@lampost-in-winter and @sh00kspeared , the admins of this blog, are putting on an event meant to celebrate queer Solas x Inquisitor ships. This will be a week of prompts surrounding queer Solas x Inky ships. This includes m/m Solas x Inquisitor, m/f Solas x Inky ships in which one or both halves of the couple identify as bi or pan or aro-ace, Solas ships involving genderqueer Solas or a trans inquisitor, and any other queer identities you can think of.
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Tags: F/F Solavellan, transfem Solas, young Solas, nb Lavellan, first meeting, getting together, semi-public sex, cunnilingus, handjobs.
Words: 4125
Summary: Lavellan is the owner of a moderately successful gay bar who one quiet night receives the visit of a prideful woman wearing the symbols of Fen'Harel's Army, a prominent biker gang. Feelings happen.
Didn't have time to properly post this in AO3 today and it's fucking long, so good luck.
It was a slow night at The Inquisition. At some point, Lavellan found herself completely alone, idly drying glasses behind the bar as she sang along to Pink Nug Club. And then, a woman entered the bar, and the bartender almost dropped the glass because she was bloody gorgeous, full-on her type: glass-cutting cheekbones, freckles, wide shoulders, a freaking mullet. But as the initial aesthetic attraction-induced panic subsided, she noticed other things: the all-leather outfit except for the white tank top under her jacket, the biker boots, the slight limp and the bruised knuckles in her right hand.
The woman sat on one of the stools by the bar and, like that, Lavellan could easily observe the back of her leather jacket as it was reflected in the mirror wall at the other side of the bar. This confirmed her suspicions, for there was a six-eyed wolf with its maws drenched in blood painted on the back of the jacket. Additionally, their surprise client was wearing a necklace made out of what clearly was a wolf’s fang. Too on the nose, in Lavellan’s opinion. It could not be more evident that their guest was part of Fen’Harel’s Army, the elven-only biker gang that resorted to urban guerrilla tactics to fight against human supremacy.
Lavellan did not have as… strongly opposed opinions as other elves had of Fen’Harel’s Army, but she had no intention of letting her bar become a gang’s personal club. That was not its purpose.
“Are you expecting any company?”, they asked the biker as they planted their hand firmly on the bar.
“Not at all,” the woman answered, sounding genuinely tired. “I mean no trouble; I should only ask you for a whisky, then I will be on my way.”
Lavellan decided to cautiously trust her. They served her a whisky on the rocks (they did not pour her the top shelf stuff: just something nice and mediocre so she didn’t develop a taste for it); they also took some other ice cubes and wrapped them in a rag, and handed it to the stranger. The woman looked bewildered for a second before she took the rag.
“Thank you.”
“That must hurt. I know some healing magic, if…”
“There is no need. I could’ve healed it myself if it were that dire.”
The bartender decided not to press on the topic. She had noticed that the woman in leather had something in the cadence of her voice that sounded old and musical, something that reminded Lavellan of the prayers of her clan. That voice did not fit the rest of the ensemble.
She also noticed that the biker wasn’t wearing a bra and that the outline of a nipple piercing was pressing against her top, which prompted a rapid scape to drying glasses again. Lavellan kept throwing side glances at her, just to make sure that she didn’t do anything suspicious, obviously.
After the biker had drowned half of her glass, she took off her jacket, leaving it on another stool by her side, the action revealing her beautifully toned arms covered in more freckles (not that Lavellan cared about that at all). The woman began to take a look around the empty bar, gaze closely following the collection of items hanged on the walls: a huge Pride flag with the Dalish bow and arrow symbol embroidered in its center; a bunch of other flags of all orientations and gender identities imaginable; and Lavellan’s favorite pictures from those taken at the bar last Pride month. The pictures included: one of her, Merrill, Sera and Dagna painting each other’s faces; Isabela and Hawke, Merrill’s partners, both making a V with their fingers and sticking their tongues through it; Cassandra, red as a tomato, holding her first bi flag; Charter and Tessa showing off their engagement rings; and a very drunk Dorian sleeping with his head on the chest of an also sleepy Bull, and Krem drawing little hearts all over Bull’s face. They all embodied the raison d’etre of The Inquisition, as Lavellan saw it. But what gave her biker visitor pause was a poster with the quote: “As long as there’s one Chantry, one state, one power, we must stand against it as one firm oak with many roots.”
“I’m surprised a Dalish would be a fan of hahren Toruviel’s writings,” the woman in leathers blurted out.
Lavellan grinded her teeth; she knew what was coming.
“Because the Dalish are too “uncultured” for big-name philosophy authors, or what?”
“Because Toruviel is a big proponent of coalitionist thinking, and the Dalish tend to believe that only they and they alone can be the saviors of elven culture,” the woman replied in a caustic tone.
Lavellan let out a dry laugh.
“You mustn’t have met that many Dalish. And even if Dalish isolationists are a part of our reality, you’re hardly one to talk about thinking oneself as the only true savior of the elvhen, fen’asha.” Calling her “she-wolf” was probably a bit out of line, but Lavellan had had it with her attitude.
The biker seemed ignited by the retort.
“Those who have the means to oppose tyranny must do so, or nobody will!”
“That’s the thing, you think you’re the only ones with means. But others have other ways to fight.”
The woman scoffed.
“As pleasant as flags are…”
“Someone is always needed to lit the fires, and someone is always needed to lit the hearth. My role is no less important than yours.”
The biker took her in, considering for a tense moment, before she visibly deflated:
“Ir abelas. Your labour is important.” She scoured her pockets for a fifty bucks bill and left it on the bar. “I will leave you to your peace now.”
As the woman got up from the stool, Lavellan felt compelled to ask:
“Why did you come in here?”
“It was open.”
“You know what I mean. This is clearly not your scene; it’s very obvious what kind of establishment this is, and if you only wanted some booze there’s another, perfectly serviceable small bar a bit down the road.”
The woman shrugged.
“I suppose I do enjoy the flags, after all.”
Oh. Oh. In hindsight, that totally tracked.
The biker took her jacket and hooked it over her shoulder; as she turned towards the door, Lavellan felt compelled to stop her.
“Wait.” They weren’t really sure what they wanted to say, so they resorted to the basics. “My name’s Lavellan, by the way.”
“’Lavellan is a clan name, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
The other woman nodded thoughtfully and smiled at that. Then, she offered her right hand.
“If there are to be introductions, I’m Solas.” Solas. Pride. Now, that’s funny.
Lavellan shook her hand, careful not to press on the wounded parts.
“So, Solas, why don’t you come back another day, and we can both pretend we’re meeting for the first time and try and be nicer?”
The woman let out a breathless chuckle, and it was a weirdly endearing sound.
“I am not one for niceties, but I suppose I can try for… such excellent whisky. See you, Lavellan.”
Creators, she’s the worst, they thought as they watched her leave. She better keep her word.
Solas came back about two weeks later. Lavellan had already almost forgotten about her. Almost.
It was another slow day, so she had plenty of time to chat with her. She learnt then that Solas had a master’s degree in oneirology (meaning the study of the Fade and its effects on the mind of sleepers), and that with very little encouragement she became very chatty about the subject. Which worked for Lavellan, since they’d already had an interest in the subject (what person born with magic doesn’t?), and everything Solas said about the latest developments in the field sounded insanely interesting. It was also kind of sweet, to see the sharp biker become a bright-eyed puppy showing off her favorite ball when she talked about that topic.
From then on, Solas started to come by the bar once a week. She seemed to purposely wait for days in which there weren’t many other clients around, so Lavellan could stop to talk with her as much as possible. And they did talk about everything and everything, no matter how big or small: surrealist cinema, baking tips, the local musical scene, the inseparability of ecology and anti-colonialism, the merits and demerits of tea. She kept finding everything Solas said fascinating, and she somehow seemed to find what Lavellan had to say fascinating as well. She had called Lavellan “wise”, which is something nobody had ever called her before, specially not after she blew a perfectly good career in law (which she could have used to do much good for her people) and broken up with her fiancé (a good Dalish boy that everyone agreed was a great match), and then spent what she had saved up for the wedding (and, like, the entirety of her savings) in putting down the first payment for buying the bar.
They talked about who they were and who they wanted to be. Eventually, they found themself telling Solas things they had never told anyone else, like where they went when they disappeared for a month after their parents died (actually just a hotel in the outskirts of town where they spent most time crying in bed), or the name of the human girl that they’d had a secret affair with during their early twenties and that now was a conservative mayoral candidate. Solas, in turn, started showing her pictures of the things she painted. Some were mere sketches, other impressive oil paintings, other were graffiti surprisingly done in the style of ancient elven murals. Some of the paintings were based on what she had seen in dreams (“Wait, you’re a dreamer? And real, living and breathing somniari? That’s such a flex, how do you keep yourself from telling everyone the moment you meet them?” “We are not scarce just because of our natural rarity, but also because we tend to get forcefully disappeared.” “Oh.”). Other paintings she had hinted at being inspired by things she had experienced on her so-called “job”, and they were raw screams of sadness and violence. Lavellan didn’t ask many questions about those.
One night, when Solas was already tipsy and she had her cheek smushed against her hand, with her reddish-brown hair spilling over the bar, her cornflower-colored eyes looking up at Lavellan—with a luminous and dreamy gaze as the Dalish had never seen before—, the biker started talking, quietly and brokenly as if making a terrible confession:
“I keep trying to change and I always find myself back in the same track. Like an old hound that cannot unlearn its instincts. But you… you give one hope that…”
Lavellan leaned in closer, trying to hear her better.
“Hope that…?”
Solas seemed to have lost the trail of her words as her eyes drifted down towards Lavellan’s lips. She leaned in closer, and so did Lavellan… and before anything else could happen, the moment was interrupted by a lovely couple of dwarven leather daddies entering the bar at the scream of “What has one to do to get a proper beer in this place?”. Lavellan went on to attend them, and Solas slipped outside behind her back. The Dalish didn’t follow her, even though they wanted to.
Three weeks had passed with no sign of Solas by the time the bar’s annual Summerday party sneaked upon them, and it was blessing to be so busy, so she didn’t have to think about a certain beautiful leather-clad dreamer. Specially since she had read in the local newspapers about clashes between Fen’harel’s Army and the police that ended in many detentions, opening up the possibility that Solas was not avoiding her out of awkwardness for what had almost happened between them, but that she was in jail, or… Creators, she couldn’t even think about it.
What Lavellan certainly wasn’t expecting was to suddenly find the biker sat on her usual spot on the night of the party, looking cool and still in contrast with the many sweaty, half-naked people that danced, threw confetti and waved sun-shaped paper fans around her. Her characteristic jacket was nowhere to be found (understandable, given that the nights were already running rather hot despite the summer having just begun).
“Hello,” she greeted Lavellan, uncharacteristically shy.
“Hi. Long time no see.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. Work was very busy.”
“Yeah, I… heard something about that. Are you okay?”
She smiled.
“I am perfectly fine. Don’t worry about me.”
“Hey, barkeep!” Someone yelled at Lavellan. “Stop chatting up the ladies and get our orders!”
“Sorry.” Lavellan said to Solas, ignoring the other person for a little while longer. “I’ll get you your usual when I can.”
While she made good on that promise, it took another hour or so before things had slowed down enough for her to be able to talk to Solas again. By then, the woman had finished her drink and the ice cubes had become water.
“I’m back,” Lavellan announced, a bit exhausted.
“Good.” There was something different about Solas in that moment, but they really couldn’t pinpoint what. And then, she was extending a hand towards Lavellan as if they were in a silly period drama. “Dance with me.”
Lavellan felt her face burn.
“I’m working!”
“Just one song, please.”
Lavellan took a glance towards Sera, who hand been helping them man the bar all night like a true champion.
“Just give me a second,” she told Solas before approaching Sera. “Would you mind covering for me for five minutes?”
“Sure, it’s chiller now, innit?” But then, Sera saw Solas, who in turn was looking at Lavellan with obvious heart eyes. She looked back at Lavellan, who was obviously in it, too, and scoffed. “Seriously?! You finally decide to take another dip in the ladies’ pool after Cass, and you pick Miss Return of the Elven Empire, of all people?!”
“Pleeease, Sera, I’ll pay you extra!”
Sera made a raspberry, but nevertheless relented.
“Yeah, sure, whatever, I don’t care. All for the cash.”
“Thank you,” Lavellan leaned in to kiss the other elf’s cheek, and she didn’t need to see it to know Sera was blushing.
“You’re lucky I love you. Idiot.”
With that handled, she jumped over the bar to meet Solas (she was so eager, it was embarrassing). Solas took her hand and guided her onto the dance floor. At that moment, the DJ started playing one of Isabela’s petitions, a sensual bachata song by a Rivaini singer.
“Damn. Do you know how to dance this?”
Solas put a hand on her waist and pulled her closer.
“Do you?” She taunted them.
Lavellan swallowed harshly.
“I can manage…”
And they indeed could, because Isabela had agreed to do some bachata lessons at the bar some time ago, but they would have been struggling if Solas was less adept at leading the dance. If Solas, against all their expectations, did not flow with the music like it was second nature.
“Who even are you?” They giggled, and Solas laughed, too, just before she made them spin.
It didn’t help in keeping Lavellan from stepping on her partner’s feet that she had never had Solas this close; that she could feel the heat from her body rising towards her, her breath caressing her face, that she could smell the mint-scented shampoo from her hair. That the pressure of Solas’ hands over her body was driving her insane. It also didn’t help that one of the classic moves of the dance required the dancer to slot their knee between the legs of their partner, so more than once Lavellan was practically riding Solas’ thigh.
The song ended way too soon. Lavellan found herself with both arms perched on Solas’ shoulders. The woman made no attempt to pull away from her, she just smiled and looked at her as she was the only thing that mattered in the entire wide world. The noise and chaos around them became a foreign reality, so distant it couldn’t touch them at all.
Lavellan kissed her. It was a slow and timid thing, and it felt perfect. Lightheaded, Lavellan pulled away and looked up to Solas to gauge her reaction. She couldn’t see much, for Solas was immediately pressing her closer and engulfing her mouth in an open-mouthed kiss. Lavellan drank in her taste and her passion, reveled in it, as one of their hands flew to Solas’ hair and they allowed themself to grind against the thigh that was back between their legs. In turn, they could feel her grow hard against their own thigh. She moaned into the biker’s mouth and wondered how bad would it really be for the business if they just dry-humped each other to completion in the middle of the bar.
And then, all of the sudden, Solas completely pulled away from her.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Not the best place, yeah…”
“Not here, not anywhere. I’m sorry.”
And with that, Solas slipped between the dancers towards the door. She gained some ground because Lavellan stood there in shock for a few seconds, but once the surprise wore off, they ran after her. Solas made it as far as the badly-lit alleyway by the side of the bar before she had Lavellan’s hand on her arm.
“Don’t go like that,” the Dalish said, trying very hard to not raise her voice. Solas stood there, looking at her with sorrowful eyes. Lavellan took a deep breath. “You kissed me back.”
“Yes.”
“And you started with the tongue.”
“I did no…”
“Yes, you did! And maybe I’ve misunderstood something, but you are sending me very mixed signals! So, what’s going on?”
Solas held their gaze, but she looked defeated at that moment.
“You know what I do. If we were together, it could lead to trouble. Specially for you.”
“Together?” Lavellan felt like they were probably fixating on the wrong thing, but they couldn’t help but smile at that. “What exactly do you mean by being together?”
The biker blushed furiously.
“It’s just an expression…”
At this point, Lavellan’s widening smile was that of the self-assured cat about to pounce on the mouse.
“Solas, do you want to be my girlfriend?”
The other elf somehow got redder than she already was, reaching a shadow reserved for the lipstick of an old-timey femme fatale.
“Yes, but the point is… that it would be kinder in the long run if we were nothing.”
“Solas…” Lavellan reached for her hand; the biker didn’t pull away. “I’m not afraid of trouble. I’m willing to take the risk… if you are.”
Those blue-violet eyes held Lavellan for a long time as if seeing them for the first time. Solas used their joined hands to pull them closer.
“Losing you would…” Whatever she intended to say, it was lost forever as their lips met again.
Lavellan grabbed at Solas’ top and pulled at her until she could blissfully feel the entire outline of the body against her own. Soon she found herself being pressed against the wall, as Solas’ thigh found its way back between her legs. The biker’s hands were all over her, exploring every inch of her with a reverence that felt utterly out of place in an alleyway that smelled like sewer, but who could begrudge the location when the girl of their dreams was touching them like they were her greatest treasure? Far less reverently, Lavellan slipped her hands under Solas’ top to feel the muscles on her back, going up and down all the way until she could feel her ass up. Solas poured kisses along her jaw and her neck as one of her hands came to cup Lavellan’s breast and circle her nipple over her shirt and—Creators help her—the Dalish was so wet for her at this point, she’d be surprised if she wasn’t leaving a damp mark the size of lake Calenhad on Solas’ pant leg.
“Take me.” She pleaded. “However you want. I just need you.”
The taller woman chuckled.
“Not the best place. Again.”
“Barely anyone comes through here, also I don’t give a flying nug.” To sell their point, Lavellan rocked their hips intently and licked a long strip up Solas’ neck before whispering into her ear: “I’m yours.”
The groan Solas let out at that was feral, and, in an instant, she was on her knees before Lavellan—the sight making the fire within their belly roar. The other elf lift Lavellan’s skirt up and pushed their soaked panties to the side, and wasted no time before taking their clit into her mouth. The Dalish had to press her hand against her mouth so the entire bar didn’t hear her scream, her entire being melting at the exquisite worship of Solas’ tongue. Her other hand buried itself in the biker’s hair, that touch becoming her only anchor point as the rising tide of pleasure pulled her in every direction. Her climax came embarrassingly fast as she moaned Solas’ name into her palm.
They were thankful for the wall holding them upright as they recovered the ability to move and think, one heavy breath at a time. They dared open their eyes and look down as the lights of a car passing through the parallel street briefly illuminated the alleyway, making the adoration in Solas’ eyes and the liquid arousal all over her lips glisten as she looked up to Lavellan. Mythal’enaste, they could have come again from that sight alone, but it was the words that came out of the woman at their feet that turned their world upside world:
“You are so beautiful, ma vhenan.”
Vhenan. The epithet had her spirit floating with a joy not even the fantastic physical pleasure she had just felt could match. Vhenan was not a mere pet name, not something you said carelessly, it was a word for people you want to be your home; she really wanted to be that for Solas.
“Hold me, vhenan.”
Solas rose to her feet and cradled them in her arms. They nuzzled against the crook of her neck, soaking themself in her smell and her warmth and the steady beat of her pulse. Slowly, they began to kiss and nip up her neck and along Solas' lovely jawline, extracting the cutest little whimpers out of her. Lavellan turned them around until it was Solas who was crowded against the wall instead. All too aware of the soft press of her chest against her own, the Dalish could no longer avoid the need to slide the biker’s tank top up her body until she could verify two things she had suspected for a while: that her tits were gorgeous and that she wore barbell piercings. Lavellan took one nipple into her mouth and flickered one of said piercings with her tongue, which had the other elf panting, as she brought her hand to tangle in Lavellan’s hair. Encouraged, she brought her hand past the waistband of Solas’ jeans and underwear to wrap her fingers around her. As her touch sped up, her lover let out a string of words in an elven dialect that Lavellan had never heard before, but the key words were transparent: good, perfect, gorgeous, more. And more she did endeavour to give her, as much the precariousness of their positions allowed.
Though she would have enjoyed keeping Solas like that—trembling, unfocused, barely holding herself together—for longer, there was relief in feeling her come undone with as much embarrassing easiness as Lavellan before her. The biker bit her first to silence her screams as she climaxed—and Lavellan decided to make it her personal quest to have Solas in a place where she could hear her make all the sounds her heart desired as soon as she possibly could. The warmth of Solas’ cum coated the Dalish’s hand, so she brought it to her lips to taste it. As delicious as everything else about her.
“How are you not a dream?” The biker’s voice sounded drunken. She looked so beautiful as she was then, with her hair messy, her cheeks and ears blushed, her lips swollen and red.
“Am I not? You might have to check.”
Solas smiled widely at that, and then went on to cup their face with one hand and kiss them deeply. And in that moment, as well as for the next precious few minutes they spent together before Lavellan figured she should go back into the bar and apologize profusely to Sera, everything was good in the world.
a community dedicated to showcasing the lgtbq+/queer solavellan community!
well i did a thing. cos idk, something something be the change u wanna see and nobody else was doing it that i could see so. here we are.
under construction-ish still, and its request/invite only (simply becos i do not want it to be brigaded, this may change in the future, we will SEEEE.)
Edit: name changed & made it free to join instead of request to join, but will still monitor closely
