Archive of Our Own

How beautiful he is, wrapped up in her dreams and the raw, enigmatic energy of the Fade. These nights are beginning to tighten their hold upon her. 

His voice, rich and smooth like honey in her ears, fills the quiet of their shared dream – the small but vibrant universe, made just for them. They lie upon a picnic blanket of crisp white linen - the only constant of their environment, which changes from snowy mountains to sun kissed meadows to deserts in the dead of night, shimmering in and out of existence as soon as one of them grows bored. Solas is telling her a story, as she recalls; it's a good one, something about a Chantry cloister and a spirit of mischief, exactly the type of story that would usually leave her enraptured and bemused for the rest of the day. 

And yet Ashara can't focus on anything but the pleasant thrum of his vocals – the way his lips form soft around each and every syllable. The idle way he gestures with his hands when he talks, without meaning to. Toned arms and clever fingers and careful, reserved movements that draw little attention to himself, but seem to emphasize the rhythm of his speech perfectly. 

All of those and soft, light eyes, warmed by memories of people and places and lives that all seem so profound whenever he talks about them. Solas, she has quickly come to realize, has a way of breathing life and meaning into any story, not matter how mundane.  

To say he has her dangerously bewitched would be an understatement. 

The cadence of his voice trails off, and only a moment later does she realize that he's staring at her, brow raised wryly. “Am I boring you, Inquisitor?” he asks. 

Ashara curls her fingers in the fabric of his tunic and pulls him into her, capturing his mouth in a kiss she expects is self-explanatory enough. He responds as he always does to her advances; endearing surprise at first - his mouth parted in shock against her own – then followed by an impressive eagerness that betrays some yearning, lonely part of him he tries too hard to hide.  

He sighs involuntarily into the kiss, his lips moving gentle but intense in conjunction with hers, and reaches to cup the side of her face, thumb brushing across her cheek in comforting circles. She shifts upward, propping herself up on her side to hover above him, pressing his back firmer against the blanket and leaning in to kiss him deeper. It has him smiling into her open mouth, and she takes the opportunity to tease him with her tongue against his teeth. She hears his breath catch in his throat, and she pulls back, just enough to shoot him a satisfied smirk.  

“Quite the contrary,” she replies. “You’re very distracting.” 

“And you are delightful.” He smiles back. 

Solas sits up, shaking his head lightly to clear his thoughts. If they were in the waking world, she’s certain she would have him blushing at this point – but for now, she will settle for the glazed look in his eyes, and the slight dilation of his pupils as her victory. 

“Would you like me to continue with the anecdote?” he asks politely a moment later, his voice carefully restrained once more.  

He's not fooling anyone. She smirks, then lies back down against the blanket and stretches her arms above her head lazily, making sure to arch her back just enough to catch his eye. 

“By all means.”  

“Very well, then.” He forces his gaze away and clears his throat. “As I was saying, I . . . I believe they . . .” 

His voice wavers and then trails off entirely, his eyes shifting back to her. She meets his eye smugly. One, two, three seconds of deliberation pass between them before his fractured discipline crumbles once more, and with a defeated groan, he is back to kissing her. 

His fingers tangle in her hair and his mouth works more desperately against hers now, his tongue claiming dominance in a way she did not expect to feel so real. She understands what he meant when he had said things were easier for him in dreams. It is so easy to be with him here, in this place, not beholden to politics or schedules or the never-ending demands of duty. Even her own walls feel lessened here, lulled by the half-truth that she's safe within her own mind, regardless of whoever else is sharing it.  It's a dangerous notion, she knows – but she understands now why Solas seems so allured by this world. 

“You -” Solas hisses into her mouth between feverish kisses, “- are going to be the death of me, vhenan.” 

“Le petite mort, I hope.” 

He scoffs, but his fist in her hair tightens, his teeth teasing and grazing at her bottom lip with an obvious hunger. Never one to be upstaged in anything, she migrates from his lips, trailing down to the point of his chin. 

She offers him a single, chaste kiss just below his dimple, before dragging her tongue across the full left ridge of his jawline. 

He pulls away with a gasped, strangled noise, blinking in shock and leaning back to stare at her. 

Now she should be the one blushing. 

“Was that – was that too far?” she asks, a little breathless herself. “Ir abelas, I didn't think -" 

“Tel’abelas. It’s . . . quite alright.” 

He ducks his head, perhaps to hide his bewildered state, and Ashara bites down her guilt. They are both people of clear, set boundaries – he respects hers, and she respects his, an unspoken rule between them for both of their sakes. And even in spite of these  dreams, growing steadily more intense with each passing night, she should have been more careful. If she were awake, she would have been. 

He would never have allowed things to get this far if he were awake.  

She expects him to pull away, to assume his typical mantle of professionalism once more, but he doesn’t. He still holds her, slender fingers idle at her side, his eyes cast down as he works something complicated out within his own thoughts. 

“Solas?”  

His brows knit together in uncertainty. “I don't think this is wise -" 

“It's fine, there's no need to-" 

“- though I wish we could.” 

 The words hang heavy as if they are a part of the Fade itself, buzzing and humming with power and potential. Ashara frowns, and choses her next words carefully. 

“The decision is yours, always. You need never feel pressured by me,” she says. “But I wonder . . . would it truly be so frightening here? In this place, as opposed to -" 

“The real world, lethallan?” His emphasis is scathing. 

She shoots him a mirthless look. “Yes, for a lack of a better word. In the physical.” 

He doesn't reply, still lost in the mess of his deliberations, hiding behind his walls. She wants to be annoyed at the lack of communication – and perhaps she would be, if it wasn't him. If she didn't understand the necessity of walls - of privacy - as well as she does. His hand tightens absently around her waist, and she covers it with her own, entwining their fingers and squeezing reassuringly. 

“I wish I knew,” he says at last, his voice strained. “Here is . . . better. It’s difficult to describe, but . . . if things were different . . .” 

He doesn't finish, and Ashara tilts her head. “Try, if you'd like.” 

“I'm sorry?” 

“Describe it to me,” she smiles. “What you would do, if things were different. Now that would be fine story.” 

Once more he casts his eyes down at his fingers, splayed against the thin cotton of her blouse, and ponders the sly invitation that her words suggest. A small, almost sheepish smile teases the corners of his mouth when he finally meets her gaze. 

“I . . . would kiss you. I would touch you.” 

Ashara runs a comforting finger along the length of his forearm. “Where?” she prompts. 

He shivers a little as her fingers continue to ghost along his arm, leaving some strange illusion of goosebumps in their wake. She has half a mind to ask him about it, just how far the fade's illusions run, but resigns to allow him this undistracted moment; to go at his own pace, to set his own boundaries. 

It seems he hasn't found them yet. “Everywhere,” he breathes as his fingers reach to entwine her wandering fingers with his own. “Fenedhis, everywhere.” 

“Do be specific, heart.” 

Narrowed eyes suggest he's onto her little experiment. He shakes his head with a light chuckle, and then sits up, his free hand coming up to brush again the bow of her lips. 

“I would start here,” he says softly. “Trace your lips with my fingers, like so. Try to concentrate on it.” 

He does just as he describes, his thumb teasing at her bottom lip, pulling away just as she moves to capture it with her teeth. It’s intimate, and it's unnerving real, as if they aren’t both right now asleep in separate beds, in separate quarters, in separate wings of Skyhold. 

“It feels . . . strange.” She says softly, searching for the words to do the sensation justice. “Like physical, only different. Less and more.” 

He smiles at the attempt. “Yes. Keep focusing on me. I would trace your jaw, like this. Down, along your neck, just light enough to make you shiver. I would kiss the hollow of your throat. Do you feel this?” 

Breath warm and husky in her ear, his fingers sweep along her skin like a breeze, real enough to have her biting her lip to fight off a soft sigh. 

“Yes,” She murmurs. “But I thought you were telling me, not showing me.”  

“Shall I stop, lethallan?” 

“You're asking me that?” she laughs. “I'm sure my answer is obvious. Would you like to stop, vhenan?” 

He thinks a moment, bites his lip in such a manner that she wishes she could bite it for him, before finally he sighs. “I would not.” 

He's nervous – she's rarely seen him unsure of himself outside of these moments, so she takes his fingers and presses his knuckles to her lips, eyeing him in a way she hopes he'll register as understanding. “You'll tell me if you change your mind, yes?” she asks intently.  

“Ma nuvenin.”  

“Good.” She smirks. “Now, I believe you were in the middle of a rather compelling story.”  

“Was I?” he shares her smile, propping himself up on his elbow and leaning down to hover above her. “You may need to refresh my memory.” 

“Would you kiss me?” 

“Yes, I would.” 

He doesn’t taste the way he does when they're awake – she can't find his scent on his clothes or her own as he presses her into the blanket, mouth against mouth. But it's utterly him, this sensation she feels now; not just moving in tandem with his lips, but seemingly a product of the air around them, as well. It's something natural to the fade itself – his will makes it manifest, her wanting makes it whole.  

She wishes her really was with her now; warming her bed, leaving small, pleasant marks against her skin to remember him by, come morning. But she can settle; and for him, and his comfort, it hardly feel like settling at all. 

He breaks away - not before nipping lightly at her bottom lip - and watches her devilishly through his lashes with what seems like a sudden boost of confidence. 

“And then - when I have thoroughly gained your attention – I would continue,” he says wryly. His palms travel downwards as he focuses his attention to her jaw, peppering kisses in between his whispered narration. “I would find your chest," - and he does so – “Light touches again, above your clothes, for now. I would tease you. We would have time.” 

We would have time. A pleasant, tender thought, if not another reminder that they are still, unfortunately, dreaming. Ashara feels her breath catch in her throat as long, clever fingers reach her breasts, stroking soft above the thin fabric of her shirt until her nipples are pert and she's biting her tongue to stop from shivering underneath him. 

“And . . . what then?” she manages, hating the obvious want in her voice. 

By the blatant smugness on his face, she imagines he's rather enjoying her current state. “Impatient, vhenan?” he asks in feigned innocence. 

She groans. “Solas.” 

“Perhaps you would prefer to tell the story?” he muses. “What you have me do?” 

“For starters, I would have you on you back.” It's a quick movement, one she's perhaps a little too good at, and their positions are switched only a moment later; Solas underneath her, his hands pinned by hers above his head, with her straddling comfortably in his lap. A far more ideal situation, in her eyes. For good measure, she rocks her hips against him, enough to coax from him even more than the reaction she was hoping for. 

Already, she can feel his body responding to her. He had mentioned it had been a long time, and even her lightest touches only seem to reinforce that confession. It's more than sex, she thinks as she watches him. It's been a long time since he's allowed himself any real degree of comfort. 

She understands – relates, even, in her own way. But it makes her sad, regardless, and the next rock of her weight against him is a little less wanton, and a little more loving. His sharp intake of breath makes her shiver. 

Still pinned, he struggles weakly, but his delighted laugh as she persists is enough motivation to continue. “More?” she breathes. 

“Yes. Please.” 

“So polite.” she grins. “I would take your shirt off.” 

He offers no resistance as she reaches to pull the fabric off his torso, arching slightly to assist as she lifts it over his head. When the cloth is disregarded, forgotten into the fade's nothingness, he runs his hands along the cotton around her waist, before she can think to pin him again. 

“Would I also take off yours?” he asks, hopeful. 

“No. I undress for you. Slow.” She makes a show of running her own hands along her clothed body, lingering at her breasts, before dragging her palms down again to tease at her shirt's hem. “You aren't the only one who can tease.”  

“Hmm.” 

“I’d take your hands, run them over me,” and she does, guiding his palms under her shirt and upwards to cup at the peaks of her breasts, leaning into his touch and relishing the noise it elicits from him. “I would have you be rough.” 

“Not too rough.” 

“Not too rough,” she agrees, unable to keep the fondness from her smile. “And then when I have – how did you put it? – thoroughly gained your attention . . .” 

She savours the want in his eyes as she slowly, methodically, casts off her own shirt, still half expecting her skin to chill from a wind she soon remembers isn't present in their dream. Solas hums once, eyes flickering from her bare chest and back to her eyes, wetting his lips like he were staving off a hunger. Gently, his hands migrate over the curves of her body, one palm squeezing at her waist while the other teases her breast, his thumb and index brushing against her nipple with enough expertise to leave her sighing and reeling above him. She moves against his lap again in languid movements, relishing the growing faux friction between them, not to mention the way he bites his lip to hold off his own sighs. Already, she can feel him hardening beneath her, his length straining against his breeches and pressing against her with that same strange sensation that's so close to real, it almost doesn't matter that it isn't. 

Regardless of anything, there's still far too many layers between them, and her fingers roams down along the flat plain of his stomach, to tug at the belt around his hips.  

“Is this alright?” she asks, catching the subtle twitch of his jaw.  

“Yes . . . yes, it is.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Ashara.” His laugh comes out exasperated, but his hand tightens affectionately around her side. “Your concern is heart-warming, but unnecessary. Please, go ahead.”  

“Now who's impatient?” 

She shifts off him just enough to loosen the sash and tug him free of his last bothersome articles of clothing, grumbling as she struggles with her own pants a moment later. He smirks at her, content to only watch her, and she shoots him a withering look that only makes his smile widen.  

Now both blissfully clothing-free, she allows herself a brief moment of self-indulgent admiration, taking in the sharp angles of his body, the lines and freckles and muscles and exciting new parts.  

Very exciting new parts. She's of half a mind to ask him if he’s exaggerating, or if he actually looks like this when he’s awake, too. 

She thinks better of it, resolving instead to settle back into his lap, rocking against the full length of his cock and evoking a strangled gasp from his lips. He isn't flushed the way she would expect in the waking world, but his composure is slipping, flickering away with each sway of her hips, and each feather light touch against his dreamer's form.  

If they were awake, his current state might just be enough to ruin her.  

His hands grip her thighs, rough but not too rough, guiding her idle movements as slowly as he can without giving himself away. Again, Ashara is struck by just how endearing the moment between them is, and leans down to kiss him, deep and full of a love she hopes that he can feel.  

He must, as he sighs deep into her mouth, fingers leaving her thighs to bury themselves in her hair and pull her closer into him, devouring. His lips work against hers frantically, tongue finding hers again like he just can't seem to help himself. 

Fade tongue. She'll have to find some way to tease him about it in the morning. 

His breath grows rough and unsteady when her nails find his chest, dragging lightly down to his abdomen and pausing, palms splayed just above where he so desperately wants her to be. His hips thrust involuntarily against her weight, and she can't help but let out a low moan as the friction between them makes heat pool and coil inside of her. 

Fingers inch down just a little further before she finds what she's after, hard and upright and already slick with precum. She wraps a slender hand around the width of him, her thumb flitting against the head in steady circles, instantly drawing out another strangled gasp from him as he thrusts up again, desperate for respite.  

“Ashara.” He chokes out, voice rough and harsh and wrecked.   

“Yes, ma'haurasha?” 

“We were playing a game, heart.” He says, resting his hands back against her hips. “You were telling me what you would do. Hypothetically.” 

Even in this state . . . she almost laughs. Instead, she shakes her head and offers him an admonishing eye roll. “Creators, Solas, are we still playing?” She retorts. “I'm not overly fond of these games of yours.” 

“A shame, since I so love them,” comes his grinning retort. “Humour me, then. Do you know what happens now?” 

Ashara sighs. “Enlighten me.” 

“I do this.”  

He has her flipped onto her back in one quick, expert movement, lingering above her before she even has time to so much as gasp in indignation. His lips find her throat, teeth teasing her skin, his kisses soothing the sensitive flesh but a moment later. 

“And this.” 

He ventures lower, sucks at her collarbone, then further still until his mouth finds one of her breasts, grasping at the other with his hand not currently tangled in her hair. Her back arches with the sensation, the onslaught of his touch, his tongue rolling the hardened bud and grazing lightly with his teeth. He switches to the next one, long fingers ghosting along her ribcage, stopping an inch above the dark hair between her legs just as she had done to him, only a few minutes before. 

She holds back the instinctive urge to raise her hips to meet his hand, to seek out a release from the incessant pressure in her stomach, growing strong with every passing beat. She keeps herself still, save for an impatient squirm which he acknowledges with muffled laughter. He moves his thigh, presses it between the two of hers, and the friction – not enough but too much at the same time - evokes an unfiltered, keening moan from the back of her throat which only seems to spur him on further.  

“Then. . .”  

Finally, he shifts his body down, further, kissing trails down her stomach while his fingers finally brush against her clit with a near perfect amount of pressure. She hisses, hands curling around the cotton of the blanket underneath them for any form of purchase she can cling to. His thumb runs along her slit, gathering what must be a considerable wetness, before brushing against that same spot, lingering a little longer this time and repeating the process with a tormenting display of self control.  

A few more minutes of this, with his digits now settled into bursts of circular movements against her clit, and she's gasping and panting and shuddering at his touch, held tumultuously over the edge of release by his teasing alone. He smiles against her hipbone, all too aware of his effects on her. 

“Solas.” She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of begging, but as she reaches the precursors of release once more, only to be denied by his retreating fingers, she forgives herself for the pleading hitch in her voice. 

“Hm?” He hums innocently. His lips have wandered agonizingly far down her body now, but halt just past her hips, raising his eyes to meet her gaze. “Yes, Inquisitor?”  

She gasps out sharply as his index presses inside of her, slowly and fleetingly. The sound encourages him, and he repeats the action once, twice, three times, until another added finger has her squeezing her eyes shut and biting her lip to keep from moaning out, pleading for more. 

“What else?” she manages, voice strained. “What else would you do?” 

“Hypothetically?” 

She almost laughs, but his fingers curl inside her, hitting a point that has her crying out instead. “Yes – Creators, I . . . yes. Hypothetically.” Her voice is wrecked coming out in broken pants with each press of his fingers. 

“Hm . . .” he says again, and the glint in his eyes is borderline villainous. He turns his head back down to his work, her arousal coating the inside of her thighs. Observing it, he reaches down to kiss the wetness there, tongue laving across damp flesh. It feels so real, is her only coherent thought. He must be doing something - some sort of fade magic, or – 

Something profane escapes her throat as Solas raises her hips up and drags his tongue across her slit.  

She doesn't have time to compose herself, and when he does it again, lingering this time at her bud, all pretence of control is lost completely.  

“How – how are you doing . . .” she breaks off into incomprehensible, shuddering Elven as he continues to work her, his mouth licking and sucking and drinking her down until her thighs are trembling and tensed at the sides of his head. 

He ignores her, opting instead to grip her thighs and spread her open further for a better angle, his tongue sliding in and out of her at an achingly slow pace that could very well drive her completely mad.  

“Solas,” she tries again. “I thought – I thought you said you hadn't – ah - done this in a long time -" 

“Inquisitor.” 

“I – yes?” 

“Stop talking.” 

She blinks at him in shock, and as she does, he has the audacity to smirk at her, brow raised expectantly. Waiting for her to obey. To do as she's told. 

Nobody has ever been bold enough to try that with her before . . . 

“Some day,” she says quietly, willing in each word whatever few tethers of restraint she has left, “someone – hmm - really ought to put you in your place, vhenan.” 

A shadow of intense desire flickers across his face at her words, and he groans, head falling back between her legs with a far more noticeable increase of pace. Ashara arches her back, her hand reaching to caress the back of his head while he laps at her deeper and faster yet, concentrating the sum his efforts on her clit. His fingers move to give attention to where his lips neglect, while the other hand grips her thigh like a lifeline, holding down the increasingly frantic bucking of her hips as a mounting pressure in her stomach grows stronger with each expert stroke of his tongue.  

“Solas.” His length, fully erect and pressed against her leg, twitches at the sound of his name on her lips, and so she persists, repeating his name like a prayer until her words and a jumbled mess, and he's moaning into her cunt, pulling her hips harder against him. “Solas. SolasSolasSolas, I -"  

 She cuts off with in a muffled sob as she comes, her back lifting with the force of it, trembling legs all but giving out from under her. Solas’ supportive hold on her hips tightens, but he continues his onslaught, fucking her through her orgasm until she finally collapses, boneless and languid and shaking with the aftermath of pleasure.  

He pulls away slowly, placing an affectionate kiss against her inner thigh as he goes, her wetness coating the entire lower half of his jaw. In her haze, she wonders if they can taste each other, in this place. 

She resolves to find out for herself . . . once the feeling returns to her legs. 

“That was . . .” she starts, trailing off and still blinking back stars. “By the Dread Wolf, that was . . .” 

Solas chuckles breathlessly, collapsing down on the blanket by her side with significantly less grace than she's used to from him. Ashara greets him with welcoming hands, trailing across his chest, then further down with little build-up to brush against his hardness. He rewards her with a soft hitch of breath that soon has her stomach tightening once more.  

“You are so beautiful,” she whispers, watching as he tries and fails to hide his body's response to her words. “My love?” 

“Y-yes, vhenan?” 

“’Stop talking?’” she repeats his words slowly and dangerously.  

Brows raised, his head snaps to meet her darkened gaze. He grins a little, but there's a glint of something nervous and excited in his eyes - something which gives her the distinct impression that he had been hoping for this outcome from the start. 

“Ah,” he says with a light chuckle, which she swiftly halts as she curls her hand around the width of him. “I was – mmh -  curious to see how long it would take before . . . before you brought that up.” 

“Let me sate that curiosity for you now, then.” 

Her strokes quicken, palms running up and down the length of him until he seems to have to think of each word before he speaks them. “I imagine what follows is – what was it you said before?” 

“Putting you in your place?” 

“Yes, putting me in my place.” He laughs, and reaches to cup her cheek. “I love you. Dearly.” 

“And I love you.” Ashara drops the playful façade and places her hand atop his, leaning into his touch and kissing the inside of his wrist. “How are you feeling?” 

His grey eyes search hers, intense with something both parts loving and sad. Finally, when he answers, his voice is barely a whisper. 

“I don't think I just want you hypothetically, Ashara.” 

“Oh?” 

“Oh, indeed.” 

Her humoured smile coaxes the corners of his mouth up, too, but the vulnerability in his eyes remains. She runs her thumb along his cheekbone, reaching forward to kiss the top of his nose in reassurance. “Your decision isn't binding. You need not worry about it tonight, save for what you want right now. What do you want right now, Solas?” 

“Must I pick just one thing?” he smiles.  

“Certainly not.” Ashara laughs “But if you're struggling, I'm sure I can offer a range of very exciting suggestions.” 

“Perhaps you could show me, instead?” 

“Perhaps I could,” she agrees. “Come here.” 

She wraps a leg around his hip as she kisses him, rough with love and wanting in equal measure. As it turns out, she can't taste herself on his lips, though the act still feels as intimate as it would if they were awake. He pulls her above him easily, arms wrapped snug around her waist and pulling her in his chest as if he were afraid to let her go. She can feel him pressing between her legs, softer than he was, but very quickly regaining his prior interest. She slips her tongue between his parted lips, relishing the way his grip tightens around her, fingers pressing into her skin desperately.  

Their hips instinctively grind against one another, and want floods through her veins as his full length presses against her folds. With a growl, she pulls herself from his embracing, parting from their kiss, but not before trapping his bottom lip between her teeth.  

She sits upright, steadying herself with palms splayed against his chest, watching him watching her with an expression she can only describe as enrapture. The sight sends heat pooling between her legs. 

“Now say please.” She says with a smirk. 

His eyes flutter closed as she presses harder against him. “Please.” 

“Like you mean it, emma lath.” 

“I do. Please.” he says, and the frantic note in his voice is unmistakable. “Please, Ashara.” 

“Please, what?” She is enjoying this far too much, and his breath comes out frantic and wrecked as she lifts her hips, teasing the head of his cock against her slick entrance. He holds himself still for her, just barely, but as she lowers herself onto him only to pull away a moment later, she delights in the way his hips jut instinctively to follow her.  

“Fenedhis, sathan,” he moans, draping his arm across his eyes. “Ir’ilasa ma. Lasa em’itha ma, lasa em'leanatha ma, lasa em pala ma sule'ma garun sul’ara edhis.” 

His gasped pleas are more than convincing – her muscles tighten at the sound, and suddenly there's nothing she wouldn't do for him. Slowly, finally, she resolves to end his torment, lowering herself on his cock with a shuddering exhale. Solas’s lips part into a silent ‘o’ shape, but he holds himself steady for her, until she's ready. 

There's no discomfort, she realizes; no sting or tight stretch, even when she has him sheathed to the hilt inside of her.  

She supposes she shouldn't be surprised, given that their coupling exists only in a dream. And yet as she settles comfortably around his length, she feels him twitch and pulse inside her, as real as anything she's felt before. Creators, please don't let this feeling be too good to be true. 

She sets the pace slow at first, lost in the euphoric feeling of him, and this sixth sense version of him she's never felt before, in waking or in sleep. Beneath her, the man in question meets her pace with restrained enthusiasm, rolling his hips to meet her, his hands making fists against her waist in an effort to avoid increasing his thrusts. She runs her nails across his chest, loving the pleased sound it draws from his opened mouth.  

She could get used to seeing him undone like this. Undone by her.  

Each roll of her hips seems to send electric waves of pleasure through his tensed muscles, weakening the last few walls that house his self control. His hips rut against her quicker now, breath coming out rough and harsh, wild enough to make her muscles tighten around him as another coil of pressure begins to build inside of her again. She picks up momentum, riding him harder and faster, her back arching in the hopes the angle might allow him to fuck her deeper still.  

He heeds the hint, grabbing her hips roughly and guiding her up and down his shaft, bringing her down against the base of his cock again and again and again, each time brushing against a spot that makes her cry out with every thrust. Again her walls tighten around him, and the sensation has him moaning out a slew of Elven; incoherent, even if she could understand more than half of it.  

It's bliss. Doubtless neither of them will last long like this. 

In the back of her head, a part of her registers something: a sound, familiar – she can't place it, and she doesn't care to, focusing only on chasing their pleasure to completion. Solas shifts underneath her slightly, putting his hands to use; one fondling at her breast, and the other at the place of their coupling, his thumb working at her clit intently enough to make her eyes roll back. She's close. She's close enough to – 

That same noise again, louder this time, and more insistent. Her movements stutter as she loses concentration, frowning at the annoyance. 

“Heart?” Solas asks, voice straining as he works to his hips still under her. “Is everything -" 

“Do you hear that?” she says sharply, tilting her head. It doesn't sound like it's coming from her dream - it's too real, too irritating for that. “It's like . . . like knocking, or something?” 

Like knocking?

Solas shakes his head. “I don't – “ 

One more time, and that’s all it takes. Someone is knocking.  

Someone is outside my room. Knocking. 

Her eyes snap open in an instant, and she sits upright in her bed, gasping awake and blinking away the sunrise streaming in through the gaps in her curtains.  

No  no, no! Damn it! I was so -  

She has only a moment to register that she’s awake - that Solas is no longer with her, inside her - before an older woman’s voice startles her to attention. She quickly pulls her sheets closer around her, thankful that she'd had the good sense to go to bed clothed the night before.  

“Begging your pardon, Your Worship,” the servant says, hovering by the archway between Ashara's quarters and the stairs. The human woman eyes her nervously, with her knuckles still idle against the archway's threshold as if she were frozen under her gaze. “I know you said you weren't to be disturbed, but the Commander sent me to fetch you, my lady. Said you were expected in the war room for a briefing twenty minutes ago, he did.” 

“Fenedhis,” she mutters under her breath, pleasant dreams all but forgotten as she forces herself out of bed and storms to her armoire. How could she have been so stupid? “Are provisions all set for the trip to Emprise du Lion?”  

“You will have to ask Commander Cullen, I'm afraid.” She says, averting her eye as Ashara frantically changes. After a moment of deliberation, she adds, “Is  . . . is everything alright, my lady? It's not like you to oversleep, especially not on the morning of such a trip -" 

“I'm fine.” She truly doesn't mean to snap, but her intentions don't keep the hostility from seeping into her reply.  

“Are you sure?” the woman persists. “Because you were talking in your sleep, see, and moving about quite a bit. Sounded like you were having a nightmare.” 

She can only scoff.  

“Please tell Cullen I'll be there presently.” She says. “I've excused his tardiness enough times, I'm sure he can endure showing me that same courtesy.”  

“Of course, miss, but if -" 

“Now.” A moment later, out of guilt, she adds, “Please.” 

The servant closes her mouth, swallows hard, and after another moment of considering, she seems to think better of it, instead offering a simple bow and turning away to descend back down the stairs.  

When she hears the heavy door close shut at the bottom of the stairs, she tilts her head back and swears.  

Loudly.  

* 

It's near mid morning when she finally finds him again. 

With all plans finalized and the painfully uncomfortable briefing over with, Ashara makes her way down to the great hall, doubling taking as she spots Solas already seated with the rest of her chosen team.  

He looks about as good as she feels. Dark circles under his eyes, hunched shoulders, a frown that could put one of hers to shame. The mug of tea – an ill omen if ever she's seen one - clutched between his hands is the finishing touch, and she has to work to keep her expression carefully neutral as she takes her seat at their bench. 

“Good morning, everyone.” she says dismissively, reaching over the table to grab for a loaf of bread. 

“Mornin’, boss,” Bull nods. 

Cassandra smiles. 

Solas nods, explicitly avoiding her eye.  

“Hello, lethallin.” She says, working the grin out of her voice. 

“Inquisitor.” 

“You are up shockingly early this morning, Solas.” She can't help herself. “I trust that means you slept well?” 

This time he meets her eye directly, shooting her a knowing stare which she meets with an innocently raised brow. He takes a long, cringing sip of his tea before he dignifies her with an answer. 

“It was good, yes. It was the waking, however, which left something to be desired."  

“How dreadful.” She says, masking her subtle teasing as sarcasm for the rest of the group's benefit. “I suppose you'll just have to make up for it tonight, then.” 

This time Solas smiles at her, all politeness and professionalism, but the dark glint of understanding in his eyes is impossible for her to ignore.  

“Of course, Inquisitor,” he says, finishing the rest of his tea in a single gulp. “I plan on it.”