fluffnstuff | Shipping Picture Prompts

Shipping Picture Prompts

the shipping picture prompt meme
SIMILAR TO THE PICTURE PROMPT MEME & THE SMUT PICTURE PROMPT MEME ONLY FOR SHIPPING.

i. COMMENT WITH CHARACTER
ii. OTHERS LEAVE A PICTURE (OR TWO OR THREE....)
iii. REPLY TO THEM WITH A SETTING BASED ON THE IMAGES.

THIS POST WILL BE IMAGE HEAVY.

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It comforts him to hear Solas say such things, and Lasulahn is not unaware that the other elf likely knows it, says it intentionally to soothe him. At the same time, he does not believe Solas would lie unnecessarily, to give praise, or even credit where it is not due. So he is calmed by the assertion, and he smiles in appreciation.

"Good," he murmurs with a content sort of tone. There have been many moments where he wishes, fleetingly, that the peace between them, around them in these private moments, could last forever. He knows it cannot, and he does not deny his duty, nor ever intend to eschew it. There is so much else that fills his days, so many worries and things that necessitate his action or decision, that it is rare he is able to think of the future, of what may come if he survives this ordeal. Still, in the times that he has, Lasulahn has considered Solas, has wondered if the man would still be at his side when Corypheus finally lay slain, and the sky was truly healed. He wonders if they might have a future together. Even with this sort of love between them, Solas had come from a life separate from the Inquisition, and could return to it in ways the Inquisitor could not go back to his own.

Privately, though, he hopes against his own better judgement.

Solas is warm and steadying against him, and he's glad for that. He's painfully aware of the red in his cheeks that has crept up from his neck and into his ears. He meets the other's gaze and wills his heart to calm itself.

A meek attempt at humour colours his tone. "I'm not so sure you'd say that, could you hear them," he admits, and the declaration does nothing to diminish the heat in his face. But if he's going to confess as much, he can at least act on it. He knows that his affections are not unwelcome, and so he kisses Solas now, lips parted and eyes falling closed. It's careful, an underlying desire spurring it, tangible but not overtly so.

He glances away when he pulls back, as if unsure if he should say more. With Solas, he thinks that the man knows well enough already.

Solas gives and offers advice that he himself might never be able to take, and he is aware of the hypocrisy of his actions. He offers things that he could not do, would never be able to survive, and expects to be listened to - he had learned from his mistakes, after all, and learned the heavy price that ought to be paid by those that are ignorant and too full of their own mind and power. He would not allow others to fall into the same traps, especially not those that he had come to care for so desperately.

Lasulahn is red, flushed with his thoughts and desires, and all it does is inspire gentleness and fondness in Solas himself. It has been a long time since he was around others and even longer since he sought the company of anyone in a way that might be more than simply intellectual - and, yet, here he is, completely enraptured with someone that should never have fallen into his path. He feels lucky and cursed in equal measure, unable to rationalise his wants and desires with what he knows ought to be. He should turn his back on Lasulahn, but he is entirely incapable, twisted and cuffed in a way that would shame him if he were not so content.

It will end, soon, and he will be forced to return to his own world and his own plans; he must seek happiness as much as he can until that day comes.

It does mean that he is softer and gentler with this man than he might be with others, and there's a fondness that overtakes him that cannot be ignored. He leans close, shifting to rest his forehead against the other man, closing his eyes and breathing him in for a moment, accepting that he is just as caught as the Inquisitor himself is. They are trapped together, and this is one demise that Solas does not wish to escape from.

"Perhaps you should voice them for me so that we might share in your desires." It comes out soft and a touch breathless, the idea of Lasulahn wanting something from him - something that might inspire red cheeks and a dash of discomfort - making his own skin warm with a quiet flush. He leans close, lips pressing against the other man's head gently.

"There is nothing to shame us here, together."

Lasulahn, for his part, has never experienced the intimate company of someone, despite reaching his twenty-fourth summer. Certainly he's had crushes; even as part of the Inquisition. (He keeps his early infatuation with Cullen close as a secret. Sera would never let him hear the end of it, and he wouldn't put it past Varric to end up in a story.) He thinks he's mentioned it at some point in their travels, to one of their companions in idle conversation, if not to Solas directly - but even if he hadn't, the elf is aware it must be obvious.

The Creators had seen fit to thrust upon him a great many new experiences these past months. Many were painful and trying, even overwhelming, but many were joyful and wondrous. The unexpected love that had blossomed for Solas made him happy in a way that he'd never really experienced, and it was something sorely needed now, more than ever. Perhaps it was the bitter with the sweet that made his feelings all the more poignant.

To Lasulahn, Solas is not trapped. He thinks the man has chosen to stay here of his own volition and good will, and several of his companions had marvelled in the same way. As Inquisitor, he tries not to consider himself trapped, but it is sometimes hard to do so, faced with the decisions of people he had nothing in common with, little knowledge of, who treated him based on his appearance, or his title, rather than who he was as a person. The Inquisitor makes a valiant effort to not consider himself trapped, because he would want to help regardless, but it's a bit difficult sometimes.

His eyes fall closed with a peaceful, quiet exhale as Solas rests their foreheads together, and he smiles briefly.

Nervousness flutters in his stomach at the suggestion that he should put voice to these inappropriate thoughts. Well, perhaps they weren't inappropriate, but they were more colourful than he'd be able to comfortably voice aloud. The press of lips against his forehead serve to ground him, at least a little.

"I was thinking I would like to lie with you," he says in a voice so quiet it was as though he were afraid the walls themselves could hear. He lifts his gaze uncertainly. "To be able to please you."

It has been a long time since he has been able to be comfortable around anyone - it has been a long time since he was able to allow himself to be relaxed and at ease. He does not allow it often, if only because it means that he can protect himself from the world around him. He had slept for so long and awoken to a world so desperately different from what he was used to... How could he not be on edge, on guard, prepared for the worst constantly? He had to act as though he was playing a game of chess and each movement was life or death.

Lasulahn made all of that so very difficult, however. He let his guard down more than he ought to and he allowed himself to be drawn into an intimacy he had never expected. It had come out of nowhere and had struck him right in his heart, leaving him shivering and uncertain, wondering about the desperation of his own emotional entanglements. All of this was meant to be easy, after all, and here he was making it all the more complicated again.

There is a chance that he might lose himself, somehow, but he is running the risk all the same. There is no one else that has made him feel this way, and no one that has inspired such desperation and such warm intent - Lasulahn has brought out a side of him that he had never imagined possible before, and he is sinking into it with ease. He wants, so much, and it's hard to regulate himself, hard to hold himself back and not dive into the deep end of his own passions, wants and desires.

His fingers brush over Lasulahn's cheek and he breathes out a soft noise, closing his eyes and embracing it for the moment.

"Then we shall learn to do so," Solas replies, finally, voice low and soft. He leans back, tilting his head to one side so that he can offer the other man a smile. He might be older and somewhat more experienced but that does not mean he is a master at this kind of artistry. He is still learning in his own way, and he hopes that he does not let that slip. Here he is meant to be the master, the one to guide and lead, and he cannot stumble now.

"Where would you like for us to begin?" He is soft, gentle and calm, fingers brushing gently. "I am at your mercy."

Somewhere within him, Lasulahn is aware that Solas affords him a vulnerability he does not show anyone else, and Lasulahn cherishes that. The Inquisitor is a man who wears his heart on his sleeve. He has learned, somewhat, to guard his intentions, but the role of Inquisitor has not changed who he is as a person. Not as it might some. He still feels deeply, cares deeply, loves deeply, and people know that.

Perhaps it is naivete, but Solas' guarded nature does raise any suspicions in his gentle lover. After all, Solas is an elf. Even if he scorns the Dalish and their ways, life for their people is not easy, Dalish or not. Lasulahn is used to being around those who only trust their own kind.

The touch against his cheek is a pleasant one, and he leans his cheek into it, nuzzling affectionately.

Being the Inquisitor has forced Lasulahn to be a bit more assertive, but to answer such a question so boldly, he's not sure he can. Still, he will try.

He swallows his insecurities and the nerves that flutter in his stomach and stay his fingertips. He turns, lifts onto his knees and rests one hand on Solas's shoulder to balance himself. He settles one knee between the other's thighs, and leans in.

"Tell me what you would have me do," he murmurs against his lips, voice soft. He follows the invitation with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his jawline, the sweetness of such brushes belying the passion, the want beneath them. He leans into Solas, just a little, and allows his free hand to drift down the side of his face, sweeping across temple and cheekbone, settling beneath his ear. "If you are at my mercy, let me please you. Ma ghilana, ma lath."

It has been obvious from the first day that he had joined the Inquisition that he would be under more suspicion than most; he was an elven apostate that had been away from current events for so long that he had a small grasp of what was going on. The fact that he had instantly been close to someone that was in charge of how things go in Thedas was more than enough to make him appear as a threat - all the others had more than a handful of credentials to their names.

Seeker. Circle Mage. Grey Warden. Qunari Spy.

Solas was not like them and, yet, Lasulahn embraced him all the same. He was welcomed into the fold, he was accepted, and he was proven to be an ally rather than a threat. He was accepted, because Lasulahn had trusted him and made it so. If it had been anyone else... Solas wonders if he would have been so cherished, so welcomed, so appreciated. It is unlikely, but it is his position as part of the Inquisition that has granted him so much of the knowledge and strengths that he has earned over the last few months and he would not trade that for anything.

The fact that he had somehow fallen in with Lasulahn like this... It was unexpected, but he could not find the will to complain or dismiss it. There's a soft warmth in his chest that betrays him; it means that the future is going to be even more dire for him and he is well aware of it. That is something that he is just going to have to accept; he set himself up for his own pain.

It's clear to him that he is pushing Lasulahn, too, and perhaps that is for the best. The Inquisitor is sweet and kind but he is also quiet and shy and he needs to become stronger, needs to feel as though he can speak his mind - to both his dearest friends and his worst enemies. It would not do for the leader of such a grand force to be unable to speak his mind nor express himself. It would be a failing, and Solas hopes that their shared, tender moments might help heal those.

"You should not answer a question with what appears to be a question," Solas teases, tilting his head to offer his skin for the other man to kiss and touch. His arm wraps around Lasulahn and draws him closer, adjusting the weight of their bodies so that he can lean close, pressing his own soft kisses against the other man's mouth. "What if I asked you to touch me, Lasulahn? And let me touch you in return?"

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.

"No. Some might think it rudeness, to question them when they are trying to guide you. Others might simply think you brainless." Solas, of course, knows both of those are untrue - Lasulahn would likely not be rude if he could help it and he had a far greater mind than anyone he had met had ever presented before. He was wise and brilliant like a beautiful storm and it was an echo of something incredible that he wanted to cherish, to watch to see it grow and become something all the more amazing as a result.

His love, his tenderness, his feelings, they were all built up to be something amazing. They burn inside of him like veilfire, something unnatural and amazing and beyond the credibility of man. He had not imagined love like this - a tenderness, a warmth, that belayed all the intent and instruction he had given himself before taking part in the foundations of the Inquisition. He was not meant for this sort of feeling, this sort of intensity and greatness, and yet here he lay, desperate for it, wanting to accept it even though he knows it will hurt less if he doesn't.

Reaching out to touch, to taste, to tease... It feels immoral and wrong, considering the nature of his life and position. May the Dread Wolf take you so many said and yet... Perhaps he shall be the one taken. He is caught in Lasulahn's trap, rather than his own, like a wolf with it's hind legs twisted up in metal, and there's no escape for him. He will continue to be captivated, to be torn, to be broken and bruised in the most intimate of ways because there is no other option for him, no other escape, nothing but his own want and desire overpowering the knowledge of what he must do.

Straddled, now, Solas watches Lasulahn with lidded eyes, his intent unavoidable. Hands move along his tunic, against his body, and a soft flush colours his skin - desire and a new kind of shyness all rolled into one. Oh, Solas knows he has experience, enough to measure against Lasulahn's lack, but this is still new to him, a new kind of intimacy that he never wishes to flee from. His hand moves, covering the other man's, and he nods, once.

"As I am yours, vhenan. Please, continue."

Do as you like, he thinks. Own me.

Lasulahn hums idly at that thought, a dry sort of humour colouring his tone. "That would not be so different from usual," he muses, and though it is a jest, there is truth behind it that they both know. Humans have disdain for their kind, and though that perception has shifted for some with a knife ear at the head of their religious army, for many it has not.

But enough of that. They, both of them, deal with prejudice enough in the day to day. Lasulahn is grateful that he has these moments away from all of that, stolen whether or not he deserves them, whether others think he deserves them. Solas knew so much, shared his knowledge freely and, in moments like this, more of himself than he shares with anyone else. It is special, more than Lasulahn could ever put into words.

He bites at his own lower lip, an idle sort of fidget that betrays his inexperience, the undercurrent of nervousness that runs along excitement and he is unsure where one begins and the other ends.

A breath drawn in, shaking but meant to be steadying, and he leans suddenly forward. He captures Solas's mouth with his own, lips parted and inviting. He hasn't the experience to lead, not really, his only guide the whispered words of other conversations, and silly romance novels. But there is passion, the desire to please. His hand draws beneath the soft, plain fabric of his shirt, and fingertips brush the bare skin of his side. The touch is light, tentative, like a woodland creature ready to dart at the first sound. Slowly, he grows a bit more bold. The caress becomes firmer, palm against warm skin, and he holds himself closer as they kiss.

"You are proving them wrong, with constant determination." One of Lasulahn's most admirable traits, in Solas' opinion. It seems as though no matter how hard he fights, no matter how hard he pushes, he will always have naysayers that consider him weak or useless. The fact is, however, that the Inquisitor shows a determination and a kindness that fights back against all of those things, to never let anyone get the best of him. It is inspirational, in a way, and Solas appreciates it for all that it is worth.

The two of them can understand each other on some levels, but Solas knows that he is also beyond anything that Lasulahn could possibly imagine. Solas has thoughts and dreams that go beyond thought and dreams and transcend to a realm beyond the histories of man, and he hopes to keep that from the Inquisitor for as long as possible. He cannot bring him down to this level, and he must keep his strength held close to his chest. No one must know, and he must keep it that way, despite how all his walls falter and fall when he spends more and more time with the man in his arms.

He is distracted, of course, by teeth on lip, and he feels a flush colour his cheeks. If Lasulahn knew how devastatingly attractive he was, how distracting he was, how constantly Solas is drawn to him like a moth to a flame... The power he would have would be overwhelming. It is good, then, that he is a little naive, that he does not quite understand his own power over Solas himself. It makes some things easier.

Leaning into the kiss is easy, but Solas is gently startled by the hand that explores his chest. He had urged the other man on, however, so he cannot complain too much - or at all, if he is being frank and honest. He leans into the familiar press of mouth on mouth, a softness that he can't deny, and there's a warmth that floods him before he tilts his head. His own fingers move to brush gently against Lasulahn's cheek, to draw him closer, to bask in his boldness by asking more of his kisses. Solas wants this - more, too - and he is willing to urge and lead to get what he desires.

As though Lasulahn would ever take advantage of such a thing, to lord some power over another— especially one so precious to him as Solas. There were nobles he could exert the Inquisition's reach over, because it was required, because they expected it to negotiate. Posturing was necessary. But he could not, would never, treat Solas as though he were anything other than precious and dear, a man to be loved and respected, almost revered.

Not that he would likely ever truly believe his looks or his person alone could have any sort of true sway over someone.

He hums a soft, content noise into their press of mouths, smiling against the kiss despite the nerves fluttering beneath his skin. His fingers skate across skin lightly, caressing and memorising the lines of his body. He turns his head, brushing kisses across his fingers and then the corner of his mouth, his lips, tongue running across tentatively. His palm runs flat along his stomach, up and across his chest, and Lasulahn wonders if Solas might grow tired of his curiosity, the time he's taking, and yet the idea of pressing further— he wants it, knows he does, but that desire tangles with the worry he'll do something wrong in his inexperience, and stays his hand.

The kisses, at least, are comfortable, something he can anchor himself in for a time. It is easier to be bolder in that, lips parted invitingly.

Finally he draws just far enough away to speak.

"Would you mind leading?" he asks, voice barely a murmur. "You can tell me what to do if you'd rather just—" he huffs out a soft laugh, self-deprecating to belay his nervousness, and nuzzles against Solas's cheek, kisses along the shell of his ear instead.

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