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Solas knows he will have to confront her soon. His plans are set in motion, and he needs to do something about the anchor. It is getting worse, his spies tell him, and he cannot bear the thought of his love in pain like that. His vhenan. The word sits in his gut like bitter poison. He rifles through the papers on his desk, looking for the latest report from Skyhold. He wants to be sure he has not missed any detail.
He needs to tell her everything, like he should have long ago. He imagines her being angry, maybe. He had rarely seen her angry, but she had been, that night he had failed to tell the truth. She had quickly moved to calm reassurance, persistence. He knew she was waiting for him to explain, to talk to her, after the battle. He had run like a coward.
Maybe she would yell about that. No, she is more likely to quietly point out his cowardice. One by one, she will list his failures, and he imagines hearing them all in her voice, calm and poised.
He discovers to his dismay that he is hardening in his pants to the thought of her admonishment. He needs to think of something else. This is another of his failings, and unbidden her face drawn in a scowl comes to his mind. He has no right to think of her, to imagine her eyes harden and shine like emeralds.
He groans, and gives up his search for the papers. He leans heavily on the table, and moves his other hand to adjust himself, to remove the strain. Whatever harsh words she would say, it would be nothing he does not deserve. He can’t help but to press a hand against his erection. He shouldn’t, he can’t, but he does. His hand moves inside his pants, and he quickly gives up pretense that he will not relieve himself to his wanton thoughts of her.
His hand circles his cock, and he thinks that maybe she would walk next to him, once her initial shock and anger had subsided. He knows she will listen, and question, and he wonders If she would lean close, if he would feel her breath on his skin.
He imagines her intimacy. Her lips hovering over his. And for one moment, he would think that he would be allowed to kiss her, to taste her one last time. You don’t deserve a kiss she would whisper, as she pulls back from him, leaving bereft. His gut plummets and twists with the truth of it. He deserves nothing, and he should feel chastened, but instead his balls tighten and he grips the base of his cock to make it last. It has been so long, and this feels so good, and the thought of her makes him shake.
Determined to enjoy his own depravity, he stumbles to his bed, pushing his pants over his hips. His urgency is too great to completely disrobe, he falls on his back with his breeches round his knees, his shirt pulled out of the way. He has not allowed himself to think of her, to seek the brittle pleasure of his own touch, for quite a while. He both loathes and relishes in his weakness.
He touches himself slowly and gentle now, remembering how tender she would be, how she would leisurely unravel him, body and heart and soul, loving him in a way he never deserved. And he recalls her touch and her smile and the slope of her shoulder. The curve of her ass, her skin glowing in the light of the fire.
He imagines her here, watching him, half unclothed on his bed. He would not warrant any gentleness now. He sees her with her hands on her hips, scorn etched in her face. You’re a disgrace, he hears her say, and the words make him whimper and strain, his body convulsing as his hips buck and lift off the mattress. But, no, she would be kind, because she is kind, and he can see her now, unclothed in resplendent light, reaching towards him.
He relives her touch, light and loving, his own hand tracing patterns on his stomach. You’re so wonderful, Solas, she had said; ar lath ma, and he had replied the same and it was no lie. Never a lie. She would not say the same now, should she see him rutting against his own hand. His cheeks feel hot, his chest tight, and he closes his eyes, lost in the sea of his own need.
Maybe she would have mercy on him, and she would come to him, sitting on her knees above him. She would reach up, and touch his face his jaw. Kiss him, and he can hardly bear the thought of her soft lips on his. The thought makes him loose his rhythm. He lets go momentarily, and his hard cock slaps against his belly with an obscene sound, loud in the empty chamber.
If she would be above him, it would only be when they meet again, and maybe she would push him back, into the dirt. Her deserves no better. Her touch even in anger would feel like the sun after a storm, her fingers warmth through his clothing.
He would still seek her warmth, reach for her, and everything he cannot have. The thought sends another wave of self-loathing through him, which doesn’t still his hand, his cock leaking and his desire burning in his veins.
He sees her, fierce and beautiful above him, and she is no longer staring down on him hard and armored, no she is here, in his bed, naked and soft. He thinks of her sinking herself down on him, her heat surrounding him, sweet and slick. He can almost feel her hair brushing his jaw as she leans forward to whisper in his ear. Fuck me, harellen.
And with thought he comes, his seed spilling over his hand, up his chest staining his shirt, his hips lifting off the bed.
His arm is thrown over his burning face, and he is gasping for air. He can feel his own spend drying in his hand, evidence of his shameful behavior. He cannot bring himself to regret his actions, his release leaving him satisfied, emptied and peaceful, if only for a little while.
He will have to appear cold and unapproachable when he meets with her, he decides. He cannot allow to let his emotions find a way through, lest he will be on his knees, begging for her touch.