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It begins in their tent during a particularly hot night in the Hinterlands.
She understands the need to seek out a cool spot, but the timing is abysmal. And for a while they do nothing but listen, waiting for the footsteps to retreat, but the person—fucking Varric—has grown roots outside their tent.
For Creators' sake, she can hear him breathing.
Solas shifts uncomfortably atop her and she remembers their circumstances. Acutely aware of his hand between her legs and the throbbing weight of his cock pressed deliciously to her belly, she decides that she doesn't care. She just doesn't care. It's not as if they haven't been quiet before.
It takes but one roll of her hips to entice him into continuing. Whatever reservations he had, are quick to flee as she stutters a sigh against his ear when his fingers curl just so and resume their languid rhythm. His thumb circles her clit, soft and teasing, before applying enough pressure to make her nibble at his lower lip. His breath is hot and hers is even hotter and she feels lightheaded, deprived of fresh air. She doesn't want to gasp, doesn't want to breathe—anything, everything would be too loud.
Her squirming causes him to pull away, wet fingers sliding over the inside of her thigh, the oversensitive flesh shivering at his dragging touch, before settling on her hip. He presses her hard into the bedroll and his mouth seeks out her throat, finds the pulse point and latches on to it. He doesn't move, but with every breath rushing past his parted lips her skin grows a little more feverish. Droplets of sweat pool into the crook of her neck and he chases them with his tongue, and she decides to reward him by reaching down and gripping the hard length of him.
His hips jerk, instinctively thrusting against her hand, but it doesn't last. He seizes her wrist to guide it away and now the angle is just right. She wriggles, but it's not enough to bring him closer and he only shakes his head in gentle, teasing reprimand. Impatient fingers tickle the underside of her knees in encouragement to wrap around him. So she does. And it's been a while since they've had any kind of privacy so the sudden roll of his hips is unexpected, but she likes the feeling of being filled so completely. The stretch is almost painful at first, a small burn, but it doesn't last because he finds the flow she needs and it's perfect.
When she bites his shoulder, he returns the sentiment by nipping at the thin flesh above her clavicle. One hand reaches down and slides over the small of her back until he's cupping her ass, the glide of his palm facilitated by the sweat between them. He squeezes and when she laughs he uses the opportunity to hitch her leg further up.
Her resolve to remain quiet suddenly decides to depart. She forgets herself and gasps. Because like this he manages to hit something inside of her that makes her want to claw his back bloody every time he thrusts.
It's also when they hear someone clear their throat outside of their tent.
Solas freezes.
So does she.
And once more they just stay there, though the position is infinitely more irritating than before. She can feel his cock twitch inside her every time her breasts brush against his chest, and her frenzied breathing just won't slow down.
And then slowly, so slowly one hand crawls down and fingers press mercilessly to her clit. He is quick to swallow her surprise, his own lips swollen and bruised from all the worrying she did with her teeth. She doesn't expect him to break the silence, but he does.
"There is a crop of elfroot we should see to in the morning," Solas says.
And, well, doesn't he sound unusually composed for someone rutting between her legs. The next time he moves, it is forceful enough to make her slide—or rather she would have slid away, had the bedroll not been so ragged. Instead, the fabric burns her back.
He's stilled. His fingers are still swirling, slick and lazy, and she feels on fire but it is not enough. He looks down at her with the expression. It's almost stern.
And no.
Just no.
He expects her to carry out this ridiculous conversation and she will not. Not when she's so close and coiled so tight. She rocks against him, lifting her hips as much as his weight allows. And, if anything, he looks very amused to watch as she fucks herself on his cock, even craning his neck for a better view.
But it's exhausting.
"Yes, yes," she grumbles, "we'll see to the elfroot."
He lifts her just enough to slide his palms down her spine, cradling her to him. No matter what he thinks, the obscene, wet sound of flesh slapping against flesh will not be muffled by their idle talk.
"We are running out of potions," he says.
"Can't have that," she says. "Varric took a very nasty tumble today," she adds as an afterthought.
At that, he draws back just enough to frown at her. As much as his tight grip allows, she shrugs, delighting in the way their slick skin clings together.
He hides his face in her hair with a huff and she stifles a giggle. He was the one who wanted to talk, after all.
Thankfully, her mention of Varric and the unavoidable mental image of his glorious chest hair doesn't cool his ardor. All at once he's coming and this closeness, his smell, his taste, his harsh breath crashing against every inch of her, is enough to send her over the edge. Still, he outlasts her and she just holds on to him as he rides out his release, hips slowing down to shallow thrusts until he follows her down, content and spent.
When he shifts off her, she rolls onto her side to whisper into his ear.
"Moron," she says.
He's not fooling anyone. What a tit.
In the darkness, she thinks she sees him roll his eyes. Of course, he would never acknowledge indulging in such a juvenile gesture if she were to point it out so she just laughs.
"Go to sleep," he whispers, "we must wake early." His hand finds hers and gives it an affectionate squeeze.
"Yes, of course," she says matter-of-factly. "Wouldn't want all that elfroot running off."
When her giggle turns into a snort, he pinches her thigh and she squeals.
*
"So how about that elfroot, huh?" Varric asks in the morning.
Solas has gone deaf. He notices little and hears nothing. Nevertheless, he shoots the dwarf a death glare.
Varric offers her a high-five which she eagerly returns.
*
The second time it happens they're in the dusty library below Skyhold and she has to give him credit. He's gotten creative.
She's not even sure how they went from perusing the crooked shelves to tearing off each other's clothes, but it's hardly a concern worth entertaining. Not when he grips her by the shoulders and drags her up the instant she draws back for breath, the tip of his cock rolling over her lower lip.
Her leggings and smalls are barely shoved past her knees when he guides her down onto himself. He sighs, trembles beneath her, and brushes aside her knotted hair so his lips are free to seek out her shoulder.
"It is an old archive with texts the scholars of Minrathous would go green with envy for," a chirpy, confident voice announces.
It arrives with an echo, suggesting the person—fucking Josephine, this time—still has a way to go.
But she is still much, much too close for comfort.
Solas groans. His fingers dig into her hips as he lifts her and she allows it only to sink back onto him once more. She sets an unhurried pace and he wraps an arm around her waist and mirrors her movements, thrusting up whenever she slides down. And the hot drag of his cock is enough to make her see stars. She reaches down and touches herself; because he's already breathing so hard and she won't let him win this race. He bats her hand away, intent on being the only one to touch her, but she guides his hand, rolls his fingers firmly against her swollen nub and then he really can't complain about the little cries escaping her. What a delightful, joint effort this is.
A terrible sound heralds someone fiddling with the lock on the door.
She sees the knob turn to ice and then Solas' hand clamps over her mouth. Josephine's frustrated huffing and puffing is followed by a disappointed chorus of tsks and oohs. Whatever scholars she's brought along are very saddened the tour has been cut short.
She tries not to laugh.
She tries so hard.
Her tongue darts out to tease his palm.
He snaps. She thinks he is going to push her off, and he does push her—flat against the ancient table until she is left raking her nails up and down the old mahogany.
"I'm afraid the door is jammed, Ambassador," Solas calls out.
She presses he forehead to the wood, willing the rise and fall of her chest to adapt a less frantic pace. But it's impossible. Not when he's slowly, so very slowly fucking her from behind.
"Oh!" Josephine exclaims in turmoil. "Shall I get Sera, then? She might be able to work around this lock."
A particularly sharp thrust. His teeth closing over the tip of her ear. "I believe it would be best," Solas says.
She grips the edge of the desk because suddenly she's coming—and he feels it and all at once he's pounding at her—and she can't think clearly at all. Deft fingers trace the length of her spine, soon followed by lips as he spills within her.
Her treacherous throat must have left something slip, because there's yet another surprised sound behind the door.
"Inquisitor?" Josephine inquiries.
Solas collapses into his chair and she climbs into his lap. He nuzzles her throat. Lavishes wet kisses upon the trail of bruises at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She feels him soften, still nestled between her legs, and it is a lovely little intimacy. She kisses his cheek and breathes in deep.
She doesn't have much dignity left—especially with her leggings and smalls bunched around one ankle as seed trickles down her thighs—but somehow she manages to call forth her most diplomatic of tones.
"Solas is right, you should get Sera," she says, because suggesting she fetch Varric would earn her another glorious not-quite-eye-roll.
She won't be able to look Josephine in the eye ever again.
"Could have just remained quiet," she murmurs, turning her head to catch his lips in a sloppy kiss.
Solas scrunches his eyes. He groans and presses his forehead to hers.
"I was caught off guard," he confesses.
"Always so talkative," she chuckles. "Help me braid my hair."
*
The third time, they are actually in her quarters. He shouldn't even be feeling uneasy, all things considered. It is a private space; for once, they are not the intruders.
But he turns to stone and no amount of cajoling succeeds in inciting his clever mouth to return to her. He gives the inside of her thigh a gentle, apologetic kiss and crawls back up to lie at her side.
"Inquisitor?" Cullen's hesitant voice calls out as he continually raps his knuckles against the locked door.
Fucking Cullen.
She is quicker this time.
She catches the exact moment his lips part and smothers whatever reply itches to escape. She sits astride him, feeling his achingly hard cock strain against the confines of his trousers.
"Don't you dare start a conversation with Cullen through the door," she hisses.
She is not going to discuss war preparations while riding him. She is not.
As far as punishments go, she certainly could have found a harsher one. Somehow, sliding a hand down to stroke him seems counterproductive. But he arches up to meet her and suddenly it doesn't really matter.
She laughs, breathlessly and high. His arms lock around her waist to pull her down until his nose is brushing hers.
"How are you so awkward?" she asks, mapping his face with kisses.
He swipes his thumb over her swollen lips and she makes a show of trying to bite it. He laughs, the sound a deep rumble in his chest which she delights in experiencing firsthand. It slithers from his skin to hers and she feels it, feels him, and it's something she wants to sink her claws into and never let go.
"You are unique and steal my breath away," Solas says.
One of his less poetic lines—certainly very cheesy—but the blush which colors her cheeks is innocent and sincere. Impossible to fight.
She's the one to roll her eyes this time.
"What a tit," she says. "Take off your pants."