gentleman, is she rly your wife if you don't kill her once?

Solas wouldn't trade her smile for anything in the world, even as she pretended she had no idea what he wanted. The way she purposefully remained misunderstanding... The shifting of weight on his lap, the hand not tangled through her dark tresses moved to trail down her midsection, fingers leaving her navel to run along the length of her thigh.

Ah, yes. Those pesky buttons. He crooned, untangling himself from her hair, so that he could undo the buttons in quick succession. One hand pressed against her inner thigh, while the other trailed a light touch along her spine.

She's spent so long imprisoned in two halves, he was expecting more anger. And yet... thusfar she has shown very little upset at her circumstances. Not that those circumstances were his fault, though. But everyone needed to be mad at someone; to blame someone for the bad moments of their lives. Otherwise the psyche could not withstand the realities being shown to it.

You've missed me. The way that he removes her dress is methodical; first the buttons, then inch by inch, he pulls it from her shoulders. The fabric pools at her hips, and Solas squeezed her leg, before pushing her upright, so that the dress might puddle at her feet.

His tongue traces over his bottom lip, and he makes a spinning motion with one hand, Slowly, I want to see you. She was, of course, perfection. She had never been anything but perfect.

Breathtaking. Perhaps I should gather a canvas and some paints... She was his favorite muse, his most desired model.