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Lathbora Viran

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Solas, sitting on the edge of her bed with his legs spread comfortably and his palms holding him up, tilts his head at her and smiles smugly. His grey eyes glint like they do during an argument  when he knows he’s right. She, standing a respectful distance from him, tries not to fidget under his hungry evaluation.

Just as she feels she can no longer handle the pressure of his gaze, Solas shifts forward. “Clothes, da’len,” he says. She complies, shedding her garments with fingers that shake more than they normally would, the task feeling unfamiliar when performed under Solas’s supervision. She sheepishly looks up to meet his eyes when she is done. He looks pleased. Her heart skips a beat and she can feel her cheeks burn.

“Very good,” he praises. “Now,” Solas pats the space beside him on the bed, “I will need you across my legs.” Lavellan submits almost reluctantly. This part is always the most awkward, and Solas is dragging it out tonight, basking in her strenuous submission. Solas hums as if unsatisfied before running a finger up her spine, which makes her twitch and gasp, and then rests his hand across the back of her neck. He leans in close, and whispers “relax, vhenan,” and withdraws his hand, stroking down her spine to rest in the crook of her back. The motion comforts her, reminds her she is in trusted company and that he is enjoying  her inner struggle, not mocking it. And she wants it, too-- needs it, perhaps. Earlier, when her station had begun to overwhelm her and she had sought Solas out for comfort, he had tentatively suggested this as a form of stress relief. She remembers with a kind of bewilderment his uncertainty at that time. Since then, his confidence in this area had emerged in full force, his expression today a perfect example of this.

“Now, da’len, I will need you to count my blows. Aloud, if you will,” Solas orders, his fingers suggestively trailing downward and circling back, making her almost ache for it.

“Yes, hahren,” she replies, hearing the strain in her own voice.

Her breath catches in her chest when she feels his hand withdraw from her. She tries not to tense again, but the anticipation makes it very difficult. It makes the silence and stillness before the first blow feel that much longer. And suddenly--

“One,” she gasps, her head jolting up and backward, her back arching. His hand lingers at her buttocks, holding in the heat and the sting of his first blow. It shocks her and soon melts into a strong heat that accumulates at his palm.  When she has relaxed enough, he hits her once again, measured and heavy. “Two,” she cries, voice wavering. He then changes his pace to deliver blows quickly and brutally.

She twitches and moans helplessly with each blow, her body warming all over and slowly relaxing. With each shift of her legs, she can feel the gathering slick between her legs. She worries, distantly, as if she has no real control over her body, that she will drip onto his breeches and it will stain. She worries (needlessly, she knows rationally) that it might offend him. Her mind feels foggy, hot between the ears. She realizes she has lowered her head and raised her hips without the intention to do so.

Suddenly, his hand is in her hair, and he firmly tugs her head back, forcing her to arch her back and shove her hips into his thigh. She gasps, the sudden break in the pace of his blows both clearing her mind and making her throb and grow wetter. She basks in the revelation this renewed closeness allows her-- she is now aware of his hardness, pressing against his breeches and now also against her hips, positioned against his inner thigh. Creators, he makes it hard to focus.

“Mind wandering, da’len?” he chides, his voice astonishingly calm and controlled. “The world will expect more of one such as you, and it follows that I should as well.” She realizes too late that she has lapsed in her counting for him. Where were they? Fifteen? Twenty? Humiliation wells in her chest. “Hahren-”

His other hand, which had previously steadied her hips across his lap, slips down to press a long finger against the slick between her legs. She cannot restrain a whimper, cannot keep from shifting her hips back into his hand. “Ah, I see,” he says teasingly, “this must the source of your distraction.”  Mercifully, he releases her head and spreads her open, rubbing gently at her clit and spreading her wetness up to it. When she begins to twitch, he moves from her clit to slide a finger into her. “We must start again. Can you take eighty?”

“Yes, Hahren,” she gasps, attempting to rock her hips back onto his finger. As soon as he seems to start to move his finger, he hits her mercilessly on the backside, immediately returning to his earlier relentless pace without the initial warm-up. She moans, shudders, and gasps through the remaining numbers. Around halfway through, her backside stings and throbs hotly. She nearly yelps with each blow. Solas’ fingers work mercilessly within her, infusing the pain with distinct and overwhelming pleasure. By the final third, she is limp and warm all over, with no strength left in her to react to each blow. She finishes once before he is finished, her legs twitching against his as he chuckles warmly at her.

For the final ten, he slows down his pace and stills his fingers within her. In the quiet tension before he hits her again, she is able to use the minor presence of mind her orgasm provided her to pay attention to his state. His breathing is heavy now and she can feel the his heat radiating off his body. When she glances back, she can see that the tips of his ears are pink. “Are you ready, vhenan?” he whispers, voice breathy and deeper than usual. She whispers back “yes,” and raises her hips for him obediently, relishing the quiet, muffled moan he lets out in response.

His next blows are with full force and they ruin her. She goes entirely limp across his lap and comes once more on a particularly ruthless impact, her full body shuddering before he pulls his fingers from her. She misses at least one or two numbers, but Solas seems too worked up to truly notice her lapse. Perhaps he interprets her strangled yelping moans as counting. He hits her more than the ten he promised. She does not mind, barely notices, her mind entirely subsumed by a pink fog of pleasure and relief, her chest heaving.

When her mind clears, they have shifted so that her head is resting in his lap, his hand stroking through her hair. She looks blearily up at him, finding him gazing down at her with an expression she cannot easily interpret-- tender and satisfied for certain, but… sad? Distant?--  his cheeks and ears still tinged with red. She raises a hand to cup his cheek and he closes his eyes and lets out a strangled breath. She is already feeling the effects of her relief, but Solas is still tense, his cheeks hot and his breathing heavy. A strong swell of love twists in her chest as she admires him, his long elegant features seeming terribly beautiful in the soft evening light. Lavellan drops her hand and shifts herself over, placing a hand on Solas’ inner thigh.

“I should show my thanks, shouldn’t I, hahren?” she says, doing her best to be both comforting and tempting, sliding her hand slowly up the inside of his thigh. For a moment, his eyes meet hers and, marvelously, she can see his pupils dilate slightly, feel the tremor that courses through him as if he was on the verge of snapping. But the moment her fingertips brush the bulge in his breeches, he breaks his gaze, pulls away from her, grabbing her wrists and gasping “No.”

She tries to swallow her feeling of pain, caused more by his distrusting reaction than his denial of her, but a tight feeling of anxiety remains in her chest. “I’m sorry,” she chokes out.

“No,” he says again, but his voice is tinged with an anxiety that mirrors her own, “it is no fault of yours, vhenan, it is… you are… you have already done enough for me.”  He gently releases her wrists.

“If that is what you wish,” she says quietly, her eyes dropping from his face and looking at nothing in particular. She feels the bed shift as he leaves it.

“Thank you, Inquisitor.  I hope this evening was as helpful for you as it was for me,” he says. She cannot look at him, wallowing in a minor level of despair. She has never felt this kind of connection with anyone and most of the time she thinks he feels the same, but it seems whenever he is about to trust her with a certain degree of vulnerability, he raises an impenetrable wall and quietly retreats before he reveals too much of himself. She wants to be patient, not to force her way in, but to be allowed in. To be trusted enough to be the confidant that he has been for her. Sometimes, however, it becomes so difficult to be patient and understanding. Guilt swirls in her chest with the deep longing she has for him, and it boils over into her throat.

“Solas,” she says, turning to look at him. He stops in his tracks on the way to her door and looks at her, surprised. “Thank you. I really mean it. This- You- It all means so much to me.” She can see his suppressed shock.

“To me as well ma vhenan,” he says quietly, meeting her eyes. She can tell he is being genuine now and it eases the ache in her chest.  “Goodnight,” he says, and lets himself out. She draws her covers around herself, wishing that he had stayed to hold her, but his absence does not sting so much as it might have done had she not spoken up.