“don’t leave yet.” not because you’re going somewhere. but because being with you is the safest they’ve felt all day.
🥹💚
Cacophonous croaking of toads, a soft yet discordant hymn pulsing in time with the crackle of spitting fire on wooden logs- a break in the nights pitch silence.
Sitting close, but not too close- because there could be no such thing with the fullness of emotion in him that beckoned for more, more, more, endlessly more since their impassioned kiss in the Fade - outer thighs touching poignant to one another. A fugitive glance to capture their stunning architecture- the profile of the Herald.
His fascination- more than that? Forbidden.
Mordant waves of silken hair tinged by reflections of golden fire, pinned loose behind elegant ears- pointed like his own- that begged to be taken between his teeth.
A jaw perfect for the cup of his palms.
An opulent mouth beckoning to be devoured once more.
Eyes of tourmaline glittered brighter than the stars as they flicked to him, widening in surprise to find what was surely a hungry gaze.
Solas stood- too abruptly- and bowed his head, penitence for the lustful longing of a man much, much too old to be so foolish. One step taken forward- a prompt escape for one so forlorn in companionship- in love- hindered by a sudden hand around his wrist. A glance back reveals-
“Don’t leave yet.” Voice low and pensive, eyes cast up to capture his own, the Inquisitor speaks.
He pauses, not to the words but to the trepidation he sees in those depths.
“I will only be in my tent.” Solas lifts his chin in indication of his tent pitched not so very far away. “It is late, after all.”
The flicker of something crosses like shadows over their eyes just before he is released, the hold on his flesh gone but replaced with one upon his heart as he recognizes the emotion as old as his spirit self.
Fear.
Solas sits once more, back straight but lounging long legs so his knee rests against theirs. Through peripheral vision he sees the slackening of shoulders as tension recedes.
“May I ask why you wish me to stay?” He requests quietly into the sable night, eyes drawn to their wrapped feet where they rest ankles crossed beside his own. So much like his People but with bones of birds and spirits forgotten with mayfly lives that cannot comprehend how fleeting their existence is. He wants to look at them, at their mouth, into their eyes, and so he does.
“I..” The anchor fluoresces quietly when their palm is turned upwards, the never healing wound inspected again, an untold number of times. They stare into it, expression unreadable with eyes hidden beneath lowered lashes. “I feel..” a fist closed, an anchor hidden. “I feel safe with you.”
Solas finds his breath caught.
“Surrounded by all these people-“ They shrug, eyes lowered still. “Being alone with you is the only time I truly feel safe.”
An ache appears in his chest, so fierce it hurts in his marrow and causes his fingertips to tingle. He does not deserve such high praise given so simply, so freely, from one so magnificent.
“I will stay then.” He finds himself announcing and he meets the eyes that lift to his. “Until you are ready.”
Until he is ready, Solas thinks, selfishly. Ready to let go? Ready to stay? Ready to be the man they believe him to be? He feels both weak and powerful when gratitude fills those brilliant eyes. How contrary, he considers, to want so badly for that you have never had before.
Madness must overtake him for he offers his hand in silence. The Anchor slips over his palm like a rustling static before smaller fingers link between his. He is still studying joined hands when their head settles on his shoulder; warm, soft, and smelling faintly of embrium.
He cannot do this.
He cannot do anything else.
"Ma serannas, Solas." Whisper quiet with contentment- with peace. His language from the Inquisitor-
The Herald-
Solas does not speak, biting the words inside his mouth so he does not confess aloud that which his mind already knows. He laments even as he rejoices, grasps for nothing even when falling. For all his time as Fen'Harel, never could he deceive himself. Millennia of uthenera had only softened him further and now his heart whispered words lost to him; in words forbidden to him even now.
Not Herald, not Inquisitor. So much more than any title, so much more to him. His whole being- lyrium body and spirit self- hums in agreement as to what Solas must name them; as to what he can no longer deny, and he knows he is lost. Eyes closing, he mouths the word to nothing at all. It means everything.
Vhenan
Thanks for the ask! Loved writing this one- the yearning(TM). Left Lavellan's sex/gender nonspecific because we LOVE our queer and NB Inky's. Hope you like it and sorry it’s so damn long.
