The Inquisitor doesn't let her

The Inquisitor’s smile turned predatory. His hand tightened in Solas’s hair, not pushing him away, but holding him still. “Assist? No, Lace.” His voice was a low growl of pure command. “You’ll watch. I want you to see what happens to the man who tried to tear down the world.”

With a powerful heave, he pulled Solas up by the arms. Solas went fluidly, his body arching, a soft gasp escaping him as he was maneuvered. The Inquisitor shifted on the throne, pulling Solas backward until he was straddling his lap, facing away. He wrapped one thick, arm around Solas’s chest, pinning him, and hooked the other under his thigh, hiking it up. The position bent Solas forward, exposing him completely.

Lace’s breath hitched. She shuffled closer on her knees, her eyes wide, drink and boredom forgotten.

The Inquisitor’s free hand reached down, fingers glistening from Solas’s own saliva. He didn’t bother with more preparation. He guided the thick, ruddy head of his cock to Solas’s tight entrance and pressed.

Solas hissed, his head dropping back against the Inquisitor’s shoulder. His knuckles turned white where they gripped the arm locked across his chest. “Vhenan…” he breathed, a plea and an encouragement woven together.

“You wanted this,” the Inquisitor grunted, not stopping. He pushed, a relentless, slow invasion. The resistance was palpable, a tight, clenching ring of muscle that yielded only to sheer, dominant pressure. Lace watched, mesmerized, as inch after thick inch disappeared into Solas’s body. A shudder wracked the elf’s slender frame. His cock, which had softened slightly, sprang back to full, aching hardness, bouncing against his stomach.

When he was fully sheathed, the Inquisitor paused, letting Solas adjust. Sweat beaded on Solas’s brow. His chest heaved. Then the Inquisitor began to move.

It wasn’t gentle. It was a brutal, pistoning rhythm that rocked Solas’s entire body with each thrust. The slap of skin on skin was a sharp counterpoint to the moans and wet sounds of the hall below. The Inquisitor used his hold to lift and drop Solas onto his cock, driving up into him with deep, grinding rolls of his hips.

“Is this what you wanted, hahren?” the Inquisitor growled into his ear, the ancient elven word a taunt. “To be filled? Taken?”

Solas’s answer was a broken, guttural sound. His composure shattered. His eyes were screwed shut, his mouth open in a silent cry that finally found voice as a sharp, ragged moan. “Yes!”

He was close. Lace could see it. His cock, flushed a deep violet, jerked with each inward plunge. A clear strand of precum dripped onto the Inquisitor’s thigh. Solas’s hand flew to his own length, fisting it in a frantic, uncoordinated rhythm.

“Don’t you dare,” the Inquisitor commanded, his pace becoming punishing, each thrust jolting a sharp cry from Solas’s throat. “You cum when I let you.”

But it was too late. The command came as Solas was already tipping over the edge. His body went rigid, seizing in the Inquisitor’s iron grip. A raw, **** shout tore from his lips, completely unlike his usual measured tones. “Fenedhis!”

His release was wild, uncontrolled. Thick, pearlescent streaks shot across his own stomach and chest, splattering onto the fur rug between Lace’s knees. His hips bucked helplessly, riding out the waves of sensation as the Inquisitor never stopped, never slowed his relentless fucking.

“Please,” Solas begged, his voice a wrecked whisper, his head lolling. “More. I need… I cannot… please, vhenan, do not stop.” He was oversensitive, trembling, but his words were pure, frantic need.

The Inquisitor gave a dark, satisfied chuckle. He adjusted his grip, locking Solas into an even tighter hold, and redoubled his efforts. The wet, squelching sounds grew louder. Solas whimpered, a high, broken sound, his spent cock giving a feeble twitch.

Lace watched, her own core clenching with a hot, sudden ache. This was what she’d been missing. The consumption. The loss of control. Not just a mouthful of cum from a trembling recruit, but this… this utter devouring. She licked her lips, her hand creeping unconsciously to the laces of her own trousers.

The Inquisitor’s breaths became ragged grunts. His thrusts lost their rhythm, becoming shorter, harder, more frantic. His face was buried in Solas’s neck, teeth scraping the pale skin. Solas was limp in his arms, a puppet of pleasure, taking every brutal inch, his pleas now just soft, continuous sighs.

“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” the Inquisitor growled, the words rough with strain.

And with one final, deep, grinding thrust, he stilled. A long, shuddering groan vibrated through his chest into Solas’s back. Lace could see the powerful clench of his jaw, the cords standing out in his neck. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, as he emptied himself inside the trembling elf.

For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant echoes of pleasure from the hall.

Slowly, the Inquisitor loosened his hold. Solas slumped forward, barely caught by the Inquisitor’s arms before he crumpled to the rug. He was a mess—covered in his own release, sweat-slicked, breathing in shallow hitches.

The Inquisitor leaned back on his throne, spent, his own chest glistening. He looked at Lace, his eyes dark and sated. “See something you like, Scout?”

Lace’s mouth was dry. Her fingers were still hooked in her laces. She looked from the Inquisitor’s smug, satisfied face to Solas’s ruined, beautiful form on the furs, and then back. The bored numbness was gone, burned away by a sharp, coiling heat.

“I think,” she said, her voice husky, “I’d like something hardcore.”