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Months passed, and somehow they settled into something that could be called domesticity. Whatever aches and pains they carried from their war and its resolution melted into a quiet routine of shared responsibility that kept their lives quietly moving between visits from whatever official delegation arrived to check in on the Dread Wolf’s house arrest. Ellana had taken to gardening much as she had in Skyhold, though this time she tended to tubers and tomatoes and other edible plants that would supplement their deliveries of flour and sugar and other goods they could not easily procure on their own. When they came out of the ground, they found their way into Solas’s hands. Sometime in his long life, she determined, he had apparently acquired an ability, if not a talent, for working in a kitchen. She imagined the idea of the Thedas’s greatest known adversary making the meals of its savior daily would give more than a few nobles heart attacks, but it provided him with something to do. And to say his cooking was far superior to hers would not be an overstatement. A few millennia's difference of practice was likely to do that, she supposed.
Laundry had become her purview as well. It was an all day affair with the necessary scrubbing and beating and hanging of clothes, but Ellana found she didn’t mind it so much. Though she was no longer avoiding her housemate, it let her escape from the house for a few hours; and the burn in her arm after using the washboard reminded her of the days when she was responsible for helping her father with the halla. Hard work, but rewarding all the same. Even if she came away from the stream with fingers red from strain and chill now that the weather had turned.
Solas always offered to accompany her when the pile of soiled clothes grew large or to go himself and let her rest. A few days before, after she had returned inside with a burn in her cheeks from the cold, he’d playfully threatened to tie her to a chair if that is what it took to keep herself from losing her other hand to frostbite washing their things. Immediately, he had apologized, her stunned silence translating to an overstep of unspoken boundaries he wished to assure her would never happen again. He had disappeared into his room for the evening before she’d been able to regain her senses, struck by the aching desire to laugh at the casual jest at her expense and the altogether different kind of heat that had arisen at his suggestion of restraint.
It was not the only time in recent days she had found herself struck by rather distracting feelings. In his culinary efforts, Solas had also taken to making fresh bread for them nearly daily. Oftentimes, she came back to the cottage to find dough rising on the counter, Solas covered in thin film of flour that told her he’d yet to figure out a way to handle it without the powder flying into his face. Despite the apron, his clothes were just as covered as he, and she’d shoo him off to change. He’d gotten only marginally better over time, though had learned that rolling his sleeves to his elbows helped keep the cuffs free of flour and dried-out dough. A practical decision. And one that had fully occupied her mind with memories of how the rolling muscles in his arms had once smoothed knots from her body after long days of battle and traveling on horseback, how they had held her firmly when he had healed wounds both embarrassing and terror-inducing, and how they’d wrapped around her as they’d found found each other in the hours before what they’d believed would be their final meeting.
And it was lost in these thoughts that, at his questioning her staring at him from the entry to the kitchen, she had suggested he simply forgo the clothes altogether and give her less to clean. The comment slipped out smoothly, as though she had been practicing the line like an Orlesian noble desperately trying to impress an uninterested lady. Her attempts to assure him she meant nothing by it, on the other hand, were… Well, she’d fallen on her ass more gracefully. Luckily, the laundry still needed to be hung up and she was able to quickly retreat before she’d thoroughly embarrassed herself.
Today, thankfully, they had managed to avoid any new awkward encounters. They’d successfully made it through the midday meal without either of them stumbling over the ever-blurring line of appropriate intimacy. It has almost been like before, in the early days in Haven where they had slowly discovered each other’s interests and sore points without a lifetime of history hovering between them. Leaving the table to attend to the laundry had been more difficult than she cared to admit, but it always took a few hours for the clothes to dry on the line. It was, however, a wait which she often found was worth the freshness that seemed to cling to the fabric for days after, even on days like this, when the cold cowed even the most resilient creatures into seeking shelter. Though it required them to employ the use of one of the limited heating runes around the house. While drying their clothes in the cold was technically possible, neither was too keen on how their clothes stood upright without their aid when they were brought inside. Or venturing out into the cold any longer than was strictly necessary.
Upon arriving in her rooms, she was pleased to once again see her tub filled. Another of the many tasks Solas had taken on to help pass the time between their respective chores. Shutting the door, she stripped from her clothes and sunk into the steaming water. A moan slipped from her lips, her muscles voicing their appreciation of the heat. She never realized how sore she was until there was nothing to distract her from it. Falling into bed after excursions as Inquisitor had always been a bitter relief. There was finally time to think of all the things weighing on her spirit. All the lives she’d lost and was responsible for. Not much had changed, it seemed.
But she had more to distract her now. Though she’d had plenty of privacy in her quarters in Skyhold, she’d never taken full advantage of it. Save the occasional insistence from her body, she’d never felt compelled to let her fingers linger. To search out the movements that would send her toes curling and heart pumping. And there was so little time between her realizations that, perhaps, she might enjoy those explorations, might enjoy them with him in particular, and the crumbling of any hope they might occur that any rising desire had often been doused by the cold waters of reality. And the occasional literal cold water of a bath or bucket when her body could not be reasoned with and the concern of an unwanted visit from particularly insistent spirits was warranted. But now?
Now there was time and want. And though she would not indulge the voice that reminded her she had not been the only one to stare from doorways, there were memories she would not deny herself the pleasure of revisiting.
She took her time cleansing the day from herself. Starting with her hair, grown long again since its unceremonious chop after the loss of her arm, she massaged cleansing poultices and oils onto her scalp. She closed her eyes, dragging her nails across the top of her head and letting her mind mind to a different hand massaging the products into her head and tugging on it ever so slightly as she slid just beneath the water to rinse it from her locks. She imagined that same hand joined by another as she lathered the floral soap against her body, imagined them slowly, carefully ensuring every inch of her skin was attended to, imagined one hand lifting her leg from the tub and the other slipping inside her again and again and again until she could no longer recall her name.
By the time she’d dragged herself from the bath, the water was cold.
Slipping on a robe, she found a basket of clothes in its normal place just outside her door where Solas had taken to leaving her share of the laundry. She brought it inside her room and pulled a larger tunic from her basket, not bothering with a breast band or smallclothes for the moment. The fabric was warm against her skin, the heat of the drying room still clinging to the softened lambswool.
“Excuse me, I appear to have misplaced my-” Solas stopped short in the doorway, taking her in. His throat bobbed. “shirt.” She stole a glance of herself in the mirror wedged in the corner. What she had thought was one of her larger sweaters was, in fact, Solas’s tunic. The fabric swallowed her, the hem brushing the back of her thighs, nearly reaching her knees. No doubt if she studied herself she’d see the dark shadows of her areolas bleeding through the cream fabric. If Solas’s flush was any indication, he certainly had. Ellana was suddenly all too aware of her body. Of the strain of her nipples against the tunic. Of the slickness between her legs that remained after her bath and the flush that warmed her skin. They stood frozen for a moment, each holding the other’s gaze to see who would break the tentative peace first. He took a step forward, then another, until he was in front of her, sharing the same breath.
Her heart skittered down her spine as his fingers teased at the edge of the soft knit, fingers working the fraying yarn. They were cool against her heated skin. Close, so very close to touching her. She watched as his fingers curled under the seam of the tunic, not quite a grip but still a claim. His knuckles lifted, brushing against the curve of her hip. A shuddering breath passed through him. He did not pull away, but he didn’t press forward either. Ever in control. Even here, even now after everything. Of course.
For a moment, she let herself indulge in the image of his hands curving around her hips, lying flat as they skimmed up her stomach and over her breast before lifting his tunic from her shoulders. They would roam down her arms and lower, lower still until they found their home. He sucked in a breath, pulling her from the fantasy, and she attempted to calm the heat in her veins with one of her own.
His hands flexed at his side, a subtle movement to mask how they were shaking. Slowly, she laid her palm over his chest, where she could feel his heart fluttering like a caged bird beneath his scarred skin. Perhaps they needed more time. Whatever they felt, whatever degree of comfort they’d found together, maybe they hadn’t healed enough from the past years for this to be wise. This life was still so new, and they were still struggling to find what lines they were comfortable crossing. Before, backed against a ticking clock, their need had outweighed anything else. It had been a flurry of hands and discarded clothes that caused more hurt than it healed. Waking up alone the following morning had cut her heart as much as watching him walk away in Crestwood. But this time there was no reason to leave. No duty that demanded they walk away. No cause to force them apart.
Now, all they had was time.
She could wait. Her hand reached up, cupping his cheek in her palm.
“I’ll get it back to you.” She smiled. It was small, but filled with understanding and reassurance. She expected to see relief in his face. Or the quiet, sad knowledge that had haunted his eyes as long as she’d known him. Something that reminded her of the many times they’d given each other the space they’d needed but hadn’t wanted when they found themselves stumbling towards decisions that would complicate their duties. Instead, her smile fell, lips parting, as she found certainty and care and lust searching for their mirror. He had found them, she knew, at the flattening of his palms over her hips. She let her hand fall from his face, curling it to rest on the back of his neck. Her eyes flickered to his lips, then back to his eyes.
Then she moved.
With a swift tug, she brought his head down to hers in a crushing kiss. His tongue swiped at her bottom lip, fingers curling into her side, and she opened her mouth against his to give him access. Rising on her toes, she wrapped the crook of her elbow around his neck. He pressed himself closer to her, sliding a long leg between her own.
“I believe this is mine.” His hands skimmed up her sides, the hem of the tunic pooling over his wrists, until they rested on the curve of her ribs, thumbs caressing the skin just below the swell of her breasts. His hands traveled up, pulling his tunic with them as he moved to kiss her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. She lifted her arm from him just long enough to let the fabric slide from her body, shivering as the cool air touched her heated body, gooseflesh rising on her skin. Ellana leaned back, letting her weight gently pull him forward, until she was hanging over the bed. One of Solas’s legs parted hers, knee pressing into the edge of the mattress, and he wrapped an arm behind her back to hold her up until he’d laid her flat on the blankets.
When he kissed her again, it felt as though he were breathing her in. Every inch of her warmed as he pulled her chest flush to his, only the thin layer of his clothing separating them. He slid his tongue over her lip, and she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss. She let her focus narrow to the sensation of his tongue dancing against hers and the warmth it sent through her. For so long she had wondered if she would ever feel this again, feel his body move against hers in a way that set her head spinning and her heart racing. She’d thought her memory would suffice, that fantasy would sate her hunger for this closeness. Creators, she was a fool.
The calloused skin of one hand smoothed over her breast as the other slid up to tangle itself in her hair. A slight curl of his fingers tugged at her tresses, a pleasant pressure that made her scalp ache in a way that made her want to pull against him. But he held her fast and used the tension to tilt her head backwards and bare her neck. He kissed her hard before peppering kisses along her jawline and moving farther down to nip at the column of her throat, soothing her skin with his tongue where his teeth sunk into the flesh. He sucked at her pulse and drew his thumb across her nipple as he kneaded the tender flesh, and she felt his smile against her skin at the moan it drew from her.
Ellana grasped at Solas’s tunic, bunching the fabric at the base of his neck, and began to tug it off his back. The hand at her chest paused its attentions long enough to reach behind him and pull the shirt off in one fell swoop, throwing it somewhere off the side of the bed. It then returned to her side, caressing the flesh over her ribs and slowly, purposefully trailing down the curve of her waist and hip. His hand slid further down still, and as Solas’s fingers found the junction of her thighs and the slickness that met him there, she gave a thin whine at the swipe of his thumb across her clit, still sensitive from her own ministrations in the tub. A flash of understanding passed through Solas’s eyes, and a low growl vibrated in his throat as his lips traveled to her ear.
“What were you thinking of?” Though they sought an answer, his words were not a question. He knew her. Knew how her mind and body had ached for him over years of absence. Knew that if there were anyone she had held in her mind as she circled her own clit and pressed at the tender spot inside her, it must have been him. But knowing was different from hearing. Knowing was different from knowing . His fingers ghosted over her folds. They were touching her, but only barely. Only enough for her body to arch upward to beg for the pressure he withheld. And he could make her beg, if he wanted. But there were other times for that. Other nights they could explore how much she wanted him to make her plead, knowing he would relent only when he was certain she would come undone at the barest touch. For now, she needed them both to hear what they already knew.
“You.”
He crushed his lips against hers and slid two fingers into her. Ellana moaned against his lips , the sound turning into a whine as he broke the kiss to travel down her body once more. The hand in her hair released its grip to stroke down her sides, capturing her breast for him to kiss and suck and nip at, before continuing down the length of her torso. He continued to stroke the inside of her, slow and steady, and gripped her hip to hold her still as his lips sealed around her clit. A gasp flew from her throat and she fisted her hands in the comforter, desperate to find purchase. Solas hummed against her, and Ellana couldn’t tell if she was writhing toward or away from the vibration. Then she was lost to the sensation of his fingers and mouth, tongue dipping between her folds and lapping at the dripping mess between her legs and fingertips playing at her most sensitive places. It was not the rapid rise and retreat of their last joining, where he held her close to the edge but never let her fall. Rather it was slow and deliberate, the careful heating of a pot of water until somehow, suddenly, it’s boiling.
When Ellana came, she saw stars.
Somewhere behind a fog, she could hear Solas speaking to her gently. He continued to speak as the heat of him disappeared from between her legs, then reappeared beside her. Slowly, her senses returned to her. He was murmuring in elvish from where he lay next to her. Though the whole of the language was still lost to her, she could make out small phrases of encouragement and praise and wonder. And she did not need to understand the meaning to hear the affection and longing in the cadence of the words. Ellana turned her head to Solas, limbs still too heavy with pleasure and exhaustion to move, and gazed into his eyes. Their soft, purple-streaked gray was hidden behind his wide pupils, and they lit up at the sight of her. It nearly made her heart stop in her chest. She reached her hand to his cheek, cradling it in her palm. He didn’t move as she traced the deep-set lines with her thumb, only pressed a light kiss to it as it swiped over his lips. And that, that small, simple showing of affection, free from any doubt or restrain or fear, made her eyes begin to burn.
She rolled onto her side, and kissed him. The taste of her lingered on his tongue, warm and musky, and she wondered what he might taste like should she venture to try. His arms wrapped around her, sliding between her and the bed to pull her flush against him. She hooked her leg over his hip, vaguely aware that her thigh rested on bare skin, and shifted her fingers to lay against his jaw. They held each other for a while, content to let their kisses last and linger and hands stroke without any other purpose than to feel each others’ skin beneath their fingers. They’d done this before, had once spent so long wrapped in the feeling of holding and learning each other that Josephine had sent an unfortunate servant to seek them out before their absence became rumors visiting nobles could latch on to. But there were no nobles to offend here. No advisors needing their input or companions seeking their help. No apologetic servants attempting to avoid embarrassment. No concern or confusion about where their desire and want ended. No secrets or plans that could be disturbed if they let themselves go too far.
Ellana shifted her weight onto Solas and rolled him onto his back. Straddling his chest, she arched her back into their next kiss and trailed her fingers down his neck. She let her lips follow her fingers, pressing soft kisses to his throat and across his shoulders. As her hand moved down his chest, it stalled on the jagged, silvery line that ran between two of his ribs. It had healed well, this scar. Only slightly raised above the rest of his chest, and it did not pull or pucker on his skin. Her handiwork, in more ways than one. She had sealed the wound, yes. Miraculously kept his heart from tearing itself to shreds, from pumping all his blood outside his body in a desperate attempt to keep beating. But it had been her knife, her hand that had guided it home. And she’d had little faith in her ability to bring him back from the kind of damage she’d intended to inflict.
Solas’s warm hand grabbed her own, pulling it away from where it traced the echo of the wound, and pressed her palm against his lips. Whatever her actions had done, no matter how deeply they were imprinted on her soul or his, they did not change this. Not tonight. However they’d arrived, they were here, alive, with no desperate fight to tear them apart. This was theirs alone.
Ellana lifted onto her knees and leaned back, and Solas reached between them to assist her. She lowered herself onto him slowly, careful of her body’s need to adjust to each new inch entering her. When she bottomed out, she held still for a moment. It was to let them both acclimate to the sensation of him filling her, yes, but it was more than that. She needed to remember this, to savor it. To commit the image of him to memory, eyes blown and filled with love, splayed under her with his hands holding her hips, sweat glistening on his skin, and so, so beautiful. And then, only when she was certain whatever spirit combed her mind tonight would know the exact pattern of freckles on his skin, the precise way his eyes wrinkled with the hint of a smile, the way his fingers gripped her as though she might disappear if he let go, did she move.
She started out slowly, barely moving as she rocked back and forth in a shallow rhythm. Then Solas’s hands slid down to her hips, steadying them as her movements became longer, stronger. He rolled his own hips to match hers, and guided her own to grind down when they met. And then they were moving as one, as though they had done this a million times before and knew the precise way to pull a groan or whine from the other. He would buck his hips at just the right moment to hit the sweet spot inside her as he entered and she would clench as he slipped from her. Soon, all there was to know was the feeling of each other and the sound of their whispered names as they built towards their ends.
When it found them, it found them together. It stole their breaths, leaving them frozen in space for the eternal moments it took for their climaxes to reverberate throughout their bodies. Ellana collapsed on top of him, and used the last dregs of her energy to slide onto the bed, curling into his side and slotting her head into the curve of his neck. She pressed her lips to his skin, tasting the salt of his sweat, and whispered kisses into his shoulder. A gentle hand curled over her ear, pushing the hair that had fallen into her face behind it before coming to rest under her chin and angle it up for another kiss. He kissed her until she pulled back for air, then rested his forehead against hers. Their chests rose and fell together, waves of pleasure shaking them both until they calmed to quiet tremors.
They lay quietly together until the heat faded from their bodies. With a spell, Solas cleared the sweat and slick from their bodies, and in a shuffle of limbs, they wrestled the sheets over top of them. Ellana tangled her legs with Solas’s, and rested her hand atop his beating heart. He covered her hand with her own, holding it there.
“I missed you.” The whispered words slipped from her mouth, but they were not accusing. They held none of the pain of his disappearance and attempts to change the world. Instead, they were the words of a woman welcoming her lover home after a long absence, the bitter distance between them forgotten like the cold at the first signs of spring.
“ Ir abelas, ma vhenan .” She kissed him again. His words weren’t weighted with a lonely god’s guilt. For once, he was not apologizing for things which he had yet to do or that she did not know he had done. He was simply a man, returned home, sorry for having been gone. His other hand came to cradle the back of her head, fingers gently stroking her hair. Wrapped around Solas, the warmth of their bodies trapped between the sheets, her mind began to drift. Sleep was waiting, and would claim her if she let it. And this time, she would. This time she would gladly let the gentle beat of her vhenan’s heart lull her towards the fade and whatever dreams it held for them that night.
This time, she knew, he would be there when she woke.