Author's Note: This is a little Solavellan fluff piece I posted to Ao3 in October 2015, and apparently failed to crosspost here. (Oops.) This features my warrior Inquisitor Daleka Lavellan (check out my tumblr for more info (and art!) of Daleka), and takes place in the same universe as my fics "Head Over Feet" and "Truth is so Unkind" though it's not necessary for you to read either of those before reading this one. (Chronologically, this takes place in between those two fics.)
Hope you enjoy!
"Tell me a story."
The request echoes in the quiet space of the Inquisitor's room - with the crackling of the fire across the way the only competing noise - it is playful and hesitant and hopeful in equal measure.
Solas doesn't turn from the essay in his hand - a poor refutation of Ferdinand Genetivi's Myths and Legends, compiled by an unknown writer that Solas suspects may have been a failed student of the well-known scholar, set on tarnishing his former mentor's reputation (and failing heinously) - but continues to card the fingers of his free hand through the loose strands of her white hair, momentarily released from her ever-present braid. Easy access allowed by the resting of her head on Solas's lap, her face turned up towards his chest.
Still, the request is atypical. A normal evening sees them in much the same position as they are now, with him reading and her allowing the stress of her duties to ease from her limbs as she lay in silent repose, that he is intrigued.
"A story?"
"Yes."
"What sort of of a story do you wish to hear?"
"Hmm. Something…" She cuts off with a purr as he scratches her scalp through the thick tresses that adorn the top of her head, his fingers roving down in a rubbing motion over the shaved portion by her ear. Her whole body stretches, legs extending out over the arm of the lounge for a moment before contracting back to tuck her feet by her knees. "Creators, keep doing that!"
Solas chuckles, her carefree evocation of his imprisoned kin does nothing but swell his heart. She is happy here, with him.
And he - he is happy as well.
The thought gives him pause, enough that his hand falters in its ministrations and she responds with a growl before reaching her unmarked hand up to encircle his wrist and force his hand to move back and forth over her skull once more.
He laughs out loud at that, his worries dissolving like mist in the sun, as he turns his attention down to look upon her face, allowing the essay to fall onto the end table. Narrowed eyes and her lower lip plump and pursed out in a telltale sign of her annoyance look up at him. "I told you not to stop, and you immediately stopped. Do you like being contrary?"
She groans at his raised brow, "Nevermind. Don't answer that."
He chuckles once more and drags his fingers along the shell of her ear, and down across the span of her jaw, before alighting his thumb on her lower lip, where it sits, taunting him with how soft, and welcoming it appears. The corners of her mouth turn up at the touch, and the frustration in her eyes is replaced by another, more inviting emotion. One that makes his blood heat, and his heart pound.
One of her hands snake upwards to grasp the back of his neck, her back arching to accommodate the movement, while her other hand reaches back to squeeze his outer thigh. He allows her to tug his head down, because he is not capable of doing anything else.
He has never known anyone who could erode his resistance as easily as she.
But still - some token resistance should be made, if only so that he can tell himself later that he tried.
He permits her to guide his mouth towards hers, angling it so that they are more properly aligned to one another, but prevents her from breaching the gap between them. He drops his voice to a lower register, letting the words roll off his tongue in a slow spill. "I thought you wished for a story, ma vhenan?"
She stretches her neck further, exposing the long, dark column of her throat, The view distracts him long enough from his goal of keeping her at bay. When she next speaks her voice is rough; parched in a manner that belies the moist nature of her lips as they brush against his own suddenly dry ones. "Later. I've thought of something more entertaining at the moment."
He doesn't give in, however. Not yet. No matter how much he wants..."Are you certain? I thought to perhaps tell you a tale of the Halla and Hart that I stumbled upon per chance one evening, deep in the Fade in the Emerald Graves…"
She puffs out a single-noted laugh, the heated air from her breath drawing his attention back towards her eyes from where it had fallen - unconsciously - back to her neck. "Solas?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up and kiss me."
"Ma nuvenin, vhenan."
And kiss her he does.
~End