bran, knocking her on her back. Spluttering, she narrows her eyes at her attacker and pouts, "Not fair."
Amusement glimmers in Mahanon's eyes as he straddles Bran's waist, grinning, "Vhenan, you never asked me to play fair."
She gives him a Look, then lightly hits his chest with the palm of her unmarked hand, sending a tiny ripple of electricity over his skin (not to hurt, just enough to get him to shiver). Something in his gaze shifts, eyes darkening. He leans over her, skimming his hands up her sides (she squirms, ticklish). Bran shivers as they pause over her breasts. Mahanon looks at her, a smile of less-than-pure-intentions pushing the emerald-inked vallaslin up on his cheeks.
He pinches her nipples.
Bran sucks in a breath, pushing her chest against his clever, clever fingers. She whines when he tweaks one, "Mahanon. Please—!"
"Please, what?" The warrior quirks an eyebrow. She growls.
"You—insufferable—!" Bran surges up, wrapping her fingers around the edges of his pauldron and presses her mouth against his. Mahanon smiles against her, hands falling to grip her hips tightly. She slides into a sitting position against him, settling with his thigh between her legs.
The mage pulls back, pupils blown and a flush high in her cheeks. Her fingers fumble with the buckles holding his armor together, clumsily undoing one after another. Mahanon is content to merely sit and watch her until her knee brushes his cock through his pants. A sharp breath on her part, a low groan on his, and then he's got Bran cornered against a crumbling boulder, pulling at the ties of her robe and letting it fall down to her hips, baring her to him.
Mahanon’s mouth goes dry. She isn’t wearing a breast band.
Her skin is all gooseflesh and freckles in the speckled forest light. Mahanon buries his face into her shoulder, mumbling endearments in elvhen against her skin. He shivers as Bran traces a finger over the shell of his ear, the skin there all silky-soft and overly sensitive. Mahanon slides his mouth over her shoulder, down her collarbone and then—Oh!—his mouth is hot on her breast, tongue flicking and tantalizing just around the pink of her areola.
Bran's fingers dig into his shoulders as his teeth graze her nipple. She lets out an obscene sound that will (most probably) have her ears red when she stops to think back on this. Mahanon growls deep in his chest in response, and pulls back, eliciting another embarrassing whine from the mage. The girl lets out a surprised squeak when he falls to his knees, pulling the rest of her robe down with him.
Mahanon leans his forehead against the soft curve of her stomach, eyes closed, nose resting just above where the coarser, coppery hairs cover her most sensitive skin. He can smell her, all arousal and woman and Bran. She shivers, hands clenching at her sides, as he moves lower, lower—
"Nggh—!" The sensation of the elf's tongue slipping in, tasting, touching, memorizing as if he's never done so before, is—as always—an intoxicating experience for both parties. He laps at her, mouth softer than it looks and so, so talented. Bran shudders, his name on her lips. Her legs go boneless and she nearly falls backwards (Mahanon wonders how it is that she somehow ends up falling over every time they… fuck). Mahanon catches the woman with a satisfied grin.
"Enjoy that, did you?" Bran can't even manage a half-convincing glare.
"Oh, you know, just as much as I have before," she snarks. Mahanon kisses Bran, tongue tangling with hers. She can taste herself on his lips, slightly bitter and sweet all at once. Bran runs a finger down his chest, hooking it in the waist of his pants when she comes down to it. A wicked grin, "Shall I return the favor?"
He shrugs, deceptively nonchalant, "If you must," he drops his voice to a rough whisper, "but I can think of better ways to reward me for a job well-done..."
Bran catches his drift and her smile—if possible—grows wider. “I can do that,” she drawls, tugging on his trousers. She makes short work of them, all the while intentionally accidentally rubbing up against him in inappropriate ways—the tickle of fingers dangerously close to his dick, her mouth lingering on the curve his ear; the brush of her breast on his arm.
Mahanon is achingly hard when she slowly, torturously, pulls his smalls off. His cock springs free of its confines and Bran sits back on her heels for a moment, drinking in the sight of her lover—Is that what we are?—naked and panting and glorious. She ducks her head quickly, running the tip of her tongue up his length. Mahanon curses, “Ver’em sahlin, Branwen. Ar isalan na—”
His words cut off abruptly, turning into a gasp as Bran sinks down onto him with a sigh. Wet, silky smooth— The elf can never manage to fully articulate how perfect it feels to slide into her, how right they fit together. For several tantalizing seconds, Bran holds herself on her knees, unmoving, just feeling Mahanon tremble beneath her. His hips twitch against hers.
She begins to move. Her pace is agonizingly slow. Mahanon fights to keep the needy noises he feels rising in his throat behind clenched teeth. Bran’s eyes are glazed over, heavy-lidded and unseeing; she sees nothing, feels nothing but the rough-soft skin of his cock rubbing against her. Bran takes Mahanon to the edge of sweet release, and keeps him there. A growl rumbles low in his chest.
“Fenedhis, woman. Isalan gara suin na,” Mahanon moves suddenly, and Bran finds herself on her back with grass tickling her spine. His hands are on her shoulders, pinning her beneath him as she wriggles, the itch of dewy grass almost distracting her from the heat between her thighs—almost, but not quite. She looks up at her paramour with wide eyes, grey almost completely obscured by the inky black of her pupils. Her hand reaches up, trailing trembling fingers over the tattoos that dedicate him to the keeper of secrets—Dirthamen, Bran absently remembers. Mahanon leans into her touch, pressing his cheek into the palm of her hand. A soft smile curves his mouth.
“Mahanon…” Bran leans up as much as she can and presses a tentative kiss to his lips, “Ar lath ma.” His eyes widen. She knows—? What?
“Do you know what you are saying?” A barely visible nod. He pulls back ever so slightly, expression a cross between lust and something softer, sweeter. Mahanon looks as though he is searching Bran’s face for some tell that she is lying (Why would I lie to him?), then he kisses her hard and thrusts his hips against hers. Her rosebud mouth opens in a strangled cry as she is pushed into that beautiful oblivion that only he can send her to, and then they’re both bowstring-taut and shaking in tandem.
Mahanon falls forward onto his elbows, balancing over Bran so as not to injure her (not that he could; he weighs maybe a little more than she). His eyes are half-shut. Bran puts one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his waist; pulls him flush against her. Her heart feels like it’s been replaced with a globe of magic that’s expanded and completely encompassed her with a warm, slow-moving contentment. Bran maneuvers herself and buries her nose in Mahanon’s hair. He mumbles something into her breasts.
“What? Didn’t catch that.”
He raises his head, eyes bright. “Let’s do this again, the next time we’re out.”
Laughter burbles in her chest, a rich, throaty sound that has Mahanon smiling along with her, “I’ve no objections to that. … We should probably get back to camp.”