Work Text:
She’d commandeered his sofa for her nightly reports, but found herself watching him instead. He paused to consider a line. He trimmed his quill, eyes still scanning the text. His long, ink-splattered fingers wrapped around the quill. She swallowed, forcing her eyes away.
When she shifted, he glanced over at her. Surely he couldn’t tell what he was doing to her, sheerly through his existence?
She approached his chair from behind, candle and torchlight beginning to dim in the late hour, but his veilfire lantern lighting the rotunda mural in ghostly color. He didn’t tense when she put her arms around his shoulders, his long, flowing script continuing seamlessly over the page. She ran her fingers down the knit of his sweater, leaning in to breathe on his neck.
“I want to become one with you,” she said in Elvhen, her voice low in his ear. The ear twitched, but his eyes remained on the text in front of him. They were pretty words for a proposition when "fuck me" in Common would have been just as accurate.
He corrected her grammar in a sentence, turning the page with one finger. Undeterred by his correction, she pressed her lips to the sensitive skin of his neck, just under his ear.
“Come to bed with me,” she whispered, lips brushing his skin with each syllable. Unflappable, he continued taking down notes, pausing to check what he’d written against the text. Neatly, he wrote a page number next to it. She let her fingers trail lower down the knitted lines, over his chest inch by inch.
“I want you so deep inside me you cannot tell where I begin and you end,” she said, upping the indecency of her proposals to meet his seeming indifference. At this, his quill paused briefly and he cleared his throat.
“I see you have been adding to your vocabulary,” he said, quill scratching parchment again. Encouraged, she slipped one lithe leg over his, then the next, sitting across his lap. He certainly wasn’t as disinterested as he seemed, she noted, but now it was a challenge she certainly wouldn’t forfeit just because she couldn’t resist touching him.
“And then I want you to empty yourself inside me,” she said, pressing a kiss under his chin. He put his arm around her to be able to write while she sat in his lap (she again thanked the creators for Solas’ width of shoulder). Now able to see his expression, she saw one eyebrow raise at her statement—for now they had passed from invitation to promise. She would have him. Tonight.
“I do not want to clench around emptiness that could be you,” she said, her voice breathy and deep. She pulled one hand away from him, sliding it down her own casual outfit. When she reached her groin she let her fingers rest there, tempting, teasing. "But I will, if you do not join me." His free hand closed around her fingertips and warmth shot through her at his sudden reaction. One of his hands remained, enclosing hers, and the other yet gripped his quill, but his eyes were on her. She could feel his mana in the air around her like a warm blanket and her eyes widened, still locked on his.
A tendril of force magic to brushed past her folds to her swollen clit, tasting and teasing.
“Ah!” she moaned, equal parts surprise and pleasure, then threw a hand over her mouth, putting her head in the crook of his shoulder to further stifle her cries. His expression didn’t change. In fact, it seemed that he continued to read, moving his book a bit closer either to further hide their actions or because he simply couldn’t read it around her. Elvhen was lost on her now, the sensation becoming one only described by sound.
The tendril teased down her folds, circling her clit once, twice, and returning to press ever so gently precisely where she wanted to be filled. She wouldn’t say it felt the same as him. Different, yet undeniably an extension of him. He knew her body intimately, and his magic traced the path he would have taken physically. Instead of his particular ridges and bumps she knew so well, his magic felt smooth, like glass, but so warm and like veilfire whispers under her skin.
She gasped again as it took her, pressing into her slowly, letting her feel the sensation of being filled by nothing but Solas’ will. With the hand he stationed above her fingers, once so ready to dip down to herself now completely forgotten, he pulled one finger from her pleasure-clenched fist and used his own hand to press it to her clit through her clothes in the same rhythm his magic took her in, a slow, steady sink as far as her body would allow. The friction was delicious, the seam of her pants rolling across her clit on alternate strokes of her finger in his hand.
Once the tendril bottomed out, it began a steady rhythm in and out of her, pressing against all the places she loved best. At first she thought she was imagining it, but realized that on every inward stroke the tendril widened a fraction, growing to fill her, complete her to the fullest.
It twisted inside her on each stroke and she couldn’t help the circles her hips made against his lap, grinding down against him—an instinctual, seeking reaction that had no effect on the magic toying with her. He pressed into her faster, circling her finger around her clit, and she panted against his skin, quelling her moans by biting knit at his neck.
And then it was on her. She skittered over the edge and plummeted into orgasm, a wave of absolute, thought-rending pleasure from the top of her head to her feet desperately seeking purchase as the magic drove into her again and again, lengthening her peak with varied thrusts and widths.
When she was done, the magic dissipated. She could feel her wetness seeping into his leggings from her own, but she threw her arms around him instead.
“I’ll leave you to your work,” she said, brushing her fingers up his clothed length and standing, steadying herself on the desk.
“I will join you when I am done,” he said, readjusting the book in front of him. She smiled, placing a peck on his cheek.
“You’d better.“