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The Inquisitor was so warm — a beacon of flame in an otherwise dreary, bone-cold night. The wind pressed through the seams of the tent. Rain pooled at the tie-points, just out of sight. Connor curled as small as such a large man could within the cage of Solas’s embrace.
“You can come closer,” he’d said, reminding Solas of the nights directly after his Tranquillity had broken. “If you like. If that’s alright.”
Of course, Solas always thought, but never said.
It was difficult being this close to anyone, much less Connor, in the waking world. There was so much to consider, so much that was too much or not enough compared to what Solas had once known. But holding Connor, skin to skin, within the confines of a shared bedroll, felt remarkably simple. It was simple to give him what he wanted, when it so closely matched what Solas felt no right to ask for.
In the past they had comforted one another — more often Connor needed it, like a torch needed oil. Solas had held him, smoothed back his hair, provided healing, kissed him, touched him… but only when Connor had asked. Only when Connor had felt safe enough to need it. But in this moment, with Solas’s nose tucked into the curve of Connor’s shoulder and his hips curved around his, Solas needed him so badly, but in ways he could not put into words.
But then Connor’s hand wound around his and slowly, tentatively, placed it between his legs.
Connor was wet — incredibly so — and he trembled at Solas’s exploring touch. He sighed, and out of instinct Solas’s hand slid over the Inquisitor’s mouth. The curve of his arm, where Connor’s head had laid, now pinned the man to Solas’s chest — he moaned through Solas’s fingers.
It became so simple to ignore the ache. The pining that had turned into need now dissolved, satisfied by this task to stroke pleasure into Connor’s core with his fingertips. He had no desire, no selfish inclination, no awareness of his own body, no —
Connor moved, grinding down on Solas’s hand, and his hip pressed to Solas’s groin. Solas smothered a desperate groan into the back of Connor’s neck.
Connor’s mouth slid from behind Solas’s suddenly slack hand, and the Inquisitor twisted in his arms.
Solas felt half mad with need.
Skin slipped against sticky skin. Without heed for where his hands had been, Solas buried them both into Connor’s rain-damp hair and kissed him, kissed him, until the taste of his tongue filled his mouth. When he tightened his fingers and pulled, he sipped Connor’s moans from his lips like liquor from a sugared rim.
Connor enveloped him — his broad arms tightened around his ribs and drew him close, his legs parted and allowed him closer, and Solas found himself kissing as much of Connor as he could reach. Connor pressed towards his kisses, curved towards his touch, and murmured sweet sounds at every press of Solas’s lips — how could he not consume him, when he so beautifully begged? It was only right to leave the marks of his teeth alongside each spray of freckles on his chest. On the curve of his bicep. On the rise of his breast.
Connor’s eager movements, his desperate bid to be as close as possible, pressed his core to Solas’s again and wrung another groan from Solas’s throat.
Solas drew back, afraid. His breath caught on the coattails of his own groan, as if he’d had no right to make such a sound. Connor’s light eyes caught his from beneath long lashes — the Inquisitor swallowed, as if steeling himself. He looked as if he waited for Solas to slap him.
“Ir abelas,” Solas muttered. He made to move away.
But Connor’s involuntary clutch at him, followed by a pathetic, reedy little gasp and sigh of resignation, gave him pause. At his hesitation, Connor’s hands trembled in the small of his back. His thighs, tight now around Solas’s, trembled too.
“You have need,” Solas realised slowly. He reached up to touch Connor’s lower lip, watching it part from the other in a sigh as he did.
Connor frowned and looked away. “So do you.”
Solas’s flush was so hot it burned. “I apologise. I should not have —”
“It’s fine,” Connor blurted. His hands came away from Solas’s back and covered his face, pausing to scrub embarrassment from his eyes. “If you don’t want —”
Solas’s guttural noise of dismay was sudden even to himself. He clasped Connor’s face, so near to him that he could kiss him. Connor’s thighs still trembled around his.
“I do, vhenan. I simply —”
They shifted — Connor’s warmth and pressure ground against Solas, and it did not matter if it was purposeful or an accident. Connor grasped at Solas again, as if desperate to hold him close. Solas’s words withered to nothing more than pitiful excuses.
Instead of giving them a voice, he slid his hand once more between them and pulled their clothes aside.
Solas had intended to make Connor come with his fingers, as he had done in times past — but Connor clutched him close, desperate to keep him chest to chest, nose to nose. Solas kissed him between ragged breaths, losing control with kiss after stolen kiss, and said, “Ir abelas — ir abelas —”
“Please, Solas,” Connor finally stammered. He pulled him closer, legs locked behind his, and nosed into the hollow of his throat with bashful desperation. “Please —”
Solas ached, nearly in pain with how badly he needed — the warmth and slick just beyond his fingers was nearly too much to resist even without Connor’s plaintive begging. He caught Connor’s chin with his free hand, his elbow digging into the dirt beside them.
His mouth locked onto the Inquisitor’s in a biting kiss. He allowed himself to press inside him to the hilt.
Connor breathed short, tight gasps into Solas’s slack mouth.
Solas let go. He let Connor’s thighs remain tight around his hips — he braced his hands on either side of Connor’s head and rocked forward, taking a slow, selfish first stroke. He gasped out the most shuddering of breaths at how good, how hot and wet and soft, the Inquisitor’s body was.
Connor let go of Solas’s waist and plunged his own hand into his hair — the other clapped over his mouth to smother his noise.
Solas leaned his forehead against Connor’s. He perceived him through a lens of focus as narrow as a pin — he tasted his mouth still on his tongue, he watched the flicker of his lashes, he felt the soft tilt of Connor’s body against his own as he moved. The larger man brought his knees closer towards his shoulders, only to lock Solas’s waist between his thighs — the new angle brought Solas closer, deeper. Their staggered breaths were humid between their mouths.
Solas reached for him with selfish intent, emerging from a haze of his own pleasure. He wanted Connor to feel the same sensations he did, to feel how good his body made him feel, and to envelop him with all that he could not say — he was mute but for the most carnal of words, whispered filthily beneath his breath. But by the way that Connor trembled and panted, moaning into the palm of his own hand, Solas knew he felt it. It wasn’t only Solas’s body bringing him closer to the cusp of coming — it was what little magic Solas could muster, tingling along the shared surface of their skin.
Solas often longed for a long-lost time, but felt the yearning even more keenly now. Connor deserved to be touched with all the attention and ability he had once had, unhindered by Veil or circumstance. But as it was, Solas had not so much been touched, much less been inside, someone for more years than could be counted. His focus was a fragile thing, and as Connor came close — clinging to him as if he wished to be inside his skin — Solas felt it slip.
Dread was an ice-plunge in his gut as his control unwound and slipped free. He tried to warn Connor, even pull away, but Connor was coming — he was a gasping mess beneath him, holding him as close as he could with strength Solas could not break.
He feared finishing. He feared taking pleasure from doing this. He feared using his body for anything but Connor’s pleasure — what worse proof was there of his own desire than to spend inside him?
Solas’s fingers slipped into Connor’s hair as he half-collapsed onto him. He could not escape the overwhelm that crested over him — it drowned him with crushing self-hatred. He could only stammer panicked half-word apologies into the curve of Connor’s neck, held hostage by his own body. To his mortification, he still moved within him, riding out the end of the pleasure that prickled through him despite his guilt.
“It’s — alright, it’s okay —”
Solas kissed away Connor’s words with sudden fervor, pressing them back onto his tongue. If only a pleading kiss alone was apology enough. Connor fucked up against him at the contact — not purposefully, but as if he couldn’t bear being anything but as close as was physically possible.
Tension slowly unwound. Connor’s body grew slack first, followed by Solas’s atop him. Sweat slicked where their skin touched, and Solas was unbearably hot — he kicked back the remaining part of the bedroll that still covered them.
Connor held on, unwilling to be parted even now.
“Ir abelas,” Solas finally managed, throat tight around a knot of apprehension. “I did not intend —”
Connor kissed him. Solas took to stroking his face — his cheeks, the marks of his Tranquil brand, his scars — and took a deep breath when Connor let him go.
“Do you feel better?”
Solas blinked. He stared back into Connor’s light eyes, which shone with sudden mirth.
“I — yes.”
Connor kissed the tip of his nose with a chuckle. “Good.”
They shifted and groaned, suddenly sore. Solas didn’t know what to do with his limbs. They eventually fell back together, reclothed, and Connor tucked his head beneath Solas’s chin — he was heavy atop Solas’s shoulder, but he didn’t mind.
“Thank you,” Connor said in his moment of bashful honesty before falling asleep, “for coming with me.”
"Ar lath ma," Solas sighed, pushing away the dregs of his guilt.
He nosed into Connor's hair and breathed him in. Only when the Inquisitor's soft sounds of contentment turned into those of sleep did Solas finally close his eyes.