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Marcurio knew he couldn’t have her.
She was the Dragonborn. That fact alone placed her too high for him to reach, but it didn’t stop there. She was Harbinger of the Companions, Thane of the Nine Holds, champion of the Dawnguard...gods, she’d even thrown in with the Bards College. She’d been everywhere, done everything, saved the world, and who was he?
A pack mule, he thought, or perhaps a helping hand...not that she needed much help these days. She’d saved his hide countless times, and he liked to think that he’d saved hers at least once—that somehow, had he not been beside her for the last year, she wouldn’t have become the person she was. That without him, she wouldn’t have defeated Alduin.
Marcurio was no fool. He knew the power she held was entirely hers and took no credit for her achievements, but there was no denying the role he’d played in her growth. He knew her from the start. He knew her before.
A year ago, she’d stumbled into the Bee and Barb and, without so much as an introduction, handed him a meager purse of coins—everything she had, he later discovered—and begged him for help. She’d bitten off more than she could chew, a flaw she’d never really grown out of. She was weak, but determined. There was a fire in her that intrigued him, so much so that he’d accepted her paltry offer and made sure she stayed alive.
Now and then, she would dismiss him to finish some important Dragonborn business or Companions business or Dawnguard business or any number of tasks that he couldn’t be a part of, but whenever she returned for him, she’d grown stronger. There were always new scars and new stories to accompany them. Everything from her posture to the lilt in her voice was full of a certain urgency—a need to get things done, and get them done right. He watched her grow from someone only interested in the glory that came with killing dragons and other beasts to someone who greeted each day with the intent to change something for someone. No task was too menial...or too dangerous.
She was so much more than the dragon inside of her.
But when she set foot in the tavern that evening, she simply looked...tired. Exhausted, even, as if carrying the weight of an entire nation’s burdens had finally started cutting into her shoulders. The unkempt hair, dirty armor, and general air of disarray was nothing to fret over—it was the dark circles that spread under her eyes like bruises, the gentle slouch in her shoulders, and the hollowness in her voice as she spoke to Keerava that caused his brow to furrow.
All the same, his heart quickened at the sight of her. Shadows dripped down the planes of her dragonbone armor, and her famous crossbow was strapped to her back. Vahstrun, she called it. Spring storm. Even from a distance, he could sense the faint traces of electrical energy writhing beneath the metal.
“Marc!” she called, waving him over.
He rolled his eyes but tossed her a smirk, rising from his seat and joining her at a table in the corner of the common room, away from the many curious eyes that watched her with awe and reverence.
“Silver. Been a while.”
Her grin faded into a grimace. “So long that you must’ve forgotten how much I hate that name.”
He hadn’t forgotten, of course. He never forgot anything.
“Undoubtedly,” he replied, nodding to Talen-Jei as he filled their tankards with mead. “Stop any wars on your way here?”
She raised her cup to her lips and took a large gulp. Exhaustion was all over her face, but a glimmer of mischief still sparked behind her one silver eye—the very reason behind her famous epithet. Well, one of many.
To Skyrim, she was Dagny the Silver, the Dovahkiin, Giant-Killer, or Stormblade, depending on who you asked. To him, she was all those things, but at his core, he knew her as simply Dagny—the wannabe monster slayer who nearly lost an eye to a frost troll. She was lucky to escape with only a scar and partial blindness.
“I don’t think there are any left for me to stop,” she remarked. He knew she was joking, but he sensed the weakness in her voice. “Of course, there’s always the war between you and your ego.”
He laughed, lightly tapping his cup against hers. “I’ll drink to that.”
Dusk faded into night as they talked, catching up on the events of the past month and arguing back and forth on the logistics of a possible voyage to Solstheim. His head swam pleasantly from the mead, and the more they talked, the more she began to look like herself. Candlelight caught in the strands of her fiery orange hair, pieces of which were swept back from her face in a series of braids and capped with dragonbone beads. He always found himself engrossed in the little details about her—the tiny gap between her front teeth, the beauty mark on her neck, the splash of freckles that dusted her nose…
She captivated him.
The common room’s inhabitants gawked at her, but she never seemed to notice—just as she never seemed to notice when he himself stared at her for a bit too long. She was the most famous person in Skyrim, after all, even moreso than Ulfric, and had probably helped many of these folks personally. He’d once teased her with the nickname “Dagny Mess-Cleaner,” earning himself a swift punch to the arm.
“—Right in the market square! Safest city in the Reach, my ass,” she muttered, polishing off her drink and scooting her chair back. “I paid for a bath.”
“Good,” he teased, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust. “Ask Keerava to show you how it works.”
“Oh, good one. You should charge extra for that tongue.” She dropped a few coins on the table. “For the drinks. Meet me upstairs in half an hour.”
He chuckled as she stalked off, the common room parting before her. There was always an invisible barrier between Dagny and the rabble, but it wasn’t one she built herself. Not intentionally. It was in the nature of common folk to put people like her on a pedestal, and for good reason—but he often wondered how it made her feel. At times, that barrier was all he could see.
He quietly finished his drink and stood, making his way upstairs to Dagny’s usual room just as the noise in the common room became too loud for casual conversation. It was, of course, the largest room the Bee and Barb had to offer, and with her wealth, she spared herself no luxury. She technically owned a house in the city, but she’d let it slip once or twice that she felt safer sleeping in a tavern than anywhere else.
He was also pretty sure she just couldn't stand her housecarl.
Her room was furnished with a large double bed, dresser, and small circular table—luxurious only by Riften standards. Atop the table, to his curiosity, was a glass decanter brimming with dark red liquid. A messily scrawled note revealed it to be one of Talen-Jei’s special recipes: a homebrewed wine fermented from snowberries. He often brought Dagny samples of his latest experiments under the guise of goodwill, but Marcurio knew the innkeep simply hoped that the hero of Skyrim would spread word of his creations and bring more foot traffic to the Bee and Barb.
Of course, Talen-Jei’s brews were delicious, and Marcurio considered the free drinks a benefit to traveling with the Dragonborn. He took a seat and poured himself a glass, savoring the subtle hints of mint and citrus that warmed and enhanced the sweetness of the berries.
Moments later, Dagny entered the room wearing her usual night clothes—an overlarge men’s tunic that fell to the middle of her pale, muscular thighs. She was resplendent in dragonbone, but to him, the simple shirt was utterly mesmerizing. No armor, no weapons, no blood and grime...just Dagny.
She finished running a thin towel through her wet hair and carelessly tossed it aside, taking a seat across from him and pouring herself a glass of Talen-Jei’s latest concoction.
“Damn,” she remarked, turning the glass over in her hand. “This might be his best one yet.”
The bath hadn’t helped her relax—if anything, she looked more tired than she had upon entering the tavern. Her shoulders were tense, and her strained smile was as foreign to her face as the Khajiit were to Skyrim.
A comfortable silence stretched between them as she polished off her glass and immediately poured herself another. It wasn’t unusual for her to knock back a few drinks, but the restless tapping of her foot and refusal to meet his gaze led him to believe that she was trying to stave off some sort of unwanted anxiety.
“Is something on your mind?” He asked cautiously, as he always did when it came to matters more personal than what cave they would plunder next or what vampire needed beheading this week. He was never one to overstep his bounds...especially not with her.
She slowly sipped her wine, peering at him with her good eye. “I’m the Dragonborn. What do you think?”
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tied back in its usual ponytail. She was avoiding his question while simultaneously dying to answer it. “I think you look tired, Dag.”
Something about his comment fractured her smile. Gently setting her glass down, she rested her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands, taking a moment to rub her eyes before offering a muffled response. “I am. Marc, I’m…” She covered her face completely. “I’m so tired.”
She’d never been afraid to be vulnerable in front of him. As different as their stations in life were, he took comfort in the knowledge that he was among the few souls who truly knew the Dragonborn. He’d watched her navigate a war without once dropping the veneer of hermetic strength and resolve. The Graybeards had never seen her like this, nor the Blades, the Companions, or anyone in between. Only he, and perhaps Serana, could claim this sort of closeness to her.
And yet...
“Dagny,” he murmured, wishing he could hold her, wishing he could so much as touch her. “Talk it out.”
Slowly, she lowered her hands. Her fingers wrapped around the stem of her wine glass as she managed to meet his concerned gaze.
“I don’t want to do it anymore,” came the weak reply.
He knit his brow but nodded, encouraging her to continue. “What don’t you want to do anymore?”
She vaguely gestured upward. “All of it. I just…” Her throat tightened, and she blinked a few times. “I don’t want to be the Dragonborn. I want to be free.”
He considered the weight of her statement, and the certitude with which she spoke it. From his vantage point, Dagny was the most unfettered person he’d ever met. She took no orders and took no shit. She bound herself to nothing—no person, no place, no group. Sure, she had ties to several factions, but she came and went as she pleased, treating her titles as nothing more than formalities and delegating her responsibilities elsewhere. She had more power than she knew what to do with and more gold than she could ever spend. Everything she did, everything, was done by her choice and her choice alone.
Why, then, did she feel unfree?
“I did what I was supposed to do,” she continued, gripping her glass tightly. “I answered the Greybeards. I defeated Alduin. I saved the gods-damned world, and now it’s as if the world can’t go on without me.”
With those words, he understood. When he called her Dagny Mess-Cleaner, she didn’t punch him because it was a bad joke (even though it was)—it was because, deep down, that was how she had begun to see herself. Dagny the Silver, Dovahkiin, almighty savior of Skyrim...and personal solver of problems that never should’ve fallen to her in the first place. Message deliverer. Artifact fetcher. Skeever exterminator.
He sighed, watching as she drained her glass. Then, with more blatant sincerity than he’d ever offered anyone, replied, “You deserve the same peace that you bring to everyone else.”
A sad smile touched her wine-stained lips. She turned to look out the window, watching the rain splatter against the dirty glass. “But...how can I know? If…” She seemed frustrated, unable to articulate exactly what it was that troubled her so deeply. “If I just...I can’t just…”
To Marcurio, it made no sense why she wouldn’t simply renounce everything—the titles, the properties, everything—to go off and live the life she truly desired. She, more than anyone, deserved that. A place to call home, adventure of her own making...a family, if she so chose.
The thought of her making a life with someone else pained him, almost as much as it pained him to think of her continuing on this path of misery and self-flagellation.
A weary sigh escaped her as she returned her gaze to him. “Would they be okay?”
“Would who be okay?”
“Everyone. Skyrim. The world. Would they be okay if I just...stopped?” Her voice was full of urgency, verging on desperation. “The Dawnguard still needs me. The Companions...I couldn’t—”
Of course. Of course that, despite everything she felt, her only concern was the welfare of everyone else.
“Qahnaarin,” he interjected, surprising her with his use of the dragon language and, as a result, instantly silencing her. “I promise, even if you never touched your sword again, the world would spin on. You…” He struggled to find the words. He wanted to comfort her, to calm her, but more than anything, he wanted to help her see. “You will always be the Dovahkiin. But before that, before all of that…” His voice dropped. “You’re Dagny. Do you remember her?” He smirked. “I do.”
As she listened, the sadness in her eyes seemed to fade. Then, slowly, a watery smile broke through, waking up the light in her features.
“She was kind of the worst,” he continued, his words growing more confident. “Stumbled into the tavern one day with barely two coins to rub together. ‘Help! I told some farmer I’d kill a giant even though I definitely can’t!’” He smiled fondly at the memory. “It was pathetic. A self-proclaimed ‘monster slayer’ with no clue that she had a fucking dragon soul.”
She laughed. It was beautiful.
“I was there when it woke up,” he recalled. “That day in Whiterun. Thought I was going crazy, or that you were dying, or both. It’s funny…I barely knew you, but I didn’t want to lose you.” He chose his next words carefully. “Dagny...she was kind of the worst, but I miss her every day.”
Dagny was silent for a long moment. He couldn’t read her expression, which frustrated him—he’d traveled with her enough to tell how she was feeling in almost any situation. His face began to flush. Had he said the wrong thing? It wouldn’t be out of character for him, he-who-suffers-from-foot-in-mouth-disease. Already, he felt his confidence retreating back behind the wall between them, wondering if he’d said too much, wondering if he shouldn’t have said anything at all. She was looking at him in a way she’d never looked at him before, not to his knowledge, not—
“You see me,” she whispered.
He released a pent-up breath.
“Everyone else...” she continued, “Everyone else looks right through me, or like I can’t be touched. Like I’m not a person. Like I’m…” She trailed off, not wanting or simply unwilling to finish the thought. “When did I stop being ‘Dagny’ to you, Marc?”
There was a strange tightness in his throat. The question caught him off guard, but she answered herself before he could speak.
“I know when,” she said bitterly. “After Sovngarde. I emerged from the portal and suddenly, everything was different. And you,” A dry chuckle escaped her. “You never looked at me the same way again. It was...it fucking crushed me, Marc.”
Her words ripped through him with more force than any of her Shouts ever could. He’d harbored feelings for her long before Sovngarde, but once she’d set foot back into the world of men, wet with black dragon blood, light and fury pouring from her eyes...he’d seen, for the first time, who everyone else saw. The Dragonborn. Unattainable. Unrelenting. Powerful beyond measure.
“I’d just saved the fucking world,” she concluded, “And all I could do was think about you.”
Marcurio’s heart slammed violently against his chest. She didn’t mean it like that. Not in the way he wanted her to. How could she?
“Marc,” she said firmly. “Say something.”
He swallowed, attempting to clear the stress in his throat. Then, softly, carefully, he asked, “What is it you want, Dagny?”
Her shoulders dropped, and she sat back in her chair. The flickering candlelight played with her exposed collarbones as she slowly exhaled. “I want,” she replied, “To sit. To breathe. To…” She cleared her throat. “To settle down.”
Marcurio’s breath hitched.
“I still want to serve the Dawnguard,” she admitted, her voice shaking slightly. “I still want to travel, and hunt monsters, and make the world better. It’s not that I want to give it all up...I just want my life to be mine again.”
She paused to drain what must’ve been her third or fourth glass, and she took a deep breath before continuing.
“I’m building a house,” she declared. “I bought some land, out in the Pale. It’s beautiful, Marc. It’s…perfect.” She seemed to stare through him, into some distant future that he couldn’t see. “That’s why I’ve been gone.”
Marcurio swallowed hard, afraid of the question he was about to ask and even more afraid of the answer. “So...if you’re stepping back, building a new life…” He found it hard to look her in the eye, but mustered enough courage to do so. “Why are you here?”
Dagny’s pale face flushed, her cheeks red as the snowberry wine—an odd sight, as she rarely embarrassed.
“I didn’t come here to hire you,” she said softly, speaking each word with deliberate sluggishness. “I wanted...I came to—oh, fucking hell—”
She stood from her chair so fast it nearly tipped over, making her way across the room toward the closed window. Then, putting her hands on the sill, she rested her forehead against the pane and took a slow, deep breath, fogging the glass.
Marcurio had had enough—boundaries be damned. Rising from his seat, he approached Dagny from behind and placed a hand on her back, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. He knew not to speak until she had calmed herself down.
He’d rarely seen her in such a state, the last time being after the Stormcloaks marched on Solitude. She’d been distraught, wondering if she’d taken the right side, wondering if she’d chosen out of anger rather than logic. He’d helped her then, and he’d help her now—whatever she needed to say, he’d make sure she was able to say it.
After a few moments of coaxing her through her strange panic, Dagny tore herself from the window and looked up at him, nearly level with his height. Her eyes were wet, bright, and filled with an emotion he was afraid to identify for fear he was wrong.
“I didn’t come here to hire you,” she murmured. Then, gently, she tucked a lock of dark hair behind his ear, resting her palm against his cheek as she finally revealed the reason for her trepidation. “I came here to marry you.”
His heart, which had been threatening to throw itself outside of his chest for the entirety of their conversation, came to a screeching halt. She couldn’t be serious. Dagny could have anyone she wanted, anyone at all—Ulfric fucking Stormcloak had proposed to her—and she wanted him?
“I…” It was as if a fog had taken over his brain, rendering him near speechless. “What?”
“Marry me,” she growled, clearly annoyed that he’d made her repeat the words that had been so hard to spit out the first time.
He looked into her eyes, so full of fear and hope and something else he couldn’t quite name. If this was a dream, he’d destroy the god responsible.
“Me? I mean…” He gently shook his head, trying to dispel the shock, but it was no use. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she snapped, bringing her face closer to his. He could smell the wine on her breath and just a hint of lavender soap. Her voice increased in volume as she continued. “I’m in love with you. I’m so fucking in love with you. And I know you love me too—don’t bullshit me—gods, Marc—”
The fire he carried for her—the one he’d forced himself to ignore until it was nothing but smoldering ash—sprung to life inside of him. He took her face in both of his hands and crushed his lips against hers, pouring everything he felt, everything he’d pushed away, all of the love and lust and passion he’d held onto since the day he met her into a single, life-altering kiss. His hands found their way into her hair as she sighed against his mouth, returning his kiss with a dragon’s ferocity. To think of all the times he’d pined for this, imagined this...he’d never let himself believe it was truly possible.
Ruefully, he broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers as they fought to catch their breath. Her hands clutched at the front of his robes as his own rested on either side of her neck.
“Say you’ll marry me,” she whispered, stealing another kiss to punctuate her request. “I need you to say it.”
He still couldn’t believe that she wanted him—but she did. She wanted him, not just in this moment, but for the rest of her life. It was almost too much to take in.
Almost.
“I love you,” he told her, at long last allowing those words to escape.
“I know,” she breathed, her words framed by the grin that lifted her cheeks from ear to ear. “So fucking marry me.”
He laughed, truly laughed, for what felt like the first time since she’d left for Sovngarde. He kissed her again, wishing he could stop time just to savor this moment for a little bit longer.
“I’m an apprentice wizard,” he teased. “Not a husband.”
“You’re a son of a bitch, is what you are,” she gibed, caught somewhere between annoyed and overjoyed. “Marc...”
He lowered his head, bringing his lips to the crook of her neck and shoulder. “You’re right,” he murmured against her skin, kissing the side of her neck before giving his final answer. “Let’s get married, Silver.”
A short laugh escaped her. He felt her body relax in his arms—no more tension, no more anxiety. The joy and relief she felt was palpable, and he imagined his own body language was no different. She stole a kiss from him, then another, and another. Her hands fumbled with the front of his robes, pulling loose the knot that kept them closed. His breath hitched as she ran her calloused hands over his bare chest and kissed the side of his neck before gently biting down.
They were moving quickly, and the tension being released between them was explosive. Of course he wanted her—gods, he wanted her, and she seemed as eager as he was—but he wouldn’t take it one step further without being certain.
“Silver…” He sighed, craning his neck as she continued to mark him. “Are you sure—”
Before he could finish, she had her hands against his body, looking up at him with mischief in her eyes. He realized her plan a moment too late.
“Fus.”
A sudden, invisible force tore him away from her. He gasped as he was thrown backwards, expecting to hit the ground, but instead was met with the softness of her bed. He lay flat on his back, the sides of his open robes stark orange against the white bedclothes. She’d Shouted gently enough to avoid hurting him, but the shock of her Thu’um was enough to knock the wind from his lungs.
"Silver—”
At once, she was on top of him. He groaned as she straddled his waist, his blood rushing downward as she rolled her hips against him.
“I want you,” she whispered, lowering her head to capture his lips once more.
He kissed her hungrily, tightly gripping her hips as she continued to grind against him. She helped him shrug out of his robes and, as he tugged at the hem of her nightshirt, all but slapped his hands away.
Then, with a smirk so confident it nearly killed him, she pulled the shirt over her head, exposing her bare torso to the warm candlelight.
He’d seen her naked before. Once. He remembered it more clearly than his own face. Not simply because she was unclothed, though her body was beautiful—it was the sheer majesty of her form, perched atop the Bard’s Leap summit, arms outstretched, looking for all the world like a dragon splayed against the dying light. He remembered waiting nervously at the edge of the water, unable to look away from the magnificence of her visage. She dove in headfirst, as she did with everything, and emerged from the pool with eyes closed and a grin more blinding than any sunset he’d ever seen.
“Join me,” she’d beckoned, and like a fool, he’d shied away.
Not this time.
Her body was pure muscle, strong and beautiful in every conceivable way. He admired her scars—some faded, some still pink and bright, each with its own unique story. He trailed his hands over her collarbones, the supple curve of her breasts, the gentle slope of her waist, pausing at the hem of her smallclothes. Then, without warning, he dug his fingers into her hips and flipped her so that she lay sprawled beneath him.
A low, beastlike growl rumbled in her throat. He knew she liked taking charge and could easily overpower him, but the way she looked up at him now, silver eye blown black with lust, suggested that she liked having the reins taken away for once—if only for a moment.
Marcurio knew it was only by her grace that she allowed him to remain on top of her, and he planned to cherish every second. He lightly kissed her lips, just enough to tease, then moved to kiss her jaw, neck, and shoulders. She ripped the leather cord that held his hair in place and wove her fingers through his shoulder-length locks as he trailed kisses over her chest, paying extra attention to her pert pink nipples. She arched her back in response, crying out as he kissed her sternum, sliding his hands down the sides of her torso as he did so. The knowledge that he was the cause of her pleasure was more than enough for him.
She arched her back as he hooked his fingers beneath her smallclothes and pulled them off with ease. Gods above, she was perfect.
Her grip on his hair tightened as he positioned himself between her legs, which now rested on his shoulders. He gently kissed her lower abdomen, slowly making his way down to her entrance, where he lingered for several minutes. He loved every inch of her, and the sounds she made were beautiful. His tongue was certainly good for more than just smart-mouthed comments.
“Marc,” she gasped, trying and failing to resist bucking her hips. “I’m close.”
“I know,” he smirked, breaking away from his careful work to plant kisses on the insides of her thighs.
She could only groan, spurring him forward as he slid two fingers inside of her, gently sucking her clit as he curled them. Then, gradually, he tapped into his magic and channeled it through the hand that stroked her, warming his fingers just enough to send her over the edge.
Her response to his use of magic was sudden and wild. She arched her back several inches off the mattress, releasing another Shout as she cried out in ecstasy.
“Strun!”
The Shout escaped her seemingly of its own accord. For a brief moment, he feared that she’d set the room on fire, or summoned a dragon—wouldn’t that be perfect, Odahviing, the unwilling voyeur—but all he heard was the sudden, distant rumble of thunder outside their window, followed by a flash of ethereal lightning.
Dagny’s chest rose and fell rapidly as she came down from her climax, her grip on his hair slowly loosening. He planted a few more kisses against her thighs, like a signature, and repositioned himself so that he could once again kiss her neck. He’d barely noticed how hard he’d gotten, but he was experienced enough to last a while longer—then again, she was the love of his life, and an unpredictable one at that.
“Gods…” She whimpered, her breath catching up with her. “Marc, you’re…”
“Amazing?” He joked, pressing his forehead against hers. His dark hair tumbled around them. “I’m only sorry it took this long for you to find out.”
She laughed, stealing a kiss—and then, in a flash, hooked her right leg around his waist and used her superior strength against him, pinning him beneath her once more.
“I want more of you,” she whispered against his ear.
The warmth of her breath on his skin was nearly enough to do him in. He wanted her—now.
“Take me,” he growled, rolling his hips into hers. “Gods, Silver.”
Her eyes lit up in the same way they did when she fought her first giant—a challenge she had to overcome. A chance to prove something.
He wanted to tell her that she didn’t need to prove anything to him, that her every move drove him absolutely mad, but his thoughts were lost as she yanked off his smallclothes, more determined than he’d ever seen her. He was naked beneath her, and he prayed that she liked what she saw. He was no warrior, and she outmatched him in strength ten to one, but traveling alongside her had kept his muscles lean. The way she looked at him now suggested that it didn’t matter how his body looked—that no matter what, she wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.
Her fingers grazed the hollow of his throat, slowly trailing over his chest and the planes of his abdomen, finally coming to rest at the base of his length. She pumped him a few times—to his great torture—before at last positioning herself above him, sliding the head of his cock against her wet entrance and, with a moan, guided him inside.
He nearly blacked out as he hilted himself within her. She craned her neck, closing her eyes as she whimpered in pleasure. The feeling of her walls around him nearly sent him over the edge, but he wouldn’t allow it—not yet.
He wanted to take her, to fuck her, to feel more connected with her than he’d ever been, but before he could so much as breathe, she Shouted.
“Mul Qah Diiv.”
Her Shout was more of a whisper, but as soon as the guttural words left her lips, her eyes flashed with bright orange light. The candles went out, and the air around her shimmered as she took on the aspect of a dragon. Glistening, wraithlike wings unfolded from behind her, and a pair of fiery, intangible horns crowned her head. Pure power emanated from her body as she gripped him at the hips, the mightiest and most beautiful creature the world had ever seen.
She was riding him, and riding hard. He tried to match her pace and failed miserably. In this form, she was power incarnate. It wasn’t fair, he thought, but those words slipped from his mind as she bounced on top of him, gripping his body so hard she’d surely leave bruises. He didn’t care. All he saw was her, all he felt was her, and he could hardly behold her presence. Her celestial wings shifted and glowed with unbridled light. She was a dragon, and she belonged to no one.
He thrust up into her, doing his best to equal her movements. Her eyes were closed, and the sounds she made…
“Marc…” Her voice echoed, amplified by her Shout. “Marc!”
He felt her walls tighten around him, and he cried out as his own climax followed hers. Her dragon aspect shimmered and dissipated as she moaned his name once more, eventually collapsing next to him on the bed. Their bodies glistened with sweat, and pieces of his unbound hair were stuck to his forehead.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, washed out by the storm she had called. Even now, even after what they’d done, he could hardly comprehend what had just transpired. This wasn’t just a one time thing. He was hers, wholly and completely, for as long as he lived and beyond.
“Dagny,” he breathed, turning to face her. “That was…”
She laughed, throwing his own words back at him. “I know.”
Dagny was already half asleep, drained from the Shouts she had used and the intensity of their lovemaking. He smiled as her eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open. She curled against his chest, and he was reminded of the times in which they’d slept like this for the sake of warmth and survival. This time, though...this time, it was different.
He pulled the blankets over their bare bodies and held her against him, hoping she could hear the beating of his heart.
“I love you,” he told her, not for the last time.
Never for the last time.