Solas has helped, all of his companions have - even those he is not particularly close to. He is always learning more, growing both by consciously pushing himself, and the gentle pushes from those around him that he has come to trust (or learned not to). Lasulahn never expected love to come out of the mess that had been the Conclave, but he would not have any of it any other way, at least not for himself.
"Should I not?" he asks with humour in his tone, laden a little with want, and the Inquisitor huffs a quiet laugh as they press close. "Too much politics," he muses. His lips trail the exposed length of the other's neck, until he is drawn back to kiss mouth to mouth. It feels surreal, to be able to be so close in this way. He has thought of it a few times, in private moments where the immediate presses of the Inquisition's needs have abated just enough to give him a moment to breathe. He has entertained the thought of Solas's hands on him, wanted for it. The other man's offer is a tempting one, and it makes it a little harder to keep his breath steady.
"Yes," he exhales softly, fingertips trailing down his front, catching just a little on the soft fabric of his tunic. (Drab, he remembers Dorian complaining, but Lasulahn likes the simplicity of it, the elegance of his form unhidden as he exercises his staffwork.) He loops his arms around Solas's shoulders then, pressing close but dipping his head to chase another kiss. He thinks that this would have been much more difficult for him a few months ago, that he would be too meek in his inexperience. He knows well Solas's hand in encouraging him, subtly and more directly, and he is grateful for it.
He sits back on his heels, knees to either side of one of Solas's thighs, and reaches to play his hands along the hem of the beige tunic. "I am yours," he promises.
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"Should I not?" he asks with humour in his tone, laden a little with want, and the Inquisitor huffs a quiet laugh as they press close. "Too much politics," he muses. His lips trail the exposed length of the other's neck, until he is drawn back to kiss mouth to mouth. It feels surreal, to be able to be so close in this way. He has thought of it a few times, in private moments where the immediate presses of the Inquisition's needs have abated just enough to give him a moment to breathe. He has entertained the thought of Solas's hands on him, wanted for it. The other man's offer is a tempting one, and it makes it a little harder to keep his breath steady.
"Yes," he exhales softly, fingertips trailing down his front, catching just a little on the soft fabric of his tunic. (Drab, he remembers Dorian complaining, but Lasulahn likes the simplicity of it, the elegance of his form unhidden as he exercises his staffwork.) He loops his arms around Solas's shoulders then, pressing close but dipping his head to chase another kiss. He thinks that this would have been much more difficult for him a few months ago, that he would be too meek in his inexperience. He knows well Solas's hand in encouraging him, subtly and more directly, and he is grateful for it.
He sits back on his heels, knees to either side of one of Solas's thighs, and reaches to play his hands along the hem of the beige tunic. "I am yours," he promises.