Chapter Text
The door to the Inquisitor’s quarters is old, weathered wood, its surface dotted with the faint traces of carvings, long-ago sanded down. It swallows sound well, and for that, Saar is damned grateful.
She shoots the bolt, tests the give, and finds it to be satisfactorily slight. Then she turns around and sags against the door with a long, slow breath. Looks down at her hands, at her blunt, currently clawless fingers. Curls them into the center of her palms. Clenches her hands into fists, and finally releases the tension along with a sharp exhale.
The wanting is easy by now, usually. In the beginning, she’d felt like she had opened up a cage deep inside her mind and let out the monster that lived inside. Like it wasn’t truly her that wanted and did these things but some monstrous entity apart from her, a creature that had taken up firm residence underneath all her own wishes and desires. Fucking people who didn’t treat her like much of a person hadn’t exactly helped that.
The doing hasn’t become easy—it never will, she suspects. She’s not sure she wants it to. But now… it’s become a game. A dangerous game, with fox and rabbit as costumes to slip into, where it’s still her underneath it all. That has exhilaration and anticipation suffuse her body with singing heat.
Saar takes the stairs again, one step at a time. The first thing she sees are Solas’ twitching knees, still caught in his leggings. Below that, his hand working between his naked thighs. Her heart pounds harder against her ribs, and sparks start dancing on her skin.
No magic beyond her shaft, they’d agreed. She'll hold to it, but that doesn’t mean she has to close her mind to the power hidden in the Fade. And from the way the air tastes, like the sky bleeding before a thunderstorm, Solas isn’t keeping his magic completely sealed away either.
He shifts on the bed, lets out a low sigh, and Saar has to force herself to avert her eyes, and keep her blighted feet where they are. Keep an illusion, she reminds herself. That means not fadestepping right over there and fingering him silly.
Instead, she moves over to the balcony doors. The cabinet next to the bed is still open, and she sends her magic out to get the wrapped tin of lyrium paste, letting it bounce along the floor on its way to her. The noise has Solas perk up, looking over at her just as she catches the tin out of the air.
For a moment, they just stare at each other. Koslun’s ass, she wants to kiss him. Wants to hold him down and fuck him until he’s begging, too. It’s dizzying.
I love you, she mouths, because that seems like the only option that won’t ruin their plan entirely.
Solas’ ears twitch. A shower of lightning sparks escapes on his breath.
Ar lath ma, he mouths back at her, and Saar hastily turns away, before they get distracted any further. She can’t stop smiling, though.
She fingers the tin open, and the raw scent of the paste hits her like a blow to the chest, the lyrium already singing to her. One-handed, she fumbles with the lacings of her trousers, then dips two fingers into the paste and carefully slips them beneath her clothes, down to her cunt. The first contact makes her curse low, and she quickly spreads the paste across her clit and the opening of her cunt, at least as much as her still mostly-dressed state allows. Usually, Solas would paint her entire sex with it, vivid lines of blue reaching along her belly, the insides of her thighs. But right now, this is more than enough.
The tin gets wrapped again and stashed away into a coat pocket, her trousers laced up again, loosely, and lastly her boots taken off. She doesn’t want to risk getting them on the bed, and taking them off later will be a pain, right in the middle of things. By the time she fiddles with her coat, desperate for anything to occupy her, she hears Solas move behind her. The rustle of clothes being adjusted, then the clearing of a throat.
She turns around.
“I am ready,” Solas says quietly, watching her with dark, dark eyes. He’s fully dressed again, appearing calm and smelling anything but. The sinews of his throat are tensed, the muscles in his legs bunch, and his tunic tents in front of his crotch. For a split second, Saar considers throwing herself at him right then, but she had enjoyed the forced slowness of their previous chase, rather unexpectedly. Now she watches him watching her, while she slowly shrugs her coat off of her shoulders and throws it aside.
Time to put on the mask.
“You’re not getting away this time,” she says as she begins to circle him. Solas’ gaze follows her as a moth to a flame. “You know what happens to wolves who think they can mess with dragons? They get eaten.”
The breath stutters out of him, and she moves. Solas throws himself to the side; she barely skids to a stop and leaps after him. Catches hold of his elbow. He folds his arm close to his body and lets himself drop; it wrenches his arm from her grip but he’s still close, one knee on the floor. She sweeps his legs out from under him as he tries to scramble to his feet, he falls forward with a shout and she lunges after, grabbing for his ankle. Before she can drag him in, he twists onto his back and yanks his legs up.
Saar growls and tries to drag him to her anyway, but gets his free foot shoved against her sternum for the attempt. She stills, looking from his bare instep along his calf and thigh up to his face. He’s panting, mouth curved into a breathless smirk. He’s got one hand wrapped around a leg from the nearby writing desk, as if he’s gonna manage to pull himself away like that. She gives him a teeth-baring smile of her own. Rises onto her knees, curls her fingers tightly around his ankle, and leans into the pressure.
His leg starts to tremble. Faintly, then harder. His eyes dart from her to the table leg, but his own leg’s the only thing keeping her at a distance right now. With a harsh grunt, the resistance vanishes and Saar topples forward. His knee ends up digging into her stomach, driving the air from her lungs. She rasps out a curse, and clamps her arms and legs down on any part of him she can reach.
Solas bucks and hisses, trying to dislodge her, but weight and size are on her side now. She manages to grab his right thigh, then his left knee, and presses between them, using the bulk of her body to force his thighs apart. Her skin is burning up where she touches him. Where his hands grope at her shoulders. Where his breath hits her throat.
“Got you now, little wolf,” she whispers, and Solas freezes. A small, terribly soft noise escapes him.
Saar freezes, too. Her heart beats in her throat, and not for arousal.
“Kadan, are you—” she asks, hoarse.
“Yes.” Solas nods frantically. His eyes are so wide and dark, like a wounded creature eyeing a warm fire. “Call me that again,” he breathes. Pulls her down into a kiss, all soft hunger and soft lips.
“Are we—are we still playing?” Saar manages.
“I—yes, my apologies—” Solas rasps out a small laugh, and lets go of the nape of her neck, and settles his hands against her shoulders once more. “I did not… expect to enjoy that term so much.”
Saar’s not sure she’d call it pure enjoyment—he looked almost surprised, under that longing—but she likes the shape of it in her mouth. That it’s something unique to them, to this thing they're creating with each other. That Solas clearly likes hearing it, for whatever reason.
He assumes a serious expression—or tries to, at least—and Saar can feel him tense up again underneath her.
“Now, where were we?” he asks, voice gravel-rough.
“Well,” she muses, shifting her hips down so there’s no way he’ll be able to close his legs, “it seems I’ve caught myself a little wolf.”
Oh, his face upon hearing the nickname again. Saar wants to tuck that image away right next to her heart so she’ll never lose it.
“Not yet.”
Saar abandons her grip on his leg, and goes instead for his jaw, holding his head still with one hand.
“You look pretty caught to me,” she breathes and kisses him. For half a second, his mouth is pliant, moving with hers—and then he snarls, teeth scraping over her lips. She draws away, laughing, heady with it. He snaps at her, like a pup play-fighting harder than it should. She snaps back, biting him. Both of them eager and hungry.
She’s not doing a proper job of holding him down now, her hips half in the air again, one hand on the floor and the other on his collarbone. Solas wastes no time: lashes out with his knees to push her away further, creates just enough space to swivel onto his belly, get his feet under him and buck her off.
Saar lets him. She wraps her arms around his waist instead, takes the momentum and staggers to her feet, lifting him clean off of the ground. The sudden added weight throws her off balance and she nearly falls over backwards, gasping with it. He thrashes in her grasp and she tightens it. One arm across his chest, the other snaking down to grip him between the legs. She gets a sweet, pained whine as a reward. Then it’s a quick onetwothree steps to the bed, a toss, and Solas lands belly-down on the mattress, bouncing with the force of the throw.
He pants loudly, his back and shoulders quaking as he tries to catch his breath. Doesn’t take long, and Saar barely manages to haul him back by his belt before he can launch himself off the bed’s other side. She manages to get her balance again, mattress denting under her weight. Scrambles forward and gets one hand pressed hard into the base of his spine, her weight behind it. Gets the other fisted into his tunic just below the neck, and pulls.
Solas chokes out a wet, ragged curse. His spine makes an arch, ass high, shoulders higher. Saar sinks her teeth into the exposed skin of his neck; tastes sweat, salt, woodsmoke. Hears another high-pitched whine, one that has her blood pounding like warhammers in her veins.
His elbow catches at her ribs, and she presses down with her entire body, pinning him to the bed. His frantic heartbeat vibrates through his ribcage against her own. It’s a blighted pain to open his belt now but she manages, grabs it by the buckle, and drags it out from between their bodies. The leather chafes them both. Solas hisses, straining what feels like every muscle in his body in an attempt to squirm out from beneath her. Futile. He’s going nowhere. The thought races through her like a flashfire, setting every nerve alight.
Still he tries: he throws out his hand, tries to grab at the bedding. She yanks it back. Her fingers close more than all the way around the wrist with ease; she could probably fit both his wrists in one hand, or…
“Wait,” she breathes, “Solas, wait.”
With a shudder, he goes still.
“Can I—” She licks her lips. “Can I use your belt? To tie your wrists, I mean.”
For long seconds, all she hears is his fast, heavy panting. Then: “I would prefer your hands.”
The belt goes sailing over the edge of the bed.
“All right,” she says. “Now… Is that all you can do, little wolf? Bare your fangs and whet your claws on fabric?”
Solas laughs sharply. This time, his elbow rams into her side just below her ribs, keeps pushing, but all Saar feels is a brief burst of pain, and not nearly enough force to get her to move. She catches his hand and twists it behind his back in retaliation, and then she finds out that both his wrists really do fit into one of her hands, held fast against the small of his back.
He growls and spits Elvish curses at her, too quick to understand. Twists and writhes, but he’s trapped. With his belt gone, it’s nothing to worm her free hand underneath his tunic and drag his leggings down over his flat buttocks, smallclothes and all. His skin’s hot like a furnace when she grabs him. Fingers digging deep into the muscle, thumb pushing into the cleft of his ass, over the slick slide of oil.
Every muscle between her thighs clenches up. She shifts her hips so her cunt can grind against the back of his bare thigh, and it doesn’t bring relief, exactly, but a shuddery sigh steals from her throat nonetheless. For a brief moment, all the tension evaporates from Solas’ body and he goes loose, letting out a helpless moan.
Saar smirks and settles more thoroughly on his thigh. Grinds down a little, again. She’s wet, feels like she’s soaked, and maybe he can feel it too. “Already giving up?”
“No,” comes the harsh reply. Solas glares at her from over his shoulder, his spine twisted to manage it.
She smirks wider. His legs tense underneath her, but trapped both by her weight and his own trousers, there’s little he can do. Even the leg she’s not sitting on won’t do much by itself, when his hips aren’t going anywhere. Of course that changes the moment Saar realizes it’s gonna take her blighted forever to get her trousers undone with one hand, even with the loose lacing. Maybe if she shifts sideways a little, she can—
…No, she can’t. Her distraction is all Solas needs to wrench one of his arms free, then the other. He braces himself on the bed with both hands and one knee, and rears up. Saar tips backwards, unbalanced, while he pulls himself forward.
All right, change of plans. She tears two-handed at the lacings to get the trousers open, then pushed down from her navel to just below her hipbones as fast as she can. Without pausing for breath, she lunges for Solas again, who’s busy rucking his own trousers back up. She shoves his leg out of the way, slaps his arm trying to push at her aside, grips the crotch of his leggings, and drags him in again. Tangled around his knees, the leggings make the perfect handhold to manhandle him flat onto his back and fold his legs close to his body, keeping him in place with her hand bearing down on his chest. A high, desperate breath whistles out of him. Saar presses harder, just to hear another one.
“This is a good look on you,” she tells him in a low rasp. “Helpless.” Shifts her shoulders past his twitching, trapped legs. “Open.” Lands a small slap on the oil-slick skin right next to his hole. Sticks her free hand down between her thighs, draws it up again, and a barrier spell hums to life in the curve of her palm. The shape is nothing extravagant: a simplified cock, no bigger than what they normally use. The lyrium sings on her skin where the spell attaches to her body, makes her shudder. She shuffles forward until the tip touches Solas’ skin. His snarl dies, his mouth falls open, her name tumbles out.
For a split second, she thinks he’ll turn pliant, yielding—he doesn’t.
Good .
His hands scrabble on any part of her he can reach, which isn’t much; pushing and pulling in turn to shake her off. He manages to place one heel against her shoulder, but he’s got no leverage to speak of. It’s useless, all of it. She has him now, she knows it, he knows it too. It’s in the way he’s looking at her, something that would be panic if his gaze wasn’t so damn hungry.
She holds his gaze as she reaches down to guide that glowing shaft, rubbing the tip against his hole. He tries to squirm away and she slaps him again; same place as before. Hard enough, this time, to make him flinch and whimper. Fuck. That sound goes right down her spine the way it always does.
She curls her hand around her shaft again, shifting it forward with insistence, with intent. The touching becomes prodding, becomes pushing, becomes breaching. She gasps out a wet breath as his body gives way and the lightning storm under his skin roars against her spell.
There’s a noise Solas makes when she works her shaft into him and they’ve been too impatient, his legs hooked around her thighs, his hands clawing at her buttocks to pull her in; or when they’re deliberately playing with pain, him sitting in her lap with her fingers folded around his hips and oh-so-slowly pushing him down on something he wasn’t quite prepared to take. A small, brittle noise that sounds as much like pain as it does like pleasure.
Now he keens.
Saar goes still. Tries to breathe through the fucking fog of arousal swamping her, stealing her thoughts and air. Waits to hear him object, tell her to wait, their watchword, anything. But there’s nothing. Nothing except his desperate panting, his chest quivering under her hand.
She pushes forward, slides another inch into him. He keens again, and his palms slam into her chest—not nearly with enough force to get her to let up. She grabs his trousers with both hands, rocks her hips forward, and he sobs so loudly it wracks his entire body. Sets her blood to burning, her magic thrumming, right against her clit and the folds of her cunt. As if Solas put his mouth there and hummed, a deafening, dizzying tremor.
Saar swallows. He hasn’t told her no, hasn’t told her to stop. There’s a wet smear of precome on his belly, his cock hard and dark ruddy.
“Nowhere to go, little wolf,” she rasps, spreading his legs as far as they’ll go, still caught in his leggings. “No way out but to take it. Ready for all of it?”
“Just—just try it,” comes the reply, snarled out from between gritted teeth while his fingers claw into her chest. Solas glares up at her, eyes burning.
All right. All right.
Saar steadies herself on one hand again with a grunt. Brings the other down on the inside of his thigh, fingers digging into the muscle. She doesn’t have claws right now, but it’s enough to make Solas’ head roll back with a pained moan, the long stretch of his throat begging to be bitten and marked. Soon, she promises herself. She draws back, rocks forward a little further. Another ragged whimper tears from his throat that washes through her like hot, honey-sweet wine. She hisses his name, hitches even deeper. Braces herself on the backs of his knees, her own knees scooting backwards for balance. The rocking grows harsher, turns into actual thrusts, as she fucks him open. On every thrust she drags past the sensitive place inside him, forcing a sob from him.
“S—Saar,” he stutters, eyes clenching shut. “Saa—ah, ah…” His nails dig into the skin on the insides of her wrists. With how the spell is thrumming between her thighs, he’s got to be clenching up inside like a vise.
A harsh breath, and Saar forces her shaft deeper. Grinds and ruts into him until her hipbones collide with the backs of his thighs, and Solas is breathing like he’s drowning. The noise, the spell’s screaming, the clash of hot, wet skin leaves her awash in pleasure; she’s close, sosoclose, just a few more thrusts, Stars, she wants to come and make him scream—
She drags her cock out of him, until just the tip spreads him wide. Rams it back inside, lightning sparking over their skin.
Solas cries out. Convulses violently. And suddenly Saar can taste magic on the air, raw power bleeding into the world. He writhes underneath her, sobbing, his hands long since fallen to the mattress to clutch at the bedding and he’s coming, seed leaking from his cock in spurts. Coming from the stab of her cock and the grip of her hands and the pain she inflicts.
A brushfire lights at the base of Saar’s spine. She shoves his legs over her shoulders, and bends down to bury her face in the curve of his throat where she can practically see his blood pulse. Warm, vulnerable skin for her teeth to sink into. She fucks into him; short, brutal jabs that shake them both, her cunt clenching up with every heavy thrum of the spell. Her climax rises like a towering wave that finally, finally breaks, breaks with the force of a thunderstorm.
A broken, voiceless gasp is all she manages. Buries herself as deep as she can in Solas’ body, skin to skin, their magic colliding, singing to each other. It’s a miracle the spell holds. Her thighs shake. Solas shivers intermittently, gives soft whimpers and heavy breaths that make his chest heave against hers.
“Blighted Creators,” Saar groans quietly once her voice returns. With great effort, she pushes herself up onto her elbows so she doesn’t crush Solas with her weight. Shrugs his legs off of her shoulders; they drop bonelessly. His eyes are closed, and his breath comes unsteadily.
“Hey, kadan,” she whispers gently. “How’re you doing?”
Slowly, his eyes blink open, and a moment later focus on her. “I am—well. I—” He breaks off, moaning as another tremble runs through him. His hands flutter above his belly, where Saar’s spell is still alive inside him.
“Ah… I can feel you everywhere.”
“Want me to get out of you?”
He sighs, and tugs at the hem of her shirt. “Slowly,” he breathes, “but first, come, come here…”
She follows the tug down, kisses him softly, no hint of teeth this time from either of them. He gasps against her mouth when the motion shifts her hips forward, shifts her shaft inside him. Lightning dances over Saar’s hips from the sudden pressure, the lyrium sings, and it makes her arms shake, too. Makes her drop her forehead to rest against his shoulder and heave a deep, shuddering breath.
“You.” She licks her lips, swallows. “You must be fucking sore inside.”
His fingers curl over the back of her neck, his thumb stroking the shell of her ear. “I am indeed,” he says hoarsely, half a chuckle. “Well done, vhenan.”
She laughs breathlessly and nuzzles against the skin of his collarbone. Her heart’s light and exhausted inside her chest, beating heavy and slow. Just as slow and careful, she withdraws from Solas, then drops the spell. Its absence makes a new, different shudder roll through her, and she breathes through it with eyes closed.
When she opens them, she can’t help but take a moment to admire her handiwork. How wrecked Solas looks, lying there, the blooming bruises on his thighs, the teeth marks on his neck, skin shiny with sweat and eyes hooded with exhaustion, the ruddy skin of his used hole. The soft, gentle curve of his smile as he watches her in turn.
First to go are his leggings, drawn from his legs and discarded to the side of the bed, a kiss dropped on the inside of each knee. Then her own shirt, moist from sweat. His tunic, which proves a bit more of a challenge since he barely manages to sit up straight. After that, she wraps him in the bedlinens and presses another kiss to his lips.
“I’ll draw a bath, just wait a moment,” she tells him. She gets only an indistinct mutter in return, but his head turns to follow the warmth of her mouth.
The tub in the side room of her quarters is nothing special, oiled wood and pitch and hammered metal bands to hold it all together. But the mechanism to pump water from the springs deep within the mountain to fill it certainly is, building on parts that were already present, and older than anyone could reliably figure out. The original builders would probably have a fit at what they did to their construction, but it works, and works well.
The water’s cold when it arrives, sloshing into the tub in batches. Saar dips her hands into it, magic sparking along her arm, to heat it until it steams. The remains of the lyrium paste between her legs react faintly to the spell, causing a low thrum. She lets out a breathy chuckle—she always manages to forget about it. But for now, there are more pressing matters. While the tub continues to fill, she fetches another blanket from the carved oaken chest next to the bed that was a gift from some Fereldan noble or other, a tin of healing salve and a piece of soap, and lastly Solas himself. She hoists him up in her arms and carries him into the side room under only mild protest, which she shushes with a laugh.
“You couldn’t even sit right, I sincerely doubt you can walk right now,” she murmurs against his temple. He huffs, but obediently wraps his arms around her neck while she peels him out of the bedlinens again and lowers him with great care into the tub. He sighs, long and blissful, as the hot water rises around him.
When she picks up the soap to get to work, his hand touches her wrist. He’s hanging onto the edge of the tub, one arm stretched out to reach her.
“Come join me,” he whispers.
“I was gonna get you cleaned up first,” she says, hesitant. The soap is already sticky in her hand.
“That would be just as achievable if you joined me, would it not? And I want—should I not clean you as well? ” He strokes one finger along the tendons of her wrist, giving her an almost shy look. “Ar isalan ma, vhenan,” he adds, very quietly.
Saar’s Elvish has never been as good as she would like, but that is familiar enough. Warmth blooms behind her ribs.
“You’re an absolutely shameless sweet-talker, you know that?”
Solas just smiles; a smile that grows impossibly fond as she stands and kicks off her breeches to climb into the tub with him.
~ fin ~