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"This is very odd."
"Are you against it?"
"I did not say that."
Solas' hands wander absentmindedly up and down her back, fingers catching and bunching up the material of her nightgown. She squirms a little, readjusting herself on his lap as more of her thighs are exposed to the warm summer air.
"Am I too heavy?" she asks, arms sneaking around his neck and palms pressing flat to the headboard to offer the papers in her hands a hard surface to rest against.
"Not at all."
His breath tickles the hollow of her throat and she hums.
It's almost clinical, this tone of his.
Then he gives her behind a little pinch and she giggles, his cold assessment forgotten.
"Good," Ellana says. "So, Dorian says—"
She can't actually see it, but his withering glare is a powerful presence in its own right. Almost physical. She snorts.
"Must Dorian always be included during our time alone?" he questions, hands stilling.
"Well, it's the entire point."
"No. That is not the point."
She chews on the inside of her cheek. "All right," she concedes, briefly brushing her lips against the shell of his ear. "Wrong phrasing."
'Yes," Solas agrees and his inquisitive hands resume their route, inconspicuously slipping the nightgown off her shoulder.
"I'm just saying that this is his idea. Or advice. Or—oh, do stop glaring, I can feel it. You get to enjoy this after all."
It began innocently enough, as all naughty things do. Dorian, two goblets from a drunken stupor, had nudged her with his foot and proclaimed, "You elves are filthy. You must be, with those ears of yours."
And she fared no bared, the wine already dry on her lips. So her reply was quite slurred—or maybe it wasn't even a coherent answer but merely a sound—by the time she twirled on her heels to face him.
"What do our ears have to do with anything?"
"Oh, do shut up and tell me a story."
All her stories, as it turned out, were no good for Dorian's delicate palate.
And not the kind he had in mind.
It was with a waggling finger and eyebrows knit into a severe V, that Dorian provided an example.
Drink in one hand and an imaginary—something in the other, he set about his tale.
"I once almost choked on this beautiful apprentice's—"
"Dorian!" she squeaked.
"You are dull and I hate you," he declared. "Your hobo too. Horribly boring people, you are. Scoot closer, fair child, so I may corrupt you. Whatever will my mother say."
From experience, she knew all of Dorian's ideas to be exceedingly bad. Last time they ended up in an alternate Redcliffe with countless demons up their asses.
In retrospect, not a smart suggestion to agree to.
But she already has the list in hand and nothing to do, so why ever not.
Ellana licks her fingers and flips through the pages. From the corner of the eye, she sees Solas trying to crane his neck to steal a glimpse but only succeeding in banging the back of his head against the headboard.
She snorts again.
"All right," she says, "I don't even know where to begin."
"May I be allowed a look?" Solas asks.
"Certainly," she concedes, making herself comfortable on his lap. "What is it that the Orlesians say? It takes two to—darn, I can't remember."
"It takes two to do a lot of things, vhenan."
She feels his smile against her skin right before he decides to bite her shoulder, soothing the mark with his tongue before sighing.
The papers pass from her grip to his and he pulls her closer, arms slipping around her middle as his chin comes up to rest on her shoulder. A gentle kiss is pressed to the bare skin there before his attention shifts.
"That is a lot of...suggestions," Solas says, something in his voice breaking. He clears his throat.
"I mean, I know some of them are really obscene but others could be interesting?" She doesn't even know why her tone rises at the end as if in question. There are no questions here, only naughty elf things, as Dorian put it.
But nothing will ever get started if they don't.
She rubs Solas' ears, touch feather-light and soft, and beneath her a sharp breath escapes his chest. When her lips meet his temple, he's tossing away Dorian's list and rolling her over. His knee finds home between her thighs and when he grips her hips to pull her lower on the bed, it presses right against the center of her.
She gasps. He smiles. And soon he is stealing her breath and voice alike, hot and eager mouth slanting over hers. A bit of sugar, a hint of lyrium. He tastes like a mage ought and it's a perverse type of pleasure to get to steal the tidbits from his tongue; her own little secret—the ragged apostate's lips are sweet and none beside her will ever know.
Deft fingers splay over her ribs and somehow they are beneath cloth already, caressing and bunching her nightgown up. And it's not long until her thighs are bathed in the heat of him and he's nestled comfortably between them.
He tugs, she shifts, he readjusts his stance, she wriggles. The clink, clink, clank of her buttons and his belts as layers are undone. Solas briefly pulls back, sits on his haunches, while she helps him with his breeches and then it's flushed skin against equally skin. He is so warm—ah oh, this is interesting and unsurprising.
Somehow, she gets hold of the list. And somehow she manages to read from it over his shoulder.
His lips are mapping her collarbone and his cock is pushing against her belly when she says, "Well, apparently this one is very popular, according to Dorian." Not the ideal situation, but some of her concentration remains.
Solas just sort of grunts in response.
She lets him grab her hips, press them to his own. He rocks against her and it's almost enough to make her forget this foolish endeavor.
"It says that I'm supposed to call you—oh look who has learned some Elven—papae? Hahren?" She narrows her eyes at the scribbled words.
Atop her, Solas freezes. "Please. Don't."
She's never hear such horror in his voice. It's almost amusing. He is positively green in the face.
He shifts, taking his weight off her and falling back against the bed. Groans. Drapes one arm over his eyes.
"I fail to see the appeal," she says with a shrug.
Solas is mute, with the exception of an occasional ragged breath, but makes no move to touch her again. She rolls on her side, pressing all of her naked self against him and behind the hand used to shield his face, his eyes spring to attention.
Ah, well. Not completely inanimate, then.
"Hi there," she says, running a hand down his heaving chest until he's shuddering.
"Burn that cursed list," he says.
"Obviously it hasn't put you off entirely," she remarks, gazing at the very apparent tent that has formed beneath the cover he's arranged over his midriff.
She sneaks one hand under to find his thigh and unceremoniously grasps his cock. He gasps, she moves closer, and soon he's breathing against her throat, fingers digging into the flesh of her ass as his hips struggle to keep up with the rhythm of her hand.
Gently, she withdraws and feels his own fingers crawl between her thighs, eager to return the favor, when she pushes him back.
He sits, back resting against the headboard, and she returns to his lap, their previous position resumed though with infinitely more friction.
"I think this one might be more up your alley," she says.
"Do tell," he says, frown severe and gaze stern, and he almost succeeds in looking severe if not for his impatient kneading of her breasts.
Instead, he's only ridiculous. And beautiful. And blushing.
She plants a kiss to his cheekbone, right where a cluster of freckles dwells, and he sighs.
But he's not really listening either. He's already lifting her, one arm wrapped firmly around her waist, putting just enough distance between them to find the right angle—and then he's sliding home, sweetly but quickly. Her mouth parts, shapes an O of surprise which he is quick to lick from her lips before his tongue plunges in to find hers.
The summer air is thick and heavy, and she tastes salt as she draws back for breath, teeth nibbling on his lower lip.
She sighs but refuses to move, planting both hands on his shoulders to keep him from bucking.
"So I was saying," she says. "You're all about Arlathan and the glory of old elves."
Beneath her, Solas tenses.
His cock, however, still twitches inside her, impatient, and she decides that all is far from lost.
"There's this story about Fen'Harel and Andruil, and how she wanted him to serve in her bed for a year and a day for some crap he pulled." She does move then, because she is too full and too hot, and her thighs have begun to tremble.
She rolls her hips. Once, twice, thrice. Until his fingers are tangled in her hair and the grip is almost painful. His breath stutters when she lifts off too much, when he almost slides out of her, and the hand at her waist travels to her hipbone and pushes down—hard, fast, demanding. He sheathes himself inside her fully and it's almost too much, but still so delightful.
"How about I hunt you?" she murmurs, lips brushing against his ear. "I'll be Andruil and you'll be—"
"No." And this time he's almost hissing and the scar between his eyebrows is made deeper by his impressive scowl.
Ellana smacks him playfully. Bumps his nose with her knuckles. "Spoilsport," she says.
"Andruil was Fen'Harel's sister," he whispers in horror.
He looks as if he's about to throw up. Right on her. She considers moving away before he gathers her in his arms and buries his nose in her hair. Inhales deep.
"And how would you know that?"
"...from my journeys in the Fade."
Of course.
Whether it's true or not, his declaration takes the wind out of her sails. She gives the list another look over.
"Spanking?" she reads in disbelief. "How is this even relevant—who would even—"
As if in response, Solas swats her ass. She yelps, but it's more of a choked sound. She draws back to stare at him only to find one of his eyebrows quirked.
"I am not averse to that one," he says, and his husky tone almost does it—almost.
She catches his hand before it lands on her reddened behind again. He's laughing and she's too preoccupied with restraining his shameless paws. It takes much twisting, much turning, and soon she's losing her balance and he's taking the lead, rolling over to pin her beneath him.
Solas runs his nose up her cheek, pausing to nuzzle the tender spot behind her ear. "I suppose," he whispers, "there had to be one good idea in there."
He parts her legs, entering her in one smooth stroke. And it's enough, more than enough even, but she already feels his hand on her belly, pressing down to feel how deep inside her he is, and it's an entirely new sensation.
"I'm sure there's more," she gasps.
"There aren't."
"Painter and Muse—you paint."
"Uninspiring."
The feeling of a heavy palm dissolves into a few inquisitive fingertips tiptoeing ever lower to press mercilessly to her clit. And he just holds the pressure as he fucks her, the obscene sound of slapping flesh echoing through her quarters, and slick fingers always circling, teasing, caressing.
"Royalty and Servant," she tries again.
He speaks against her neck, teeth briefly closing over the frantic pulse point as if in reprimand. "A brothel game."
Whatever that means.
She's almost tempted to ask, until he hooks one hand beneath her knee to drag her leg up. She assists it, looping it around his waist.
She huffs a little, breathing hot air against his skin. "Apparently you know best, as you always do, so how about you prove it."
And he does, he does, he does.
He flips her, but she doesn't remain on elbows and knees for long. He does not enter yet, not yet, though he is hot and throbbing and pressing against the curve of her ass. He holds her up, but she still seeks assistance from the headboard, nails digging into the wood until they bend and the pain is near delicious.
His fingers dip inside her, long and talented and just too slow. He drags this out, pausing when she grips him too tightly, and her cheeks must be burning because she can hear it, the slick evidence of him touching her so intimately. Teeth find the bladed tip of her ear.
She thinks he will move, thrust into her with enough force to make her knees buck, but instead he merely swats her ass. Again.
If he feels her glower—for he certainly can't see it—he only lets out a muffled sort of chuckle.
"I do not know everything," he murmurs. "You were right, it cannot be all bad. We've found a diamond in the rough...so to speak."
"I will hit you, Solas. Keep your hands to yourself."
Finally he moves and her knees really do give out.
The next morning, Dorian is nursing one of his worst hangovers. Still he finds it in himself to hobble to the railing and gaze down at the rotunda.
"Is that a spring in your step I see there, Solas?" he calls, and immediately winces, the volume of his own voice grating on his frayed nerves.
The ice she summoned to help with his headache is instead hurled at him. He yelps, shooting her the look of a wounded puppy.
Downstairs, a door slams shut.