#(and i need solas and ian to kiss on the mouth and not the nose)

[queenaeducan]

kind of bummed that i beat veilguard once and i have two replays going (once which is All Solas and mostly just for that) but my desire to play it is so fizzly.

[queenaeducan-writes]

Apodyopsis

Pairing: Solas x Lavellan Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: Mature Warnings: Suggestive

Apodyopsis: the act of mentally undressing someone. Solas finds himself hoping something more will come of tonight, but knows his desires are not the only ones which count. 

Canon divergent, featuring a non-Inquisitor Lavellan and a universe where Solas revealed the secret he had meant to that evening in the grove. Originally written for a meme prompt.

Read it on AO3 here!

Minutes pass in the span of a sigh, the passage of time unimpeded by their tryst. This world is apathetic to their affection, the stone floor beneath their feet the same as it was when they awoke that morning. Solas reminds himself of this in the gap between their kisses, centers himself in reality before he loses himself in Ian’s. They stand toe-to-toe in the center of the room– their room. The sun has set, their surroundings lit by candles that had gasped to life when he wasn’t looking. Everything is cast in warm colours, a halo glows around the crown of Ian’s head, through the wispy ends of his hair. When their eyes meet, he smiles, and the laugh lines around his eyes smile with him.

“You’re staring,” Ian says with a breathy giggle, his eyes fluttering toward the corner of the room before they return to him.

“Am I?”

Solas finds himself drifting, head bowing to brush Ian’s. He still smells of Skyhold’s gardens, of elfroot and sweet alyssum, and though the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, Ian’s scent carries its memory. Hands cup the back of his neck and pull him the rest of the way down, parted lips there to greet him. He sinks against him, forcing back the urge to smile at how eager Ian is to slip his tongue between his teeth. It is not always he is so daring, though it has been more often, of late. Perhaps Ian had at last noticed how his blood runs hotter, his whole body flushed pink. He strains against the fingers at the nape of his neck, just to feel them resist, drawing him deeper.

Their kiss breaks with two quiet gasps. The next is placed at the corner of his lip, a taste of where Ian’s affection may wander. Then, his jaw, then Ian sways forward on his toes to reach beneath the lobe of his ear. He giggles and sways forward, laughter tickling his neck, daring him to laugh. His mouth draws a thin line, hands moving to check his sides before Ian falls forward. Undeterred, the gentle lips at his neck turn to teeth, unafraid to pull.

The thumb at Ian’s waist slips beneath his shirt, stroking the outline of his hipbone. He shivers under it, pleasure warm against Solas’ throat. He contents himself a while with teasing forays just over his waistband, blindly exploring while Ian peppers his neck with nips that may bloom into purple flowers the next morning. Fingertips ghost over the fine trail of hair that grows up from below his waist, refamiliarising himself with the way Ian feels to the touch, without his eyes to aid him.

But Ian’s confidence is contagious, and inspires bold action. Fingers curl around the uneven hem of his shirt, the intention clear, but difficult to protest without words to couple with. He tucks his lips beside Ian’s ear, brushing the tip before he poses his question: “May I?”

Ian goes tense beneath his palms, though it isn’t the same as a moment ago. Gone are the short, breathy sighs, the tension that begs to be released, succeeded by a sharp intake of breath that finds no relief. “Solas–” he lets out half of it, speaking his name as if it were an apology. “I, ahn, I…” Solas waits, ears pushed forward to catch even the softest of refusals. “I’m–”

It is as close to ‘no’ as he fears he will get this evening, boldness fleeing from Ian. He drops his hand to his hips, smoothing down the wrinkled ends of his top. Once he may not have recognised it for what it was, now it is stark as night and day. “Say no more,” he says, straining a reassuring smile for Ian’s sake.

What he dreads is not the refusal, but the moment where all the warmth drains from the room, and Ian withdraws from him with an apology on is lips. They always come together later, his arms falling across his chest beneath the covers, folding over Solas’ heart, but he does not relish the uncomfortable in-between. It isn’t his fault, nor is it Ian’s, neither asked for this nor inflicted it upon the other. That knowledge, however, does not assuage the guilt that closes around his throat.

Tonight, no apology comes. Ian’s arms pull him closer, face pressing against his naked chest as he breathes in through his nose. Outside, Solas hears the sounds of Skyhold in the late evening, the distant prayer of the faithful from the gardens below and the rush of magic through the valley, racing the wind. The room’s warmth is not chased away, but nestled safely between them, nurtured by their heartbeats. Ian pulls his face away, lifting his gaze to meet his, soft resolve behind his eyes. “Can you–” He cuts himself off, teeth press into his bottom lip as he rethinks what he wants to say. “Give me a moment, please?”

A simple enough request. He nods, head bowing an inch to press his lips against Ian’s brow before he pulls away. The cool rushes in where Ian’s arms were wrapped around him, and a quiet longing steals over him as he pads towards the foot of their bed. He settles down, mattress sinking under his weight, naked heels flat against the floor. Ian angles his back away to the far corner of the room, elbows bending at sharp angles while his hands gather the bottom of his shirt together. It would be easy, Solas thinks, to summon the memory of undressing Ian, but even staring feels like an invasion he needs express permission to indulge, and so he averts his gaze, but he cannot mistake the sound. His shirt flutters to the floor, his pants follow shortly thereafter, whispering against his skin as he pulls them down his legs.

Bare feet move across the floor, hesitating for a step before they come to a halt between his legs. “You can look up, now,” Ian murmurs. He leans over, taking one of Solas’ hands and guiding it toward his hips. His eyes follow, skirting up naked skin to meet Ian’s eye.

Apprehension creases his brow, the unshakable feeling that Ian would push himself to stave off his disappointment creeps over him. “Are you certain?” His other hand find uneasy purchase upon his waist, thumb stroking small circles into his skin. He hopes to see not a trace of doubt in Ian’s expression, but then, that would not be who he fell for, would it?

Doubt aside, there is determination in his smile, a hint of confidence that had not left him yet. “Yes,” he says, “you can trust me.”

The response elicits emotion deeper than the pleasure he seeks in Ian’s body. Indeed it almost makes him cry, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. It hearkens back to lonely groves and tearful reunions, trust extended and accepted. Perhaps it was meant to. “Very well.” His head bows, brushing a kiss against the base of Ian’s ribs. “Tell me if I ought to stop.”

“I will.”

That is reassurance enough for him to begin in earnest. His grip tightens, taking Ian between his palms, skin bunching between his fingers. Ian is a different beauty from this angle, longer than his short stature might lead one to believe. Soft in the places he covets most. Solas reminds himself of how his heartbeat feels against his lips, hammering fast behind his ribs as the first quiet sigh slips between his teeth. He marks all the places upon him the sun has not yet kissed, pale skin shining pink where his teeth meet Ian’s flesh, pulling until he hisses with pleasure and pain. Where impossible freckles dust Ian’s sides he plants gentle kisses that ease small, delighted sounds from him.

He pauses, nose dipping against the hollow of his hip, his own breath hot upon his face. Bare hands settle against him, curling loosely across his shoulders. “Solas…” His name, spoken a second time, sounds sweeter upon his lips.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t–” He snorts, bemusement halting him, rather than discomfort. His belly spasms, pushing against Solas’ cheek. Laughter sends thrills through him more dangerous than his touch, a sound he had fallen for long before he knew. Ian breathes in, holding it a moment before he allows himself to speak again. “I didn’t ask you to stop.” There is pride in his voice, satisfied by his own remark, and joy, too, albeit tempered by his attempt to feign disappointment. His voice drops an octave, a low whisper above his ear. “Did I?”

Affection blossoms in the pit of Solas’ chest, rising up his spine, manifesting as a grin upon his face. He cannot help but hide it, face still buried against Ian. There is no hiding how his back flecks with gooseflesh, nor the sudden shiver that moves shoulders, steadied by Ian’s grip. The palms of his hands slide down to Ian’s thighs, fingers spreading to grip as much of them as his hands can hold. “My mistake,” he murmurs, punctuating the apology with a penitent peck to where Ian’s hips meet his legs. “Allow me to make it up to you.”

[theharellan]

Apodyopsis: The act of mentally undressing someone I mean that’s what this was meant to be. Solas x Ian (@theshirallen). Suggestive themes.

Minutes pass in the span of a sigh, the passage of time unimpeded by their tryst. This world is apathetic to their affection, the stone floor beneath their feet the same as it was when they awoke that morning. Solas reminds himself of this in the gap between their kisses, centers himself in reality before he loses himself in Ian’s. They stand toe-to-toe in the center of the room-- their room. The sun has set, their surroundings lit by candles that had gasped to life when he wasn’t looking. Everything is cast in warm colours, a halo glows around the crown of Ian’s head, through the wispy ends of his hair. When their eyes meet, he smiles, and the laugh lines around his eyes smile with him.

“You’re staring,” Ian says with a breathy giggle, his eyes fluttering toward the corner of the room before they return to him.

“Am I?”

Solas finds himself drifting, head bowing to brush Ian’s. He still smells of Skyhold’s gardens, of elfroot and sweet alyssum, and though the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, Ian’s scent carries its memory. Hands cup the back of his neck and pull him the rest of the way down, parted lips there to greet him. He sinks against him, forcing back the urge to smile at how eager Ian is to slip his tongue between his teeth. It is not always he is so daring, though it has been more often, of late. Perhaps Ian had at last noticed how his blood runs hotter, his whole body flushed pink. He strains against the fingers at the nape of his neck, just to feel them resist, drawing him deeper.

Their kiss breaks with two quiet gasps. The next is placed at the corner of his lip, a taste of where Ian’s affection may wander. Then, his jaw, then Ian sways forward on his toes to reach beneath the lobe of his ear. He giggles and sways forward, laughter tickling his neck, daring him to laugh. His mouth draws a thin line, hands moving to check his sides before Ian falls forward. Undeterred, the gentle lips at his neck turn to teeth, unafraid to pull.

The thumb at Ian’s waist slips beneath his shirt, stroking the outline of his hipbone. He shivers under it, pleasure warm against Solas’ throat. He contents himself a while with teasing forays just over his waistband, blindly exploring while Ian peppers his neck with nips that may bloom into purple flowers the next morning. Fingertips ghost over the fine trail of hair that grows up from below his waist, refamiliarising himself with the way Ian feels to the touch, without his eyes to aid him.

But Ian’s confidence is contagious, and inspires bold action. Fingers curl around the uneven hem of his shirt, the intention clear, but difficult to protest without words to couple with. He tucks his lips beside Ian’s ear, brushing the tip before he poses his question: “May I?”

Ian goes tense beneath his palms, though it isn’t the same as a moment ago. Gone are the short, breathy sighs, the tension that begs to be released, succeeded by a sharp intake of breath that finds no relief. “Solas--” he lets out half of it, speaking his name as if it were an apology. “I, ahn, I...” Solas waits, ears pushed forward to catch even the softest of refusals. “I’m--”

It is as close to ‘no’ as he fears he will get this evening, boldness fleeing from Ian. He drops his hand to his hips, smoothing down the wrinkled ends of his top. Once he may not have recognised it for what it was, now it is stark as night and day. “Say no more,” he says, straining a reassuring smile for Ian’s sake.

What he dreads is not the refusal, but the moment where all the warmth drains from the room, and Ian withdraws from him with an apology on is lips. They always come together later, his arms falling across his chest beneath the covers, folding over Solas’ heart, but he does not relish the uncomfortable in-between. It isn’t his fault, nor is it Ian’s, neither asked for this nor inflicted it upon the other. That knowledge, however, does not assuage the guilt that closes around his throat.

Tonight, no apology comes. Ian’s arms pull him closer, face pressing against his naked chest as he breathes in through his nose. Outside, Solas hears the sounds of Skyhold in the late evening, the distant prayer of the faithful from the gardens below and the rush of magic through the valley, racing the wind. The room’s warmth is not chased away, but nestled safely between them, nurtured by their heartbeats. Ian pulls his face away, lifting his gaze to meet his, soft resolve behind his eyes. “Can you--” He cuts himself off, teeth press into his bottom lip as he rethinks what he wants to say. “Give me a moment, please?”

A simple enough request. He nods, head bowing an inch to press his lips against Ian’s brow before he pulls away. The cool rushes in where Ian’s arms were wrapped around him, and a quiet longing steals over him as he pads towards the foot of their bed. He settles down, mattress sinking under his weight, naked heels flat against the floor. Ian angles his back away to the far corner of the room, elbows bending at sharp angles while his hands gather the bottom of his shirt together. It would be easy, Solas thinks, to summon the memory of undressing Ian, but even staring feels like an invasion he needs express permission to indulge, and so he averts his gaze, but he cannot mistake the sound. His shirt flutters to the floor, his pants follow shortly thereafter, whispering against his skin as he pulls them down his legs.

Bare feet move across the floor, hesitating for a step before they come to a halt between his legs. “You can look up, now,” Ian murmurs. He leans over, taking one of Solas’ hands and guiding it toward his hips. His eyes follow, skirting up naked skin to meet Ian’s eye.

Apprehension creases his brow, the unshakable feeling that Ian would push himself to stave off his disappointment creeps over him. “Are you certain?” His other hand find uneasy purchase upon his waist, thumb stroking small circles into his skin. He hopes to see not a trace of doubt in Ian’s expression, but then, that would not be who he fell for, would it?

Doubt aside, there is determination in his smile, a hint of confidence that had not left him yet. “Yes,” he says, “you can trust me.”

The response elicits emotion deeper than the pleasure he seeks in Ian’s body. Indeed it almost makes him cry, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. It hearkens back to lonely groves and tearful reunions, trust extended and accepted. Perhaps it was meant to. “Very well.” His head bows, brushing a kiss against the base of Ian’s ribs. “Tell me if I ought to stop.”

“I will.”

That is reassurance enough for him to begin in earnest. His grip tightens, taking Ian between his palms, skin bunching between his fingers. Ian is a different beauty from this angle, longer than his short stature might lead one to believe. Soft in the places he covets most. Solas reminds himself of how his heartbeat feels against his lips, hammering fast behind his ribs as the first quiet sigh slips between his teeth. He marks all the places upon him the sun has not yet kissed, pale skin shining pink where his teeth meet Ian’s flesh, pulling until he hisses with pleasure and pain. Where impossible freckles dust Ian’s sides he plants gentle kisses that ease small, delighted sounds from him.

He pauses, nose dipping against the hollow of his hip, his own breath hot upon his face. Bare hands settle against him, curling loosely across his shoulders. “Solas...” His name, spoken a second time, sounds sweeter upon his lips.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t--” He snorts, bemusement halting him, rather than discomfort. His belly spasms, pushing against Solas’ cheek. Laughter sends thrills through him more dangerous than his touch, a sound he had fallen for long before he knew. Ian breathes in, holding it a moment before he allows himself to speak again. “I didn’t ask you to stop.” There is pride in his voice, satisfied by his own remark, and joy, too, albeit tempered by his attempt to feign disappointment. His voice drops an octave, a low whisper above his ear. “Did I?”

Affection blossoms in the pit of Solas’ chest, rising up his spine, manifesting as a grin upon his face. He cannot help but hide it, face still buried against Ian. There is no hiding how his back flecks with gooseflesh, nor the sudden shiver that moves shoulders, steadied by Ian’s grip. The palms of his hands slide down to Ian’s thighs, fingers spreading to grip as much of them as his hands can hold. “My mistake,” he murmurs, punctuating the apology with a penitent peck to where Ian’s hips meet his legs. “Allow me to make it up to you.”

[theharellan]

✚  painting honey dust, edible paint, or other soft brush strokes on their body.

a very self-indulgent drabble finished for @theshirallen’s birthday. mildly not sfw. if you reblog this please don’t tag it m!solavellan, ian is nonbinary.

“I put-- put-- I just dust it… anywhere?” Ian turns the jar in his hand skeptically, teeth pressing into his lower lip as he inspects its contents. Fine golden powder, ground like sugar, falls from one side to the other.

Solas watches from the bed, legs pulled up under him. Fingers turn around a fine feather duster, too small to do the dustier corners of Skyhold any good, but a decent enough size for its intended purpose. “Presumably, save the places you would rather not put your lips.”

Only his teeth serve to temper his impish grin. It inspires a soft flutter in Solas’s stomach before Ian can give voice to its meaning. “So, anywhere.”

He is giddy in his eagerness, cheeks flushed at Ian’s shamelessness. It takes a concentrated effort to swallow and respond with a coy, “As I said.” The response draws bark-like laughter to Ian’s lips, and the lid pops off the jar with a soft thunk. “I found it in Val Royeaux,” he says as Ian pinches it between his fingers, “and thought of you, or perhaps, us. If you would rather, I would be happy to use it on you, instead.”

“No.” His answer is quick, though after a moment he adds, “Not tonight.” Ian tastes it, pressing it to the tip of his tongue. “I would, that is, I want to use it on you. Have you-- have you tasted it?”

“I’ve not had the pleasure, no.”

“Here.” He rises onto his knees, the tip of his finger coated in dust, and walks forwards on his kneecaps to offer it to Solas. His other hand falls deliberately onto Solas’s thigh, a convenient place to steady himself. “Taste it.” He closes his lips around the tip of his finger, not breaking eye contact as he sucks the honey from it. It tastes like the last gulp of an improperly stirred cup of tea, or the last sliver of honey that clings to the teaspoon. “And?”

Ian is already reaching back to draw the jar towards him, capping his fingers with another thin layer. No answer comes to Solas, distracted by the pressure of a fingertip on his lips, tracing their shape as they have a hundred times before. He braces for the kiss that’s sure to follow, eyes drifting shut, but Ian tsks gently. “Not yet,” he teases, “I’m saving it-- I’m, I’m keeping it for later.”

Being denied only quickens his heartbeat, anticipation mounting as Ian presses his hand against his bare chest, not pushing him against the mattress but suggesting. No orders are spoken, no commands uttered, yet still Solas does as he is bid. He falls back against the bed, sinking as Ian maneuvers over him. The feather duster slips between his fingers, surrendered with the rest of him.

For a moment, there is nothing. Only the soft creak of the bed’s foundation and the sound of his own breathing in his ears.

Then, the pleasant touch of a feather grazes over exposed skin. In its wake it leaves fine crystals, so light he cannot feel them ‘til he shuts his eyes and concentrates upon the foreign weight. His stomach clenches, resisting the urge to laugh and spoil the intimacy of the moment with the ugly sound of his snort. Ian idles in the hollows of his hips and smooths across the soft rise of his stomach.

“I was hoping you’d be laughing by now.”

An abrupt stream of air escapes between his lips, the beginning of what Ian had desired, sucked in at the last minute. “I... can be difficult when I want to be,” Solas replies carefully. He lifts his head off the mattress, just far enough to see the thoughtful expression on Ian’s face. How he bites down on the inside of his cheek before seemingly accepting his obstinance. He bows until Solas can only see the top of Ian’s head, unkempt curls spilling across his skin.

The first kiss is light as the feather that heralded it. He arches his back into the next, and the one that follows, the hands that come to rest upon his waist fill the empty space between him and the mattress.

Teeth follow, satisfying and sharp. They pull a sigh from his throat, muscles clenching as Ian releases him, proud laughter warm along his side. “Not so difficult,” he muses with an audible grin. But he does not dwell upon the victory. Wet lips press against the raised skin, then trail along the curve of his hips. Newly bared skin shivers as his waistline is pulled another inch lower until it settles across his thighs. The chill does not persist, edged away by the flush Ian’s touch inspires.

One year ago, one thousand, he could not have imagined bliss this concentrated in a solid form. It was Ian’s spirit that drew him, but this...

His thoughts melt into mindless pleasure, time tumbling, minutes idling by. The front of him shines with impressions of Ian’s teeth. Elvhen words spill from his lips, and fingers clutch at their unmade sheets. He tastes his own mouth-- sweet, the same flavour Ian has dusted him with. “Ian...” Solas speaks up, enunciating his name rather than sighing it.

It is enough to grab his attention, chin lifting until their eyes meet. “Yes?”

“I’m still waiting for you to kiss me.”

His expression breaks into a silly smile, laugh shaking the both of them. “What do you think-- what... what have I been doing until now?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think I do, Solas.” But he grins all the wider when he says it. A terrible liar, even in jest.

Before he can give voice to what he had stopped to say, he notices a gold spot on Ian’s nose, smudged over freckles. He snorts, heart burning with a different kind of longing. “You have something on your nose.”

“O-oh. Can you...”

“Come here.”

The bed wavers as Ian wiggles up it, bringing their faces level. He’s still, eyes reflecting the same anticipation he’s sure his had moments ago. Solas lifts his head, kissing the honey from the tip of his nose. He sinks back, gaze holding as Ian’s eyes skirt his face as if he’s looking at it for the first time. The hand that falls on his cheek is warm, the cold magic that so often burned beneath Ian’s fingertips outdone by their coupling. “Thank you.”

“You know how you can repay me.”

“Do I?” He giggles with honeyed breath. His thumb strokes down Solas’s cheekbone until it meets with the edge of his lip. “I suppose I do.”

Any smart response is lost as Ian dips his head to meet him. Lips part, the taste of his kiss sweet on his tongue. A smile burgeons upon his face, suppressed by an unwillingness to break their kiss. Affection blooms in his chest, and for once he does not curse the Veiled world for the language it stole. Here-- together, it is simple. He braces the back of Ian’s head, fingers combing through red waves, slipping away from the world in ways he had not dreamed before Ian.

Then anchoring himself to another, and praying he need not let go.

[theharellan]

Write some real gay tummy smooches and i will pay you in real gay tummy smooches

Ian is a vision, even at rest.

Sprawled across their bed, nose in a book, licking his thumb before he turns to the next page. Solas tries to be subtle as he soaks in every detail: from how his teeth gently press upon his bottom lip ‘til it goes pale pink, to the concentration in his eyes as they dart from line to line. Perhaps what enchants him most about the image, whose likeness he recreates surreptitiously in his journal, is the stomach that peeks out from the bottom of Ian’s shirt. The covers of their shared bed have hiked it up so that it bunches around narrow shoulders. Ian does not seem to notice. Ian, who hides his hands behind thick leather gloves, and winces should Solas smooth his fingers across his bare back.

Ian, whose stomach rises and falls in open air. He is not sure if it is a testament to the space they have built together, or something else. Whatever the cause, the result is endearing.

“Solas–”

“Hm?”

“I can see you doing that, you know.”

Solas’s lips turn in together to suppress his smile, though he cannot help how it touches his eyes. “My drawing, or my staring?”

“Both?” He forgets the book, placing it on the pillow beside him, so that he might rise to peck Solas’s on the lips. It’s a fragile kiss, Ian balanced on his knees and hands, one would not know he is used to walking on all-fours by how he wobbles. Still, his eyes fall shut, and his heart flutters, and his hand steadies Ian by the curve of his jaw, so that if he falls, it will be onto him. Their lips part with a loud smack, and he feels the heat of laughter on his cheek. “I suppose I– I suppose I ruined your drawing, didn’t I?”

“Hardly,” he returns, rubbing his nose across the tip of Ian’s. “The image is burned in my mind’s eye, I’m afraid there will be no getting it out.”

Another laugh, nervous in its joy, as his knees slide forward to meet Solas’s on the sheets. His lips soon follow, more sure than his words and his laughter, overlapping with Solas’s. Teeth pull at his bottom lip ‘til they elicit a soft moan. He can hear the satisfaction in Ian’s breath, before he pulls Solas against him. 

With a soft thump the journal drops from where he still held it with one hand, landing face-up with the half-finished drawing on display. Both hands free, he tilts Ian’s head, pressing a kiss upon his cheek, then his jawline, trailing across flushed skin with more purpose than usual. So often he was content to simply idle, plant kisses at random and delight in Ian’s response. This afternoon, he knows what he wants, and the open journal in his lap is an unlikely map.

He guides himself slowly down, not afraid to leave pink marks. His hand falls and Ian’s chin tilts back, his quiet sighs spurring him on. Eventually, he finds himself at the collar of his shirt, but Solas does not intend for that to stop him. Unless, of course, Ian wills it. “May I?” he asks, the rest of his question asked by a gentle tug at the hem.

“Please,” comes the reply, and Solas does as he is asked. The shirt comes off easily, forgotten on the floor, with the journal soon to follow.

It is not so unlike drawing. He traces the line of Ian’s collarbone with his lips the same as he would with charcoal, committing the shape of his body to memory. With care, he brushes the star-shaped scar just beneath, hands feeling for any stiffness. Any sign that this is unwelcome.

Through half-lidded eyes he takes in the freckles that persist even where the sun scarcely touches. They grow fainter the farther he descends, clambering off the bed one leg at a time so that he need not bend to kiss a path down Ian’s sternum. Soft mumbles sound above him, never quite sounding like words, but still a language of their own. Solas anchors his hands on Ian’s hips, and Ian’s hands soon follow, lost without a sweater to tangle his hands in.

He glances up, allowing himself a glimpse of Ian’s expression. Eyelashes flutter against still-warm cheeks, a blush so deep it near swallows the freckles upon his cheek. And his smile– silly and soft, teeth biting down upon his own lip, but not as they were before.

As last, Solas finds his nose against Ian’s belly, where the sun was not so generous with its love. He intends to fix the oversight. “Oh.” Ian shivers when he kisses him, sighing a delighted hum that seems to come from within his chest. Beneath his fingers he feels skin go hot and cold, gooseflesh prickling up his spine. His stomach is softer than the rest of him, and warm against his mouth (though that may be his doing). Most of all, it is Ian’s, and worthy of his undivided attention.

Small jolts of pleasure shoot up from Solas’s middle, and he grins against Ian’s skin before he seals the sound of his laughter upon his love’s skin. “Oh,” he sighs again at a second kiss. One hand falls to bunch in the bedsheets, and Solas feels a moment of tension that heralds Ian’s next words: “Sorry, I don’t mean to… if it’s distracting.”

He answers with his lips against his navel, which tightens as Ian restrains his laughter, or else another hum. “It is encouraging,” he answers, this time with words. “I have never heard a sweeter sound.”

“S– ohlas.” Ian laughs and exhales at once, as Solas interrupts the sound of his own name with his tongue upon Ian’s abdomen. Tempting though it is to keep moving down ‘til his lips are at his feet, he trails up with his tongue, stopping only to kiss the pink marks he made on his way down. If Ian is still worried that his vocalizations are a deterrent, then he has decided it is worth the risk. His ears twitch with every hum of pleasure (it is all he can do to keep from grinning).

From the floor, he rises, climbing into Ian’s lap. His back must bend to reach the places he desires, along his neck and collar, and he feels Ian returning the favour, moving the high neck of his sweater to pull at his skin with his teeth. When he pulls back, his arms thread over Ian’s shoulders and he allows himself enough distance to admire the look on his face: shining eyes that crinkle at the corner, skin flushes deeper when their gazes meet, a look that almost seems to beg that he not stop now.

The sight of Ian before, curled up with a book, still lingers, but this one burns just as strong, now. How fortunate for him, that he left room on the page for two sketches.

[theharellan]

five times whispered

      one. This far from the campfire the only light is the orange glow of Ian’s pipeweed. A grin turns one corner of his mouth, lips still formed around the tip. He laughs, a loud, barking sound that somehow sets Solas’s heart beating faster. From inside a nearby tent, someone turns with a grown. “Fasta vass!” The tent canvas moves, as if someone had just kicked it. “Go to sleep, will you!”

Dorian’s frustration inspires a chuckle from Solas, but the amusement flies from Ian’s face, his ears flattening against his head. The pipe almost falls from his lips, and he stumbles to catch it. “Oh!” he gasps. “Sorry!” He looks to Solas sheepishly, as if suddenly aware realising Dorian is not the only soul he is keeping up. “I suppose you– we should–”

“Eventually,” Solas says with a shrug of his shoulders. He moves, inching across the ground until he sits shoulder-to-shoulder with Ian. The other elf stiffens at his touch, but another grin pulls at his features, pipe dangling dangerously between his teeth. “I have a few more stories to tell before I care to sleep, and a few more moments better spent with you,” he adds, voice dropping an octave.

In the dark, the only glow is Ian’s reddened cheeks.

     two. The light wakes him, the sunrise streaming in from the open window and into Solas’s eyes. He squints and turns with a small grunt, and finds himself nose-to-nose with Ian, already awake. “You’re up,” he mutters softly, though there is no one to disturb with their early morning banter.

From this close he cannot see his lips turn in a smile, but he sees crinkles form beside hazel eyes. “Technically, I’m still lying down.” Solas is too tired to laugh, and when his lips part he yawns, instead.

“So you are.”

His eyes slip shut, and he pulls the blankets up to his chin. The mattress moves underneath him, tender lips brush over his forehead, sending chills up his spine. “Go back to sleep, Solas,” Ian’s voice whispers in his ear. “The world does not need you yet.”

     three. Florianne is in shackles, and the crown sits securely upon Celene’s head. Now, the ball is just a ball, and Orlais can breathe easy again. Solas steps up to Ian, whose hands still tremble even after he takes them in his. “Another dance?” he asks, though it isn’t an overly eager question. “With the Inquisitor’s business finished, I doubt she’ll need us again.”

Solas shakes his head, and pulls Ian closer, aligning his lips with his ears. “I thought we might retire early.” He whispers his proposal, and before he can finish Ian’s nose meets his shoulder, sinking against him. “I asked Ambassador Montilyet to arrange for our room to be equipped with a bed warmer, and windows that open.”

“Please,” Ian says, the sigh muffled against his finery. “Please, take us home.” 

     four. “Would you two quit it!” Sera huffs.  “Bad enough you two go at it every every night, don’t see why you have to makin’ eyes at each other all day, too.”

“How would you know what we do in the privacy of our tent, Sera?” Solas asks, raising a bemused brow. It will never cease to amuse what assumptions people make, and how often imaginations run wild.

“Now, Solas,” Ian cuts in, “we c-can, we can try to do as she says.” A silence falls over the trio of elves, and their walking resumes in silence. Solas keeps his eyes trained ahead, but cannot help noticing how Ian’s head is turned in his direction. After a moment he drops back to stand beside Solas, his hand cupped over his mouth. “Though, I cannot seem to keep my eyes off of you.”

From up ahead, Sera throws her arms up in the air. “I heard that!” she shouts, as Solas snorts without a trace of dignity. 

     five. The dream wraps itself around them, a warm embrace after weeks of nightmares. Perhaps it will not last, but if his time with Ian has taught him anything, it is that there is value in what is finite. Here, his love is unbranded. Here, no Templar can touch him. Here, his arms wrap around him, and their kisses hum with joy that paints grey worlds vivid colours.

“I love you,” Solas murmurs, his voice so soft it scarcely registers, even here.

Ian giggles, and another flower bursts into bloom. “Why are you whispering?”

“Because this moment is for us,” he answers, then adds with a mischievous smile, “and I do so love to frustrate Love.”

[theharellan]

soft nips at the neck and shoulder line | @dalishfreckles

Ian’s kisses are light as rain upon Solas’s face, playful and teasing, persisting until he draws a smile to his love’s lips. He lowers himself into Solas’s lap, straddling it with legs still chill from the cold weather outside. A low laugh sounds from the pit of Solas’s throat as his hands fall upon Ian’s thighs. Through the fabric he can feel where the wind has whipped him, and he draws magic to his fingertips to warm the freckled skin that lies beneath.

“Had you waited ‘til daylight to return, you would not be so cold,” he hums, hands lifting the hem of Ian’s shirt under the pretense of warming his back.

Ian does not answer right away. His arms drape over Solas’s bare shoulders, head dipping to stick his nose into the crook of his neck. The tip is like ice, and he stiffens at its touch. A quiet giggle shakes Ian’s form, his breath hot in contrast to the persistent chill. “I’d already been away too long.”

Too many people who needed them in different places at different times. Ian is right, it had been too long. The thought takes hold of him, arms snaking around Ian’s hips to pull him closer. For a moment, they hold still, Ian growing warmer in his embrace. It will never last as long as he wishes, every moment dies a second too soon, and when Ian moves it leaves a cold vacuum where his face had been.

At first, Solas feels soft kisses planted where Ian’s nose had been, as if apologising for the chill. Grey eyes half-open to look out their corners, watching as pointed ears glow with a different kind of warmth. The kisses draw a smile to his lips and a shiver up his spine, and his lips curl into a lazy smile as he sinks into the feeling. Ian works his way across one shoulder and up his neck, and Solas feels himself expose his neck to Ian, head tilting, guiding Ian’s affection upwards.

Teeth bare, taking skin clumsily between them. Cold air hits the back of his throat as he inhales sharply, and Ian abruptly stops, and plants a kiss where his teeth had been. “Sorry, I thought I could try it,” he says. “I thought--”

“Please, keep going,” Solas insists.

A smile parts Ian’s lips, which he can feel pressed against his shoulder. It takes a moment, and a few more kisses, before the grin fades and Ian is able to continue. The sensation is sweet and sharp at once. Fingers find the back of his head, cradling him. Even with teeth at his neck, Ian is nothing but gentle. Solas’s body burns, but not with magic. The tips of his ears glow like hot iron. Another sigh, another turn of his head to offer his throat.

(No wonder his People had learned how to make this last days.)

They laugh together when he bites too hard. “At least you wear high collars,” Ian teases as he pulls away. Their eyes meet, only to sink into a kiss, a tongue slipping past Solas’s lips. For a moment Ian forgets his task, and when he moves to return to it Solas stops him.

“Allow me, Vhenan.” He turns Ian onto the bed, bracing him against his arm as he lowers him. Skin flushes bright red behind dark freckles as he is flattered against the sheets, not trapped, but held. Nervousness and excitement have turned Ian’s expression strange, his smile twisted in both eager curiosity and apprehension. Solas says nothing (it is an endearing sight) and when Ian catches his eye it gives way to a broad grin. He plays with the end of Ian’s shirt, considering removing it, but fearing exposing his love’s scars to the cold night air will introduce anxiety where there need be none.

He contents himself with what they have now, and leans forward to plant a kiss where Ian’s ear meets his jaw. He traces a pattern down his neck, peppering him with the occasional nip. Small sighs of satisfaction steer him, finding the tenderest spots and taking them between the teeth. He leaves only pink marks that will fade by morning, anything more would feel criminal, changing what is already perfect.

“Solas?” Ian’s whispers, halting Solas’s descent. He stops just above the neckline of his shirt, the temptation to continue is almost impossible to ignore. What lies beneath is as worthy of his attention, but Ian’s hand guides him up, towards his mouth, and their lips match up together as though they are four pieces to one puzzle. He is dazed, infatuated when they pull apart, and Ian giggles when his eyes open and see the look on Solas’s face. He lifts his head, lips ghosting across his, and Ian finishes his thought: “Ar lath ma.”