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Solas arches, trying to squirm out of the iron grip Saar has on his hips, to no avail. She chuckles, low and dangerous.
“That’s cute, little wolf. It’s not gonna save you, though.”
It makes a bone-deep shudder course through him. He tries to get his legs underneath him but she shoves one knee in-between his thighs, then the other, and forces his legs apart. He barely resists the urge to bury his face in the mattress and let out the groan trapped in his lungs—but sudden pressure between his shoulderblades slams him down and makes the decision for him.
Then Saar is atop him. All her heavy weight turned weapon, claws digging into the bones of his hips and chest, spell-borne shaft slotting against his hole. Solas could cry from how hard he is.
“Don’t,” he wheezes, “don’t—”
The hand on his hip moves—he tries again to wriggle free, and again his efforts remain thrillingly fruitless—and Saar shoves her shaft into him. The sharp ache makes him soar, his heart hammering against his ribs. His breath is in ruins.
Saar moves the way she likes it, rough jabs of her cock, that grinding curl of her hips interspersed. He recognizes the rhythm even now that it is given over to violence, and it is nigh impossible to keep up his pretense of resistance. He manages it, barely, claws his fingers into the sheets and pulls himself forward, keening when she shifts over him to angle her cock down into his sweet spot.
She grabs him by the back of his neck and hauls him close again; he feels her heavy breath hit the side of his throat. For a second he goes practically boneless. He is so close.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
He spits a curse and manages to brace one bare foot in the mattress, preparing to push himself away. She bites him, hard, right into the muscle between his neck and shoulder. Liquid heat surges from the impact of her teeth down his spine and into his cock.
Almost. Almost.
Except she slows down, changes her angle again, shifts her grip on his neck. Her knuckles nudge into the hollow of his jugular. He snarls out more curses, even if he is as trapped as ever.
“You promised, no teasing— ”
“I’m not—”
She slows further. The sound of her breathing is suddenly very loud, and very ragged.
Something is wrong, Solas realizes, half a second before their watchword comes tumbling from Saar’s mouth: “Tranquil—fuck, tranquil— ”
She pulls out of him, the sting of it artless and without intent. Her hands lift off of him just like the rest of her weight, and Solas is left cold and shivering. It takes him an excruciating second to get his bearings. Saar is not even on the bed anymore.
"Vhenan, what…"
The words die in his throat, because Saar looks genuinely afraid. He stumbles off the bed to reach for her, and she actually backs away from him—all the way into the wall. The cold crawls inside his bones, leeching the last warmth of his arousal.
"Saar, please—"
"Don't touch me," she hisses, her breath fast and flat. A barrier snaps into existence between them, and Solas' heart trips in his chest.
"What—" He swallows, throat dry, "—what do you need?"
"I don't know! I just—" She breaks off, voice cracking. He can see gooseflesh pebble her skin under the sheen of her sweat.
"Very well," he says as gently as he can, "I will not touch you. But I am not leaving."
Saar lets out a strangled noise, something that might have been a laugh in another life. Everything in Solas screams at him to comfort her, but even if she hadn't summoned the barrier, he would not know where to start—this is horrifyingly new territory.
So he does what he can. He grabs the first item of clothing, which turns out to be Saar's billowing shirt, and slips it on to stave off the creeping cold. Saar herself is still naked, and must be catching a considerable chill. Solas sets the fire in the fireplace to roaring and proceeds to drag every piece of fur, pillows and blankets he can find into a pile in front of it. As he works, he keeps an eye on Saar, who watches him with a disturbingly vulnerable stare. She slowly sags down against the wall, sliding all the way to the ground, long limbs folded in on herself.
Just as Solas contemplates adding the bed's mattress to the pile, the air shifts. The barrier is gone.
All his panic comes flooding back, and he darts across the room, barely stopping himself from falling into Saar's arms. She looks unbearably exhausted.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs, voice hoarse, "you shouldn't have to—"
"None of that," he interrupts her softly. He aches all over, but it is trivial compared to his worry for her. "I shall manage, and you can pamper me later as usual. May I?"
She nods, and he finally touches her, fitting his hand to the curve of her cheekbone. Her skin is clammy beneath his palm. With a sigh, she lists into the touch.
"How are your hands always this warm?"
"Because you are freezing. Come, into the pile with you," he says, ignoring the lump in his throat. He helps her stand, wipes away the remnants of lyrium paste low on her belly that aids in the barrier spell she used to fuck him, and tugs her toward the pile. Once there, he begins to swathe her in all available blankets.
"You're fussing," she says with an incredulous little chuckle.
"If you had seen your face before, this would not surprise you," he mutters as he wriggles into the cocoon of furs and blankets, fitting himself along her front.
Her expression grows somber, and she rests her forehead against his.
"I didn't mean to worry you, kadan."
"I would be far less worried if I understood what happened—if it is something you're willing to share.” He lightly nuzzles his nose against hers. “But if my actions are somehow the cause, I must insist you tell me."
"No, it's nothing you did—at least, I don’t think so? It's…” She sighs, closing her eyes. “It's complicated."
"Pleasure very often is."
For a long time, silence hangs over them. Solas lays his hand against Saar’s jaw once more, thumb stroking back-and-forth over her cheekbone. A quiet reassurance, he hopes. As close as they are, they are sharing breath—both of them unsteady. The fire crackles on occasion when a log splits, spitting sparks.
"I…" Saar says eventually, voice low, "I used to do some really stupid shit when I was younger."
"I daresay you are not alone in that."
"Yeah, but I don't think many mages make a habit of voluntarily fucking Templars."
Ah.
He had an inkling of it, from the way she had eyed Rutherford sometimes, in those early months of the Inquisition’s existence. Like a cat watching a tasty mouse wearing armor, as though that would protect it—at least that was the impression Solas had of the interaction. He had wondered about it, even considered asking her about it. But now there are more important things than whatever Saar’s reason for such unusual indulgences are, and he simply waits for her to elaborate.
"The first one was… good.” She laughs, small and wooden. “Absolutely terrible Templar, by Chantry standards, which is probably why. And enough of those afterwards were, too, that it took me a long time to stop.”
A pause. Beneath his palm, Solas can feel her chew the inside of her cheek, before she continues: “But they were all still… Templars. And I became so used to being ready for—for anything."
"Is that what happened today?" Solas asks quietly. "You felt as though you had to be prepared for me to—to attack you?"
"I don't know why," Saar growls in lieu of a direct answer. "It’s been ages , and you're clearly not—you're—"
She cups his face in her hands and kisses him, deep and lingering. A hot shiver rolls through him. It causes something in his belly to unfurl pleasantly, like a cat basking in the sun. Oh, he thought he did not crave that gentle affection that always followed their rough games yet, but his body responds to it like it is starved: eager and exhausted.
"I love you," Saar whispers, "and I do trust you not to pull a knife on me while we're fucking."
Solas smiles helplessly. He tugs her into another kiss, winding his fingers into the long hair at the nape of her neck.
“But some part of you did not, vhenan,” he points out afterwards.
“I don’t know why,” she repeats and buries her face in the crook of his neck, her arms wrapped tight around his torso. Her heartbeat at least has calmed, thudding evenly against his chest. He keeps trailing his fingers along her spine while he scours his memories, searching for the differences between today and their previous forays into the game. In the beginning, words had not been part of their game—but this is hardly the first time Saar has pretended to ignore his pleas. The only thing he can think of…
“You held me face-down this time.”
“Well, you do have a lovely backside.” She sighs deeply, chest moving with the exhale-inhale like a bellows. “But you’re right, that was new, I… Why do you smell different?”
“How so?”
“It’s—” she sniffs him, cold nose pushed into the hollow of his throat, “—it’s lyrium-scent. Not the usual one.”
“Dagna had me test a new concoction this morning,” he realizes. “A different formulation for lyrium potions.”
Saar sticks her nose right into one of his ticklish spots again, and Solas has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a snort in.
“It’s a bit like the way Templars smell,” she says slowly. She pulls back and sits up, mouth bent unhappily. “But it’s rather faint. I don’t know if…”
Solas' heart twists right in his chest.
“Perhaps it was the combination—the unfamiliar position, the reminiscent scent,” he suggests. Or perhaps it was something more elusive, and there is nothing they can do to control it. Saar would not be the only one in their bed with old wounds living in her bones.
He props himself up on one hand and uses the other to tug the topmost blanket back over Saar’s shoulders. Lets his fingers linger on her naked skin that has finally grown warm again.
“Things like this happen,” he says softly. “Perhaps there is a cause we can manage, and perhaps there is not. But even then, I… I would not wish to cease games like these, out of fear. Not when I trust you to tell me when you are unwell, just as I would tell you.”
“I don’t want this to ruin anything either, I just—” Saar shakes her head, exhaling slowly. She lays her hand over his atop her shoulder, even as she glances away. “I don’t like feeling like that shit still has power over me,” she mutters. Solas can understand the frustration—in his long life, there are few things that have not been touched by tainted memories in one form or another. He shifts his hand ever so slightly, so his fingers slip between Saar’s. It’s hard to remember that it ever felt awkward to hold her hand since it was so much larger than his—now, it is as if two interlocking pieces of an intricate machinery slot together.
“That power is clearly faint, if this is the first time it has reared its head since we have been together,” he tells her gently. “And now, the enemy has revealed itself. All the easier to strike it down.”
Saar meets his gaze again. Her eyes are still shadowed, glancing at him from beneath her lashes, but there’s a small, crooked smile on her lips. “…Is that how you think about your own soul scars?”
Solas’ heart lurches sideways a little. He shrugs. A mirroring smile tugs at his mouth. “It can help.” He leans closer, resting his cheek against her chest to feel her heartbeat. Shivers ever so slightly at the warmth and contact. His skin is still starving.
“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”
Saar curls her free arm around his back, holding him close. A deeper shudder courses through him, but it is pleasant, full of anticipation.
“Can I pamper you now, little wolf?” There’s a teasing lilt to the words, but her voice is tender.
“Please,” he whispers. And sighs, blissful, when Saar begins to trace the bones in his back with careful fingers. Her hands are calloused from years of spearfighting, but in moments like these, Solas cannot imagine anything softer. Her heartbeat calms further, and by the time they have sunk back down into the furs and Saar is kissing him, slow and soft and lingering, there is no tension left in either of them.