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When there wasn’t a pressing need for the Inquisitor to be out in the field, she was at Skyhold, tending to her duties and playing host for the endless parade of dignitaries and nobles that passed through their gates by the day. It kept her occupied from dawn to dusk and beyond that still, and there were times when Solas would only see her well past midnight. Often, she had fallen asleep over some tome on human history or culture, and he had to wake her up long enough to bring her to bed. From there, he fell asleep beside her, content to hold her in his arms and guard her dreams.
Knowing well the weight on the Inquisitor’s shoulders and how frequent demands of her attention would only distract her, Solas let her be. There were plenty of ways to keep himself busy in the meantime, from exploring more modern styles of painting, to playing cards with Varric, or debating magical theory with Dorian, the two of them trading barbs between the space of the rotunda and library. The rest of the time, he read, often finding himself fully engrossed in historical accounts or magical theories throughout the ages. On occasion, he would be drawn out of it by a servant setting a small plate of frilly cakes on his desk and whispering to him, “From the mistress.”
So on the day when he was in the middle of a disturbingly accurate book on the composition of the Veil, written by a Professor Emmrich Volkarin of Neverra, it was no surprise when he didn’t hear a servant speaking to him until he said his name twice.
“Messere Solas.”
He glanced up at the young elven boy before his desk. He was dressed quite finely for a servant, the badge with the Inquisitor’s heraldry pinned to his chest revealing that he was one of her personal servants. He was a newer member of her staff, Solas recalled, having seen the boy from time to time darting around to deliver messages from the Inquisitor to her advisors or vice versa. He was from Orlais as well, and sometimes helped her practice the nuance of the language.
“Alain, correct?” Solas asked, lowering his book. The boy nodded, curly black hair bobbing with it. “How may I be of assistance?”
Alain’s ears flushed pink as his gaze fell to the ground. “Our Lady Herald has requested your presence, messere.”
Solas picked up a marker for his book to save his place, and then stood from his desk. A summons from her wasn’t a rare occurrence; often his counsel was sought on various matters both magical and demonic. Out of deference to Empress Celene, Lady Morrigan had largely stepped into that role since, but they still brought him in for inquiries they weren’t willing to share with their allies yet. “Is she in the War Room?” he queried.
“No.”
Solas paused. Alain’s ears turned an even brighter pink.
“She is in her quarters,” he whispered.
Solas went still.
Oh.
It wasn’t a secret, to the servants at the very least, that he and the Inquisitor were lovers. They did not go out of their way to flaunt it, Solas never going into her quarters until late in the night, and always leaving before sunrise. She never showed him any special favor when her Inquisitor mask was on, keeping those only for moments when they could be alone in private. He did question if any of her inner circle had realized it yet, apart from Iron Bull, who on occasion wagged eyebrows at him, or Sera, who made obscene gestures with her fingers whenever he passed.
For the Inquisitor to summon him to her quarters during the day in an unofficial capacity seemed to make at least one of her servants think it was for only one reason. Solas’s thoughts had certainly wandered that way, his cock twitching in his smalls.
It is foolish to presume, he told himself, forcing his face to remain neutral. With no urge to embarrass the boy further, he thanked Alain quietly, but was not surprised when the servant stammered and fled immediately.
Before he answered her call, Solas first went to his quarters to wash his hands and run a wet cloth down his face and body, before finding an unassuming shirt and hat to put on. After brief consideration, he gathered together some books he had around his space as well, and then left for the Great Hall. If anyone even bothered to notice an elf as they crossed the hall for her quarters, they would merely see a servant delivering the Inquisitor’s requested reading materials from the library. Which was what happened, only the guard recognizing Solas when he approached, and letting him in without a word.
Up the stairs was another guard, who swiftly stepped aside to let him enter. Before Solas had even opened the door, the guard headed for the exit, leaving only the cawing crows on watch.
His breeches becoming uncomfortably tight, Solas headed inside.
He left the books and his hat by a table near her door, before climbing up the remaining stairs to the landing. There, to his surprise and confused disappointment, he found the Inquisitor at her desk, quill bobbing away over rolls of parchments. She was fully dressed for court in a rich navy-blue dress, cut low to annunciate her chest, and trimmed with fur that went to her shoulders. Her brown hair had been pulled back into an elaborate set of braids that fell in loose waves once past her shoulders; all her jewelry, from her earrings to her livery collars and bracelets and rings, were made with gold inset with rubies. As was her preference, she only wore makeup on her lips and eyes, ensuring the black lines of Mythal’s vallaslin were never lost on the copper-colored skin of her face.
She was beautiful, Solas thought; she would have been the envy of any in Arlathan. No spirit in the Fade would ever be able to properly reflect her visage no matter how it desired to.
Yet the reason for his summons were largely unclear to Solas now, and after a moment to mentally readjust himself, he stepped further into her quarters and called out to her. “Araniel.”
Her head lifted up from her paperwork, and she smiled when she saw him. “Solas,” she said as she set the quill in its fountain and put aside her papers to dry. She pushed aside some books, as well, and a cup of what was probably her favorite tea. “Thank you for coming.”
It was again not the welcome he had been expecting, far too formal for the both of them when they were in private. “You requested my presence, Inquisitor?” he asked, falling back on titles, if in the event this was merely business.
“Yes,” she said, as she stood up and then circled around her desk. Her dress was tied at the waist with a belt, the fabric parting just past her thighs to bustle around the back of her legs. Underneath, she wore form-fitting leggings and heeled boots that came up to her knees. “I have something I wish to ask of you.”
“It would be my pleasure to assist,” he replied as she walked over to him. She moved with the elegance of an Orlesian noble they trained her to be, extruding a sheer confidence Vivenne would have envied if she were present. He grew so fixated with the even sway of her hips that he almost didn’t notice when she crossed the invisible line of business and into the sphere of not business. He stood taller as she slid into his space effortlessly, their bodies conducting a familiar and beloved dance as they fell into each other’s orbit.
Solas’s blood began to run hot again as he looked down at her, starting at her lips and then back to her vibrant green eyes. There was a question in her gaze that he wasn’t quite sure the answer to, but when he acknowledged it with a small nod, she lifted her hand to press against his chest right over his heart. This close he could breathe in her scent, her soaps of flowers and wild strawberries underlaid with a richness of fir trees. Her magic thrummed with the old song from the mark, intertwined with her own soft melody, music Solas could listen to for an eternity.
Yet whatever game this was, he still did not know the rules. Every part of him was eager to, however, and he cocked his head slightly in silent question. She smiled back, and then made her opening move.
“The Inquisition finds itself host to one Marquise Louis Valmont Chauvelin IX,” Araniel started, her eyes dropping to her hand against his chest, where she slowly started to slide it down. “A distant cousin of the empress, and lord of Emprise du Lion. That is a part of Orlais where we’ve received ominous reports of red crystals in the Villagers’ Quarry of Sahrnia.”
Solas was intrigued, both by that news and the hand still making its way south. “A most fortuitous discovery,” he commented lightly.
Araniel smiled, stopping to play with the jawbone hanging from his neck, running her fingers along its teeth. “Yes, it is,” she acknowledged. “And out of interest in maintaining good relations with our Orlesian allies, permission was immediately sought from Marquise Chauvelin for our troops to move in and verify these rumors. However, the Marquise wants concessions, as you can imagine.”
“A regrettable mindset,” Solas observed while Araniel’s hand resumed its journey. It slid down his waist and past his stomach and down further still, and while he prided himself on his will of steel, when her hand stopped right over the bulge of his trousers, he took a breath. When she lightly cupped him through his breeches, he could not stop his shudder. “What… what does he wish of the Inquisition?” he managed.
“He has not said. And we offered payment, of course,” she replied calmly while beginning a slow, maddening massage of his bulge, his cock swift to rise after being denied before. “Restitutions, if needed. The Chantry’s blessing. A place at court. We told him this was ordained by Andraste herself, but alas, even his goddess will not move his heart. So I’ve been tasked to perform what may be another act of divinity and sway his mind.”
Solas could not stop his smirk even if he tried. The way she despised nobles always thrilled that dark, rebellious side of him, and only made him swell into her hand. “An impossible task for anyone,” he breathed, his hands leaving his sides to reach for her hips. “But one you have proven remarkably skilled at.”
“Indeed,” she agreed. She stopped her ministrations, but only to bring her hands together to start tugging at the laces of his breeches. As she did, she began to move them backwards toward her desk; with that, the next several moves of the game became clear in Solas’s mind. “Yet he unfortunately believes he is his Maker’s gift to Orlais. He is arrogant, he is cocky, he is frustratingly handsome by human standards, and he very much is used to getting his way. He will require wining and dining, and to be flattered endlessly for his many, many great skills and accomplishments.”
The frustratingly handsome comment might have irked Solas if she hadn’t then opened his breeches enough to pull his cock free from the confines of his smalls. It bobbed toward her, weeping its happiness, and she grasped it with a hand as smooth as silk and thrumming with magic. She slowly started to stroke him, up and down, up and down, with a twist at the tip, and Solas began to find it increasingly difficult to think. “I,” he started, his eyes slipping closed as his breath quickened. “I imagine such a task to be… to be entirely unworthy… of your talents.”
“Yes it is,” she murmured as she came to her desk and leaned against it. She parted her legs to allow him access, and he sank right in, hands sliding down to her outer thighs. He opened his eyes enough to watch her part her dress at her legs, and then let out a hungry groan at the sight. She was not wearing leggings it turned out: only stockings that went far up her thighs, leaving the rest open and bare. Underneath the slip for her dress, she wore only a lacey pair of white smalls, Solas bucking into her hand when he saw the large dark, damp spot that had formed from inside the fabric.
She was going to be the death of him, he thought wildly. It would be a most welcome death... but only after they were done playing her game, he told himself. And there was still no indication it was his turn.
“I will have to spend the entire evening on his arm,” Araniel continued, bringing his cock to part the folds of her covered cunt and slide down to the source of her sweet, wet heat. There, she repeated the motion, her breath beginning to quicken and her copper skin flushing where it was open at her chest. “I will have to pretend to be charmed by his looks and stories of his great hunts and many successful duels.”
Solas had already come to despise the man along with her, but was beginning to greatly enjoy what he was inspiring. With one hand, he pushed his breeches and smalls down enough to give his cock more freedom to slide deliciously along the wetness of her body. His hips set a slow rhythm that he did not stop when she let go of him to push herself up and onto the desk. He assisted by sliding his hands down to her thighs and lifting her legs, which she eagerly wrapped around him. She tilted her head back with a soft gasp, and Solas helped himself to her neck, dipping in to skim his teeth along the length of it.
“I will have to sit and smile,” she somehow went on between pants, her free hand coming up to grasp the back of his head. There was an edge to her voice now, the dangerous side of her that was like a prowling wolf on the hunt. “I will have to pretend to be the perfect little rabbit he thinks me to be. All the while, I must act as if I do not know enough Orlesian when I hear him whisper to his advisors all the ways he would make use of my mouth and my cunt.”
If anything could spoil the mood, that was it. Solas snarled as he pulled back, but with wide eyes, she grabbed his shirt to stop him. She dragged him back in and began to press apologetic kisses to his chin.
“No, no, ir abelas,” she whispered to him, her eyes heavy and lust-filled. She squeezed him tight with her legs and kissed him on the lips, parting her mouth for him. The sweet taste drew Solas right in, and when he could think beyond his anger, he realized this was part of the game they were playing. Not for either of them to get angry, but to rebel against the Game itself.
He was proven correct when she pulled away from his lips to press kisses to his cheek. “When he says such things, I want him to know he will never have me,” she whispered to him, and Solas leaned into the kisses she left as she made her way up to his ear. “I want him to know there is only one cock I will have in my mouth. Only one cock between my legs. Only one cock inside me.”
Solas grew delirious with want, drawing in ragged breaths. If she truly wished it, he could will it into being, he thought dangerously. He could make them all know, if she wanted.
She bit at his earlobe before brushing her lips up to breathe into his ear.
“I want you to fuck me, Solas,” she hissed, and he groaned, hips bucking. “I want you to fuck me and fill me. I want to feel your seed run down my thighs all night and have everyone know you are the only man I will allow to come inside me.”
Solas was only a man, made of earth and blood. And she was his heart that beat only for her. Everything that was him, everything that was Solas, was all for her. He would give her anything.
Finally his turn, he lost himself, tearing aside her smalls before cleaving between her legs, where she was so wet his cock slid right into her hot heat. His hips had a mind of their own, thrusting with reckless abandon into her over and over, his hands clutching at her thighs.
She cried out in pleasure, bracing both arms and then elbows against the desk so she could move her body to the pace of his thrusts, her legs squeezing and pressing him in to encourage more. She clenched around his cock, and that made him buck harder; she did it again and again, driving him wild. The desk creaked with the rhythm, a few books falling off with a thump that was lost in her hungry moans.
“Yes,” she groaned, head falling back, her breasts heaving. Solas kissed between them, squeezing her hips and the swell of her ass and stroking her thighs. She began to chant to the measure of his thrusts, her legs falling open, allowing him deeper and deeper. “Fuck me, Solas. Fill me. Please, I only want to be yours.”
He did as she asked, mind not so lost that he could not bring her to full ecstasy. He stilled his hips long enough to push his hand between their bodies, finding the spot between the folds of her cunt. Once he pressed against it, he found the rhythm that made her clench around him with a series of soft cries, and then he matched it with his thrusts.
She fell off the edge first, her moans growing and growing until she arched and cried out so loud it echoed in the cavernous room and out the open balcony doors. Her orgasm triggered his own, and he lost himself again, snapping his hips forward until he saw white. He came with a shuddering gasp, pulsing inside her over and over, and she pulled him in tight so none of it escaped.
She fell back against her desk, gasping for air. Solas had enough sense to not fall on top of her, twisting so that he lay next to her to catch his own breath. He did not part from her and neither did she let him, encircling him with her legs and rocking her hips until he had spent completely.
She found her voice first. “That was…” Araniel breathed. “What are all of them always saying? Right: Maker’s breath.”
Solas, who truly had no issues with that particular god, groaned in agreement. His skin tingled and his body felt solid in ways he so often forgot it could. He was heavy, rooted, feeling the way the beat of his heart pumped life through his veins, how crisp cold air filled his lungs, how every nerve thrummed with waves of pleasure. It was a song all his own, one which easily intertwined with her melody and became theirs.
She ran her fingers along his scalp until he was able to form more practical coherent thoughts. “I think we mortified your young servant, Alain,” he mumbled, the first thing that came to mind.
Araniel’s hummed a delicious sound. “He may have to get used to it.”
Solas glanced up at her. Now there was an interesting proposal. “Oh?”
“This does wonders for the mood,” she joked, tilting her head to meet his gaze. “I may even make it through this evening without stabbing someone in the eye.”
Solas’s lips curled toward a dark smirk. “It will truly be the diplomatic achievement of this age,” he teased and she stuck her tongue out at him. He shifted his body slightly so he could kiss the flushed skin above her breasts, teasing her more. “Should I tell your staff to hide your dinner knives again, vhenan?”
“If only that would be enough,” Araniel sighed with a dramatic flair. “For some reason, my advisors thought it wise to teach me how to create a blade out of thin air.”
He laughed against her breasts, and she followed it with her own giggles. Briefly, he thought of what she had wanted, indulging in the idea of making this noble she despised know who made her scream. Yet the thought faded just as quick: She could do this all on her own, and Solas would watch proudly as she weaved circles around him and got everything she wanted and more.
Araniel tilted her head back then, an invitation Solas did not pass up. He pushed himself up so he could lap at the stretch of her neck, making her hum again. “Mmmm,” she murmured, her legs squeezing his hips, still no eagerness to part. “I’m late.”
She was looking at her hourglass, which somehow managed to stay upright on her desk throughout their activities. There was sand in only one end, with no indication for how long that had been the case.
“Do Orlesians not believe in being fashionably late?” he suggested coolly and she lowered her head back down to look at him. He rocked his hips to indicate his meaning, and Araniel’s eyebrow lifted high.
“We may mortify more servants if they send someone to find me.”
“I believe you suggested that they ‘get used to it’,” he countered.
At that, she burst out into laughter before dragging him up for a kiss.