Work Text:
“Please desist your pacing,” Solas snaps when Dorian once more crosses the increasingly smaller length of their cell, the far wall oh so slowly moving closer.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I distracting you? We can’t all dream our way out of a problem. This helps me think. Or I don’t know, maybe you could try to use some of your godlike power and get us out of here,” Dorian snaps back, clearly not in the mood for Solas’ attitude.
“Pardon me?” Solas asks, uncertain if he’d heard right.
“You heard me correctly. I know who you are, Fen’Harel. Now if you would kindly—I don’t know what kind of power gods have—teleportation would be rather convenient at the moment, but I’m not feeling terribly picky as long as it gets us out of here.” Dorian meets the wall and turns again, freezing at the look on Solas’ face, pinned by those ancient eyes.
“How did you know?” Solas’ voice is soft, but holds an undercurrent of danger.
“Not even going to try to deny it? Pity, I was looking for a good word spar. I’ll have you know I come from a long line of Dreamers. I’m not one myself, mind you, but my talent allows me to see the truth in the Fade. You’ve always appeared to me as a wolf with far too many red eyes. I didn’t understand at first, not until I did some digging, but it was the only thing that made any sort of logical sense.”
“Who have you told?”
“If I say that I’ve told no one, will you kill me?” The flash of hurt that crosses Solas’ face disappears so fast that Dorian wonders if it was his imagination.
“Certainly not, but I would ask for your word that you will tell no one else.”
“You’d trust the word of a ‘Vint?”
“I’d trust the word of a man I’ve come to consider a friend.”
Dorian blinks, momentarily startled, not having realized that Solas saw him like that, as anything more than teammates or academic acquaintances. But he thinks to the long nights they’ve spent together discussing all manners of magical theory, history, or even current events. “Can you get us out of here?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it.”
Solas’ eyes flash as he grabs Dorian’s arm, and Dorian’s heart races as the world goes black, as he finds that he can’t draw breath, as he’s falling, unable to scream.
The world brightens around them and Dorian shouts as he falls, landing on top of an unconscious Solas. “Fasta vass,” Dorian swears viciously as he tries to get some bearing as to where they might be. While not a rogue, and having no skill in tracking or scouting, he’d spent more than enough time in the Hinterlands now to know his way around it rather well, and if he was correct, than that meant that there was an Inquisition camp nearby.
It takes some doing, but Dorian manages to haul Solas onto his shoulder. Luck is on Dorian’s side today because he’s correct, when he sees the camp in the distance, more than a little out of breath. The soldiers and scouts are instantly on guard but as soon as they realize that they’re members of the Inquisitor’s inner circle, they rush to help.
Night falls and Dorian begins to worry that Solas has still not woken. He sits watching over him well into the night, but he must have nodded off at some point as he awakes to someone leaning over him. The brush of lips against his is unexpected, and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s Solas. And when Solas deepens the kiss, Dorian opens to him with a moan. His neck protests the angle, but Dorian doesn’t really care right now, enjoying what is undoubtedly one of the best kisses he’s ever had. Being a god certainly has its perks.
Solas jerks back abruptly, moving to leave the tent, but Dorian catches his wrist.
“Stay.”
“You do not know what you’re asking.”
Dorian pulls Solas’ hand between his legs, letting him feel the bulge there. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea what I’m asking for.”
“You have no idea what you’ve awakened in me.”
“Scared?”
“You should be,” Solas all but snarls as he knots his fingers in Dorian’s hair and pulls him close again.
If Dorian had thought their first kiss had been intense, it had nothing on this. Solas all but devours him, kissing him like a starving man. And maybe he was, starved of affection, contact.
Solas wrenches away once more, and they’re both breathing hard. Dorian licks his lips, feeling how hot and swollen they are, a smirk rising as he notices the way Solas’ eyes follow the motion of it. Dorian blinks suddenly, rapidly, trying to clear his vision as the wolf that he sees in his dreams suddenly superimposes itself over Solas’ form.
Before Dorian can say anything Solas is out the tent, and with a huff Dorian follows.
They run until Dorian is out of breath, the camp and its fire far out of sight, and Dorian is well and truly disoriented, having lost sight of Solas. Dorian yelps as something slams into him, sending him sprawling. He sees the flash of familiar eyes as he tries to sit up, pushing at the bulk pinning his down, but Solas doesn’t bulge and he realizes with startled gasp that it’s fur, not cloth, beneath his fingers.
Dorian yelp as sharp teeth suddenly snap shut in front of him, tear at his borrowed nightclothes. “You could have just asked,” Dorian snaps. “How do you expect me explain this?”
Solas doesn’t answer though, long tongue tasting every inch of skin that he exposes, and Dorian hurriedly scrambles out of his hands before Solas destroys those too. He gasps when Solas’ tongue curls around his cock, and when he drops lower, nosing behind his balls, Dorian hooks his arms beneath his knees and holds himself open. Solas only gives him a cursory lick before he sits down on his heels.
“What are you waiting for, a written invitation?” Dorian snaps.
Still Solas doesn’t move, and Dorian scowls as he rolls onto his hands and knees, grumbling, “If I ever hear one ‘bitch’ joke from you, you will live to regret it.”
Solas wastes no time in covering Dorian’s back, his bulk easily dwarfing him. Dorian hisses as the pointed tip of Solas’ cock abruptly enters him, quickly followed by more and more as it grows thicker inside of him. It hurts, but only in the best possible way, having been far too long since he’s had a good fuck.
And what a good fuck Solas is indeed. His power is uncontained, Dorian’s finger digging into the dirt trying to prevent himself from being pushed forward from the strength of Solas’ thrusts. Solas fucks him like a man possessed, and maybe he is. Dorian wonders when the last time he had this was, the last time he could really let himself go.
Dorian does exactly that, lets himself go, pushing back to meet Solas’ frantic thrusts. Dorian can’t get enough of it, the weight of Solas above him, within him, the heavy press of his chest panting harshly against his back.
Solas freezes suddenly, his head raising as he howls, the sound ringing through Dorian, whose voice adds to the chorus as the base of Solas’ cock suddenly balloons within him, locking him in place. Dorian comes untouched, cock jerking as he paints the ground beneath him with cum. By the time he comes back down from the pleasurable high, Solas’ cock is still hard within him, still pumping him full.
As the seconds turn into minutes, the discomfort of this position begins to make itself known. “Not that I didn’t have a great time, but are you almost done?”
Solas huffs above him and then rolls them both onto their sides. It’s not the most comfortable position, but it’s better than before, and late as it is, sleepy and sated as he is, it doesn’t take long for Dorian to nod off.
When Dorian awakes again, it’s to a strange fullness in his belly and the sun rising through the trees, the world beginning to brighten around them. Dorian’s shocked to find that Solas is still wrapped around him, and wrinkles his nose in disgust as he slowly sits up, certain he must look quite a fright.
Solas props his head up, and gives him a look.
“May I help you?” Dorians eyes fall to the bulge of his stomach, and he rolls his eyes. “Proud of yourself, are you?”
“Quite,” Solas agrees with a smirk.
“Well that’s all well and good, but I’m certainly not returning to camp like this. Go find me something to clean up with before they discover we’re gone and send scouts out after us.”
Solas gives a mocking bow. “Oh, certainly my prince. Your wish is my command.”
Dorian lets out a surprised laugh, the words so very out of character, so light and teasing. He watches as Solas disappears into the trees, before sobering and wondering what the hell he thinks he’s doing here, how he expects this to go. He should cut his losses before it’s too late—he should—he should—he should grow a spine and stop acting the sniveling coward. He sneers at himself, tells himself not to ruin this. What is life without taking chances after all?