Rated T, mention of fantasy racism against elves
Cassandra Pentaghast was a strong, tall vision of elegance in uniform. Of all in attendance at the Winter Palace from the Inquisition, she seemed to be the only one who knew how to carry herself in such clothing — she had had experience, after all, as Right Hand to the Divine. She knew how to be paraded about as an example of someone’s might. Justinia or the Herald? There was no difference.
In contrast, Solas was here as the elven serving man. What did he know of elegance and poise?
He pretended not to know during a stolen moment with her behind the curtain, near the garden windows. She held her breath as he tugged at her earlobe with worrying teeth.
“We should not be doing this,” she gasped. The press of her knee between his legs belied the warning in her words, as did the smile on her blushed face.
“Not now?” he asked, with all the gravity as one would have if asking about the weather. “Or not here? Or not at all?”
She hushed him with a sudden grasp at his lapel and a flash of her steely eyes — she raised a finger, her focus extending beyond the curtains they hid behind. Solas held his breath, listening for the footsteps that had drawn near to fade away.
“Too close,” Cassandra breathed.
Solas lowered his eyes to her mouth, then back up to meet her gaze. “Why? This is Orlais, Seeker. Of all places, this is the last you should fear judgement from should you be discovered fraternising with an elf.”
“You know I do not think of you that —”
He hushed her with a hurried kiss upon her scarred mouth. Her cheeks were flushed red when he pulled away, and her eyes sparkled.
“It matters not,” he chuckled. “I know you do not. But in Orlais, my pointed ears make me fit only for two things. Which shall it be tonight, Seeker?”
She struck him playfully on the shoulder, and her sound of disgust was one he would remember fondly. “I will not hear it. You speak so rudely.”
“It is Orlais,” he corrected, “which is rude. That is putting it lightly. But enough whispering in the dark — I wish to have you.”
The Seeker practically giggled — her grip on his jacket had rumpled it, and she caused even more damage when she slid her hand between his buttons and into the warmth just above his heart.
“I will not be had,” she drawled, pressing flush against him, “not against a windowsill, and not in these getups. Certainly not while you wear that terrible helmet.”
Solas hummed his dissatisfaction, and voiced it loud enough to court danger when she mouthed a line of kisses up his throat to his earlobe. She was usually so withdrawn and careful with her affection, shy, even — wine and frustration with their lot at court had broken down many of her reservations.
“But when we are done,” she whispered, her lips brushing their promise against his skin, “my room is past the Inquisitor’s, on the left.”
Solas chuckled. “Shall I bring flowers? Candles? Poetry?”
“You had better,” she scolded, then pushed him away.
