Instinctively her fingers reach out for him. Even after all this time, “Solas—”
He is Fen-Harel, the Dread Wolf. He is—
“Solas—”
“I—I am—” He falters, fumbling his words in front of her as she disarms him with silence. Her spirit of long-suffering. He doesn’t deserve her and yet—
He’s one breath away from breaking.
“Solas,” she whispers, her fingers curling around his wrist. “Please look at me.”
He glances down at her. Ocean eyes stare back at him and if he gazes into them any longer, he will be swept away in her undertow. He could drown in her love. Desires to.
Therein lies the dilemma.
Those fingers of hers slide upward, slow and cautionary. Tenderly. Each touch against him another silent request.
Plea.
Pardon.
“You are tired, Vhenan,” she states, softly, with her eyes on his lips. That hand of hers is now on his shoulder, fingers digging into the muscle, relieving tension he’s ignored so long he forgot was even there. And that use of Vhenan in her softened tone does not go unnoticed. She hasn’t forgotten his stored up tension or where it builds up or how to steadily ease it away. Not after a year, or five or a decade's worth. Her love is his greatest cure and his brightest beacon of hope. It is both benevolence and bane.
He does not deserve her.
His eyes close in a breath and now is not the time.
“Where I am going will be terrible.”
“Not if I’m with you.” Her hand slips from his shoulder and clasps his own. She pulls his hand up to her lips and presses the gentlest kiss to his knuckles. “You’ve been away so long. Yet, here we are, together as allies once again. I’d lecture you but—” Her other hand clasps around his neck and she pulls him closer to her. “I have missed you.”
There’s a tear in his eye. “I wish you would berate me.”
A light chuckle and she presses her lips against his forehead. “I know. But I wish to shower you with love.”
He does not have the fortitude to push her away.
One moment. Three breaths. And five fingers lacing with his own and together, together they walk the ten paces to embrace what their future holds in the fade.
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Fandom: DAI | Pairing: Solavellan | Rating: Explicit (cunnilingus)
Her fingers thrum against the wooden windowsill as she gapes through glass, rain smattering against the pane. A million raindrops reflect her glazed over eyes, slipping slowly in streaks as lightning ripples across the sky and the thunder rumbles down to her toes. Sarya sighs. It’s the third day in a row for a storm and she wants to be out in it. But not really in it. There’s much to do. Not enough done.
Long fingers reach out to still her own and his other hand wraps around her waist. He kisses her neck. It’s near her chin, that sweet spot that makes her tingle and chime. And she hums a sigh of delight as those kisses, like rivulets, streak down her neck. His lips, they are the lightning under her skin. Thunder in her belly.
“You seem restless,” he says.
“I’m itching to get outside. It’s been raining this whole time and now there’s a storm. We have shit to do. And now there’s—” He’s kissing her shoulder, pushing the fabric of the tunic away with his chin as he goes. Her eyes close and she centers herself. “Oh, this—this is a welcome distraction.”
Solas’ breath leaves an invisible mark on her skin as he chuckles. It burns bright somewhere—everywhere all at once.
“I am glad I can help in some way.”
“Help? You are a gift from the gods, I'm convinced.”
A soft chuckle.
His lips trail back up her neck and she shudders as another thunderclap shakes the shack; shivers down her spine. He lingers again near her jaw. He nibbles and kisses while his hands wander her body.
“You aren’t restless?” she asks.
“Never when you are around.”
But she doesn’t believe him. He fidgets with his hems too much and his eyes glaze over in pockets of stillness, same as hers. He gets lost to her in thoughts or dreams or stories not meant for sharing except to the spirits residing in his mind. She knows when she’s left behind on one of his internal adventures but she will never subject herself to the self-titled unwelcome tagalong.
“Hmm,” she hums an acknowledgment.
His fingers glide down her arms as she watches lightning strike a nearby tree. He pauses. It cracks, real loud and is pulled to the earth, enveloped in a pool of rainwater. Whispers of awe spill from their lips.
He sweeps back her hair and returns to kissing. Then places his lips against each and every freckle he can on her shoulder. Kisses as infinite as the rain smattering against the glass. He dusts his fingers back up her arm, caresses her chest and pulls the laces free at the top of her tunic. The fabric gives way, uncovering secrets as it goes. Scars, more freckles, soft skin, and stretch marks. He kisses it all.
“What do you wish for?” he whispers as the tunic falls off her shoulder completely. It gathers at her waist, held in place by her hips.
“Right now? Well that’s you of course,” she tells him.
“In what way?”
He kisses her chest, all the way across and then down the curve of her side and up again. Feather light and soft, tempo to match the patter pat pat of the rain against the window. She swallows, the words of what she wanted to say lost somewhere in a breath caught at the back of her throat.
“Every way,” she sputters.
She means it too, not just in body but in spirit—in soul. Know him from the ins and the outs and the layers between here and there. Because she can never quite fully understand him but gods be damned if she doesn’t try. His answers come with every question she asks. Giving everything and almost nothing, a mysterious something always veils her desire of knowing and she’s unsure if the veil belongs to her or him. But even in that, she still wants all of him, secrets and unsecrets alike.
He chuckles into her skin. “Like this?” His hands slip past the laces of her trousers, tip of his finger placing just a hint of pressure on her clit.
“Mmm, and I can think of some others.”
Her hand stills his and she pulls his fingers up to her lips, kissing the tiny scars on his knuckles. He’s so willing to please in this manner. It is easy for him.
“Name them.” His voice is a challenge.
She drops his hand, skims her fingers up his arm and places her palm on his shoulder. She squeezes, firm. “I would have you kneel before me and worship me with that wonderful tongue of yours.” Because it’s not enough to have his fingers and lips caressing every inch of her skin already.
His brow flicks up. “Worship?”
She nods. “I am the Herald of Andraste after all.” Her voice drips with sarcasm.
And he lowers himself with the slightest pressure from her hand. Wears a smirk as his fingers curl around the top of the fabric of her trousers. He tugs. Shuffles them down. Stares up at her with eyes of admiration. As if she were a natural marvel, rivaling the awe of lighting striking a tree that’s pulled to earth.
He shoves her clothes away.
Leaning forward, a breath at her entrance and she groans under the warmth of his tongue. Just one lick then he says, “is this what you want?”
“Yes,” she says. “And more.”
“More?”
Another swipe of his tongue. Earnest yet languid and lingering. There’s doubt that she will outlast his dutiful tongue. Doubt is confirmed when he reaches under her thigh and hooks it over his shoulder. One, two, then a tantalizing third lick. A hesitant fourth swipe and his tongue stills, eliciting a whined protest. Another crack of thunder and electricity lights up her body. A shock straight to her core.
“Too much?” he asks, the magic buzzing through her limbs.
“Not enough,” she rasps, both enchanted and dizzy from his use of a spell. “It makes sense but I didn’t think. Didn’t realize—”
She stops short when his tongue dances along her clit.
That he could bring the storm inside.
Commands replace ruminations as his tongue oscillates the highs and lows of her pleasure.
More. There. Yes, good. Right there. Keep going. Don’t stop.
A zap of his magic makes her squirm. But his nails dig into her outer thighs, face obscured from her view and she grasps for his head and down to his ears then finally settles at the base of his neck. He inserts one finger. Pumps in and slides out. Repeats it again, curling just slightly while driving deeper.
“Godsfuck!” Another rumble of thunder and she whispers her next demand. “Solas. Keep it right there. Just like that.”
But his little disobedience of adding another finger and upping the tempo, just barely—maybe half a beat, has her questioning if she wants to be in charge of this at all. Closing her eyes and chin sinking to her chest, all efforts of demands become hushed, almost wordless whispers lost in the scattered silences proffered by the storm. She lets out a low moan. He murmurs something in elvhen and she understands the fragments of praise.
With proper propitiation, tongue in tandem with lightning touch, she disintegrates in undulations against his lips, his nose, his hand.
“Solas—“
The slip of his name in a chant off her tongue intermingles with the continuous downpour and she repeats it like she’s the penitent one after all and he—he is the god.
Closing her eyes, she forgets she is body and only knows her soul when he fucks her with his fingers and she loses self-control. Numb and spent and suspended between what’s real and what’s fade, Solas breathes and offers a kiss on her inner thigh.
“You are marvelous,” he murmurs, kissing down her leg. A peck on her calf and he utters more praises, fingers dancing along her skin.
“What else,” she says in a shaky breath.
“And I love you.”
“Mmm, I’ve noticed.” She slides her leg off his shoulder and rests her heel against his chest.
He snatches her ankle and kisses her toes and a giggle spills from her lips, breaking the illusion of any power she thought she held here. He plants her toes on the ground and rises so they're on equal footing. Hand against the small of her back, he tugs her in close and she stares into the depths of his clouded sky eyes before he covers her mouth with his lips.
Lighting exposes their silhouettes as he pushes her up against the wall, legs naturally clinging to his waist as his kisses fall to her neck and he seats himself inside of her. Breath on her chin and he rocks his hips and she thinks this is the closest she’ll get to understanding and knowing and adventuring with him in his internal world.
And she thinks—thinks—
A groan of thunder and rumble in his throat, she clings to his neck as he drives any thought of thinking from her mind. There’s only body—only feeling and two souls colliding in a rundown shack in the middle of a storm.
There’s something about her gaze as the firelight reflects in her pupils. Both here and in the ether she exists, lost to the world for the empire she’s built in her head. It seems rude to ask to be let in.
“Inquisitor?” Half beat of a pause and then once more, a little louder. “Inquisitor?”
He lets out a sigh because it seems far worse to just storm the keep.
“Inquisitor!” Sarya snaps to attention, head craning to gaze up at the Seeker.
“Yeah? Something the matter?”
She hasn’t noticed him staring, not that he should want her to notice but he finds himself wanting anyway. Wanting, willing and waiting for her to notice him.
Seeker Cassandra hands over a bowl of stew. “Eat. We must keep our strength up.”
Sarya’s hands take the bowl and she brings the edge of it to her lips while the Seeker eyes her and nods, nudging her to sip. One loud slurp and the Seeker is satisfied, leaving Sarya be. The bowl finds rest on the ground and Sarya catches him then and there’s a hint of a smile. Hand to the dirt, she smooths a space for him and he knows his calling.
“They want too much,” she says while the flames dance in her pupils.
Does she read minds? His want is no different.
“What of you, Solas?”
He swallows, shudders an involuntary shiver under the potential of vulnerability.
“What do I want?”
“Yes, what do you want from me?”
Everything. All of you. To lay you out beneath the stars and rule the empire you’ve built so carefully inside your mind. To be wanted in every way by you in return.
“Nothing,” he says, a flat out lie. The only one to be held against him.
There’s the hint of a chuckle. “If only we could all be so good as you.”
“I—am not good,” he says, this time it’s not just a thought but voiced aloud, interspersed between the crackle of wood made ash.
“Good enough,” she tells him then fits her hand into his. She brings his hand up to her lips and kisses his knuckle.
“Then I take back what I said,” he tells her. “I want to be good enough. For you.”
“No, no, that still counts—what you said before. You want nothing from me. But for me. It’s nice.” She kisses his cheek and leans into his shoulder.
But she doesn't realize that it is what he wants from her. He wants her to always see him that way. Good enough. When he is the worst of everyone. That he would malign the good that she truly is so that she could understand his goodness. If such a thing for him even exists anymore.
He wants everything of her. And he will take it. She just doesn’t know it yet.
