Nothing about their relationship had ever been deliberate or well thought through.
The stolen kiss in the Fade was an action wrought by an impulsiveness that would remain constant throughout the duration of their time together. It was the of many instances where desire ultimately won out over any intelligible thought. She might have heeded reason and it's ever-weakening call… had it mattered at the time.
It mattered little now.
The last thing she said before he had pulled her close and covered her mouth with his own was, "Adding nuts to baked goods is a fucking sin."
She laughs into the kiss as she leans against the table in the centre of the room. Paintbrushes roll off the sides and clatter to the stone floor beneath them as she braces herself against the table and Solas makes space for his thigh between her legs. "This is… not the reaction I expected from that comment." She breathes, parting from their embrace only long enough to complete her thought before eagerly returning to his touch.
"No." He states, claiming her lips again with a fervour that makes Fade-tongue pale deeply in comparison. His long fingers play up her sides and she is overcome by the sensations that take her body, along with the lingering desire to laugh at what spurred the situation to begin with; she feels light, tingling; brimming with both desire and laughter that threaten to overwhelm her at any moment. It is the headiest rush she has ever experienced, and that fact is what prompts her to scoot her hips forward so that she may placate the need between her legs against Solas' own. The connection earns her a slight groan from Solas and his attention is taken to her neck where he gladly tastes her skin. His fingers weave themselves into her hair with the gentlest pull and reveal more of her skin to his mouth. She feels his digits coaxing her hand from the table and she follows his lead, pressing the flat of her palm to his open hand as he suckles her neck, driving waves of ecstasy through her entire being.
"You are… you are marvelous." He claims between small kisses that trail up her neck. "Bizarre." He purrs. "Unique. I can't..." The last words are whispered into the shell of her ear with such a hunger that it is all she can do to not launch the pair of them away from the table and against the freshly applied coat of paint behind them.
"Then don't." She retorts, "Don't stop." She implores, grinding herself against his thigh with a renewed desperation. The night is late, but it's not that late: At any given moment Dorian could tumble through the door, fresh from The Herald's Rest. She searches inwardly, and is astonished to find that she hasn't a fuck to give about consequences. Not now.
He laughs now: A low and permeating tone that strikes something deep and dark within her. There is a jingling sound as his hand ghosts overtop of her skirts offering the lightest of touches to her womanhood which is nestled almost frustratingly under so many layers of fabric. A frustrated hiss is rent from her lips only to be quickly silenced by the gentle placement of teeth at the lobe of her ear by her lover.
"Shhhh…" He soothes, though as her head rolls back in exasperation she catches a glimpse of the amusement in Solas' eyes.
"Shhhh." She repeats rather harshly then, lifting her head and grabbing him by the front of his shirt, consuming him in a bruising kiss that ignites the entire rigmarole anew. She leverages against the deceivingly sturdy table and grants herself the momentum to push away, backing the pair of them gracelessly against the scaffolding set against the wall. From above she can hear jars wobble precariously and another couple paintbrushes tip-tap onto to the ground when Solas' back strikes the wooden frame.
He exhales heavily through his nose, making a noise deep back in his throat that brings to mind the sound one might make when enjoying a sumptuous feast.
"You feel good." He observes. "You smell good… you are…" He tears away and meets her eyes with the most genuine gaze she has ever seen. He takes her in for a moment before surprising her with a rather broad and goofy smile. "You are just... good."
Unable to take it anymore, El'una lays her hands on him for the first time; intimacy has always been something earned and not taken ostensibly. She would sooner have someone touch her first so that she may know she is welcome to do the same. Things like hands and hugs… simple, uncomplicated touches are so easily dispensed, but to infringe on someone's space any further than that is an action that required permission.
The touch is welcome, and her fingers come to rest on his shoulder, where the fabric of his tunic is warm and soft to the touch. Her other hand snakes around his waist after meandering briefly across his back, testing the realness of the scenario.
She is in his arms, and he in hers. There is an overwhelming but undeniable sense of need permeating the room and it occurs to her that this is the intersection that every pair of infatuated dreamers arrives at eventually: It is a moment than can last for hours, days, moments or months: It is the unspoken question that lingers and hangs until it is answered with either acquiesce or denial: Do you want me? Will you have me?
Her body undulates against his and each point of contact sets fire to her flesh.
Please say you will.
She feels him shudder against her movement and her skirts sing again as Solas deftly reaches under them. Fingers, light and articulate dictate paths over the flesh of her thigh and she gasps at the sudden intrusion. Her eyes close and sparks dance in the blackness on the inside of her eyelids as he thumbs the juncture of her legs with a touch most delicate. Breath falls from her lungs and in the form of yet another ardent laugh: She can't help it. Besides being completely enraptured by what's currently happening, she is for the most part filled with the most natural and pure sensation of happiness she has ever felt.
"Yes." He promises her and she all but uproots herself from his touch, whirling away, a mess of flushed skin and disarranged skirts. The wetness on her thighs is only encouraged as her eyes slide over his figure and what remains hidden by a maddening amount of clothing… so within reach but… not here. She steals his hand into her own and begins to haul him from the rotunda but he stops her with a palm against the door before she can fling it open and spirit him away.
"Are we?..." He asks, his face serious for only a moment before she replies without hesitation.
"Yes." She pants, nodding violently, her face splitting into a foolish grin that he instantly mirrors, much to her elation. "I… I believe so." And she wrenches the door open and pulls him through, his laughter blessedly chasing her through the abrupt path she carves through the empty Main Hall.
They crash through the door to the Inquisitor's chambers and he pushes her into the corner before they can even ascend the stairs.
"This is stupid." She half laughs. "This is foolish."
Solas nods his agreement as he draws his tongue across the cleft of her breasts.
"Very." He concedes, losing himself in her scent.
"It's amazing." She notes as he writes a symphony with his lips across her collarbone. "I blame you entirely."
"Who would dare guess that baked goods might bring a pair of people together in such a way?" He philosophises, returning his fervor to her lips, drawing them between his teeth and delighting in the blissful whine his action elicits. His hand reclaims its place under her skirts now that they are in private. She emits the lightest of laughs at his touch and begins scrambling for his own clothing.
"I don't want this." She announces as her fingers find ample purchase on his tunic so that she may pull it over his head and shoulders with a single efficient movement. The garment drips from her fingers to a pool on the ground and she drags her own top off with as much brevity, ducking under his arm so that she has his back against the wall now. "I didn't want that either." She whispers, drawing the tips of her fingers against his bare chest before they dip down to his abdomen. They dance teasingly within the waistband of his trousers and he'd be of half a mind to return the favour were it not for the precision of her seduction giving him pause: There is a sense of abandon in her actions that is characteristically void in her day-to-day awkward, self conscious attempts at banter. It throws him off, but does little to slake the hunger in his eyes as his lips meet her own once again.
She throws her arms around his shoulders and presses herself against every inch of bare flesh she can reach. It is her turn to plant multiple kisses of varying pressure against his smooth neck and she is egged on by the pleasing sound that falls from his lips at her efforts: It calls to mind the immediate attraction she felt upon first hearing his voice early in the morning, shortly after waking - she longed to hear that sleepy, spaced-out speech in the throes of bliss. She had long wanted to wake up to it.
His chin rests on her shoulder and he is pressing small kisses of his own to what skin he can reach. One hand rises and comes to rest on her round, ripe heart, the other; down her smalls.
Blood is rushing in her ears. She feels oddly disconnected from her body, despite the realness of his fingers inside her.
Please.
Please let me -
"Fenedhis!" She pounds her fist into the feather bed under her as her eyes adjust to the darkness and her body realizes the rocking motion of the sea she is carried on. A memory. Nothing more. That fact didn't mean she wanted to leave any less. She would have stayed forever in the memory of their first encounter if she was given the chance: She never felt more free than she did that night, back when every mistaken touch or betrayal of endearment was simple to justify in light of the danger that threatened the world. Impulsive? Yes. Impassioned? Undeniably. But back then, it was easy to ignore those truths by simply apologizing for their lack of discipline until the next time they found themselves accidentally waking up in each other's arms.
At least they were both amply surprised when it became clear that they had fallen in love with each other.
She swears again and reaches for the bottle of wine stowed next to her bed. In doing so, she forgets that she was just asleep, and she is not currently under the guise of Evelyn Trevelyan; she grabs for the bottle by her bedside with a hand that doesn't exist and falls to her side due to the misplacement of momentum. A frustrated groan cuts through the dark and she snatches the bottle with an arm that is fully functional and whole, tearing the cork away with her teeth, still worrying at the sore spot in her heart that is bleeding anew because of her dream.
This is their third day at sea. They will reach harbour in Cumberland by morning-next, according to Dorian: She couldn't be happier at the prospect. The ship and its inherent doldrums give her little cheer and even less freedom. At least in Tevinter she will be able to roam around a vicinity larger than a ship, even if she is masquerading as a dead woman in order to ably do so.
Dim candles sway with the rhythm of the ship's path through the sea and she sits cross legged under the sheets, giving in to the rise and fall under her. She takes the occasional swig of wine as she stares in silence for a long time at the swaying flames. Eventually, she notices that her ears feel warm. Shortly after, her cheeks feel wet. She finally blinks and a withering sob breaks free from her lips.
"No." She says to no one in particular.
"No. I will not." She emphasizes firmly, sucking a deep breath in through her mouth that only just brushes her lungs before her frame collapses in a fit of coughing. Desperate gasps punctuate the continuous racket that goes on for far too long. She feels her palms clam up against the sheets she is gripping as her vision goes spotty and she wills herself to calm down and breathe normally. Her heart races, and the muscles in her abdomen ache. She feels the nerves at the back of her throat begin to protest at the abuse they are receiving.
She emits a wretched hack and it is just light enough in the cabin for her to see the small dark flecks that fly from her mouth and strike the white bedsheet. The taste of copper hits her tongue when she licks her lips.
"Fuck." She observes her voice feeling raw and strained. Her head feels light and her entire body tingles unpleasantly.
Fuck.