#* ellana lavellan — memories.

[starwrittenfates]

@venatcri said: "all that is gold does not glitter." @ Ethyral

Despite not only regaining her memories of what happened during the conclave, but also her memories of her previous life in Elvhenan before being reborn, the elven mage had come to consider herself of both worlds. Yes, she was an Evanuris, but she was also a Dalish Elf, just as she was both Ethyral and Ellana. It didn't change the fact she was still the same person, just now more awake than ever before.

And yet, looking upon the Tevinter mage, the Inquisitor couldn't help but wonder if she had caught onto her secret. She had not told anyone else about recovering her memories except for Solas and Cole. It was no Dalish or Elven phrase. "I'm going to take a wild guess here and say you're referring to the fact that despite appearances, it's the soul of a person that truly counts. That there is a gold to them you can't see. Is that right?"

[fadedreamed]

TAG DUMP — ELLANA.

[fatale-distraction]

Congrats on the first draft! Very excited to see it ehehe :3

How about Solas x Lavellan x Krem with 'I never knew my killer would be coming from within' from the florence & the machine prompts :D

Thanks so much for sending this! Here’s some PolyPain™️! :D

Rating: YA (non-explicit sexual encounter allusion and blood)

I Never Knew My Killer Would Be Coming From Within

“Solas, you can’t do this.”

Blood dripped from a slash across Krem’s forehead and he leaned heavily against his maul. His breastplate had been caved in from a brutal blow on one side and pressed painfully into his ribs. Behind him stood Ellana; bow drawn back fully, the aiming mechanism on her prosthetic left arm trained unerringly on the man in front of them. Tears left pale tracks in the dirt and ash caked so thickly on her cheeks, her bright purple vallaslin were scarcely visible.

”On the contrary,” the Dread Wolf countered, clutching his side, a glowing blue dagger dangling from his fingers. His voice was ragged and broken, and he could barely hold himself up. “I can, and I will. I must.”

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Vhenan,” Ellana said, the quaver of her voice belying her steady aim. “It’s not too late. We can find another way…”—

“The Veil will come down regardless, Ellana,” he interrupted, voice rising. “It is already weakened beyond repair. This way…this way, at least I can mitigate some of the destruction. Please try to understand.” He put his hand out toward her and Krem put himself between them.

“Stay where you are,” the man said with a weak growl, raising his weapon defensively.

The Dread Wolf’s face fell. His hand dropped to his side and his knees buckled but held.

“Do you truly think I would hurt her?” He choked. “That I would do anything to harm either of you?”

Krem held his ground and set his jaw. “You already did.”

The other man’s eyebrows turned upward and he shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something and shut it again. Memories swam behind his eyes.

Ellana thundering through the woods on her hart, long hair streaming behind her like a red banner. Cremisius fearlessly shouldering through a crowd of Venatori, sending them flying with expert swings of his war hammer. The pair of them laughing over some secret little joke, sewing together with the mending strewn over their laps. Bedsheets tangled around three pairs of legs, gentle moans and whispers in the early morning when the mist still hung heavy over the mountains.

“I never wanted to,” he whispered tearfully.

Dividers from @saradika-graphics please credit if used.

I am still accepting prompts, so readers, please feel free to check here for guidelines and send more in!

Now available on AO3 as Chapter 4 of my Pre-Veilguard-release collection: More Like Elgar’NAH!

[dragon--sage]

bloody work

(a hit of post-trespasser solavellan angst, aka an excerpt from a longer fic i may never post, but was making me feel some sort of way today)

Watching Solas perform such intimate motions—the healing, tying her cloak—was almost too painful for Ellana to bear. Especially when these actions were juxtaposed with the intellegence the shadow Inquisition had pieced together—meticulously, obsessively—over the years. Death before capture (wicked green pills, cult-like devotion), a group of corpses leaking blood from their ears (people who had been killed in their sleep), a foiled plan to annihilate an entire city full of people (just to further enflame the political unrest between nations, like Thedas needed any help in that regard)… It seemed no act of bloodshed or sacrifice was too far for him (the memory of his and Iron Bull’s chess game washed over her… the way Solas had sacrificed his pieces like he had a hundred of each… leaving a lone Mage to finish the bloody work). “You look tired,” Ellana said sadly, her voice catching in her dry bone-dry throat. The smell of blood hung in the air, so thick the taste coated her mouth.

She could see plainly on Solas' face that he wanted to respond—she’d seen that look a thousand times, would know it anywhere—but he said nothing in return. Lavellan wondered what he would have said, and added that to the untold number of burning questions she had wanted to ask him over the years. After a few more seconds, during which an eternity seemed to pass, Solas stepped forward, well into her personal space… one small lurch forward and their chests would be touching. Ellana's heart was pounding so loudly in her ears she couldn’t focus on anything else. He leaned down and brought his lips to hover just a hairsbreadth from her own, his warm breath ghosting over her face and triggering a thousand different memories of them being in precisely this position, an eerie moment of calm in the eye of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. “Ir abelas, vhenan,” Solas whispered against her lips, before pressing in for a heated kiss which quickly had their lips, tongues, and teeth clashing. His hand slipped into her hair, which had tumbled free of its bun in the fight, and she bent against him, trying to close as much distance between their bodies as possible. Lavellan kissed him like he had first kissed her, all those years ago—desperately and touch-starved, like every moment they weren’t in contact caused her physical pain. And then, suddenly, her head spun uncomfortably, as the pressure of Solas’ lips and body against her vanished. When Ellana opened her eyes not a second later, he was gone.

[thechildofbhaalhasawoken]

It was @sweetjulieapples who requested a headcanon-y thing about Commander Cullen first meeting our Inquisitor-to-be. Thank you for the request! It turned into this thing below.

I never thought of it as love at first sight, even though it is more or less canon that he could not get his eyes off of her when they first met. I like to think love - their love, especially - as something more than just physical lust.

Cullen POV of some (initial) moments of DA:I. Also fleshing out my Lavellan a bit.

You can also read this on Ao3 but it's her in its entirety too.

First looks

The first time Commander Cullen saw her, she was unconscious - apparently in a coma. He was furious. How was it possible that in the middle of all the destruction, death, fire, the scorched bodies, lied a perfectly untouched woman? It was like she was dropped from the Heavens after the explosion - her golden hair, her smooth skin, her plump lips slightly parted, her clothes blackened with soot only by the soldiers who found her. Her lean frame, with long dangling limbs, was carried away by the soldiers from what used to be the Temple of Sacred Ashes, leaving the Commander angry and baffled. How was she the only one alive? Was she to blame? The delicate tattoo on her brow and forehead and her attire suggested she was Dalish. Why would a Dalish Elf do this? How was a Dalish elf even capable of this? How was anyone? The answer to the question had to be in the green glowing mark on her left hand, flashing in the same pattern with the nightmarish breach in the sky.

The second time Commander Cullen saw her, she was still in a coma. He had spent an exhausting day and night fighting demons dropping from the holes in the sky and securing some kind of safe spaces for who ever was still alive. Leliana told him of the apostate elf who seemed to be able to stabilise the mystery woman and the mark on her hand. Cullen came to see him, and her. She was in a jail cell, as Cassandra had insisted, and he was there to monitor her. Solas, the apostate had introduced himself. Cullen had nodded at him, but kept his eyes on her. Fluttering eyelashes, sharp nose and proud tattooed forehead in the middle of disheveled strands of long hair. The Commander wondered darkly who she was. She was younger than him by several years, he estimated, but guessing women’s age was always difficult if not dangerous. She was of athletic, lithe build, which then again was nothing unusual for a nomadic Dalish elf. Was she a mage? Her attire suggested otherwise. No one alive seemed to know her or how she connected to the Conclave. Solas had no answers either, only that she might wake within the next day.

A plan was hatched. Solas was certain the mark was connected to the Breach. If it had ripped the Veil between the Fade and the waking world, could it be used to mend it as well? Cassandra would question the prisoner once she woke, and they would test Solas’s theory one way or another. Cassandra’s jaw clenched angrily, and Cullen felt she wished she could use some force just to douse her grief. Cullen left them to wait and busied himself with organising first aid, arming soldiers against the demons scouring the area and setting up forward camps with Leliana.

The third time he saw her, he had already received news from Cassandra brought in by a messenger bird.

The prisoner woke up today, as expected. She claims she has no memory of what happened at the Conclave, nor does she know what the mark on her hand is. She says her name is Ellana of the Dalish clan Lavellan, from the Free Marches. She says her Keeper sent her to the Conclave because her clan recognises that whatever happens here would have consequences for everyone. I asked why they would send her in particular. She explained that she has had training for both hunting and scouting but has turned into something of a liason between her clan and outsiders, apparently due to her language skills and innate curiosity. The prisoner said she was happy to leave the clan to experience and learn new things, but she claims to be shocked and saddened by what has happened. She is in good enough condition to walk on her own. I will take her, meet with the apostate mage Solas, and test our plan. If it works, we will meet you at the forward camp, if not earlier.

C.P.

Another one of the rifts on the path to the Temple was active again, and once again The Commander fought demons with his weary men. This time, however, he noticed from the corner of his eye that they received backup. Cassandra’s unmistakeble form was accompanied by Varric and his eccentric crossbow, the apostate mage Solas with his staff and a fourth figure wielding a sword who he recognised with a jolt as the prisoner, Lavellan. He had no time to dwell on their backup, however, but defend himself and his archers against a rage demon.

Once the last of the demons of the wave were banished, the field was suddenly ablaze with green energy that rang in the Commander’s ears. He saw from afar that it was the prisoner Lavellan who stood with her feet wide apart, her long golden hair blazing around her, holding a short sword in her right hand and her left arm extended at the rift. A beam of magical energy traversed between her hand and the rift that then suddenly closed and vanished entirely.

The elven woman, who had for a moment looked like a fantastical being from myths, faltered and stumbled as if the energy beam had held her upright. She then wearily sheathed her sword and held her glowing left hand with a grimace.

As Solas and Varric approached Lavellan, Cullen walked towards Cassandra, who was closest to him. The Seeker met him as she also sheathed her sword.

”Lady Cassandra,” the Commander greeted her, ”you managed to close the rift, well done.”

”Do not congratulate me, Commander,” the Seeker replied and took a step aside to give him full view of the woman behind her. ”This is the prisoner’s doing.”

Cullen stopped in his tracks - Cassandra sounded impressed, not near-homicidal like she had been before the prisoner had woken up. He took a good look at the elven woman - it was strange to see her up and about now after only seeing her unconcious so far. Of course it made sense that there was a difference now that she was fully in control of herself - save for the evidently distressing mark on her hand. When she was unconcious, you could project anything you wanted on her. Perhaps she was an enemy agent, or a disguised blood mage, full of spite and evil intentions. Or perhaps she was an innocent victim, her young flawless skin and golden locks of hair around her symmetrical face making her look like a drawing of a virtuous princess from a children’s book, waiting for a prince to wake her with a kiss. It turned out, now that she stood in front of him, she was neither. How she carried herself with self-assurance, how her subtle moves spoke to his practiced eye of physical training and prowess, what an intelligent, discerning look she had in her blue eyes - why did he even remark on the colour of her eyes? - how she bit her teeth together to keep the pain from her hand showing. Who is she, he found himself wondering again.

”Is it? I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here,” he barked at the woman, surprised to hear the hostility now in his own voice instead of Cassandra’s.

”You’re not the only one hoping that,” the elf replied, her voice a tad deeper than he had expected. Perhaps not as young as he had thought at first.

”We’ll see soon enough, won’t we.”

He turned to negotiate their next moves with Cassandra, and soon the Seeker was off with her unlikely companions.

*

He had seen from afar her settle the Breach above the ruined Temple of Sacred Ashes. He had seen what dozens of others saw, and he understood how the tide turned for Lavellan. He himself had recited a small prayer to Andraste under his breath watching her brace her entire body against the rift and calm the Breach in the sky. It was hard not to give into the surge of fanatical hope that spread like wildfire and took over their encampment at Haven. It did not help that, once again, Lavellan spent days unconscious, garnering praying villagers and even pilgrims from nearby settlements outside the small house where Solas and Adaan looked after her.

Three days and three nights passed. Cullen was surprised to notice that he received a handful recruits during those days. Some came to pray at the door of the Herald of Andraste, others came to fight for her. He was kept very busy during those days by organising what was left of his men, and assigning the new recruits to be trained. The barracks were to be arranged, guard duties and training rounds to be organised, endless correspondence to deal with, not to mention dodging the Chantry officials who had marched in like they owned the place. Luckily the left and right hands of Divine Justinia put the Chantry officials into their place rather quickly.

On the fourth morning Cullen noticed an unusual amount of whispers and nervous fidgeting in and around the Chantry of Haven. Leliana confirmed his suspicions to him: Lavellan, or The Herald of Andraste, as the people called her, had finally awoken.

They had agreed that Cassandra as a familiar face would be the first to meet Lavellan, and then bring her into their War Room. He was pleased to concentrate on his work during the morning even though whole of Haven seemed to be buzzing with excitement. Cassandra had been buzzing for the past few days too. Cullen knew she was eager to slam the tome on the War Table and make the official announcement. It did not matter much to him; she had recruited him for the Inquisition many weeks ago in Kirkwall and he was already committed.

A couple of hours later Josephine dragged him away from his work. It was time for proper introductions, she said.

Cullen was the last to arrive to the War Room only moments before Cassandra marched in with Lavellan in tow. After three days of unconciousness, the elf looked like she had bathed in the morning after Adaan had checked in with her. She was clean and tidy with her long hair in an elaborate chignon bun, and even if she seemed a little weary, her eyes were bright and her voice warm and gentle. ”Pleased to meet you all,” Lavellan said after formal introductions, and seemed to actually mean it.

As they had been waiting for Lavellan to wake up for days, they dived quickly into what choices they had going forward. They had had time to plan and discuss, but the Herald’s face showed bewilderment. Despite that, Cullen was impressed with how she did not question her part in this, how readily she offered her help, how earnest her questions and comments were. She may have seemed a little cold and haughty the first time he had met her, but he had to remind himself that she had no memory of what had happened but she had been blamed, imprisoned, and dragged forcefully to solve a situation she did not understand. Cullen wondered if he would have been able to take it all in stride as well as she did. He knew the answer, and decided to make her work of carrying the mark and the title of Herald of Andraste as easy as possible with his work.

*

Makeshift tables, tents in the courtyard, winches first lifting rubble away, then lifting furniture in place. The first traveling merchant arrived to Skyhold with the second wave of pilgrims, next came the first donations from noble families both from Ferelden and Orlais. Grain and other food, cloth and leather, weapons, art, gold, other supplies, even furniture and skilled people were sent to them.

Locals who knew the area helped the scouts get to know the surroundings. Hunters provided meat and fish, the mages worked as healers and researchers, all able bodied lent their strength to clean and renovate. Youngsters from all around trekked through the mountain pass to join the Inquisition - they were Ferelden, Orlesian, Nevarran, human, dwarven, elven, all kinds.

They came because of her. They came because someone had met her, had been helped by her, had been touched by her, and that someone had told their family, their village, their merchant, their traveling bard. The near mythical story of The Herald of Andraste spread, and it was amazing how quickly the people made the decision to pick up their things and come to Skyhold.

Commander Cullen stood on the ramparts looking down at the courtyard. Moving through the people below the Herald had caught his eye. He watched how she smiled at them, greeted them, asked how their sick mother was, if they had found a place to stay in. She cared for them, and she cared for their cause.

Something stirred inside of him as he followed her form with his eyes. She was wearing a white linen tunic underneath a long leather vest, her long hair open, flowing around her, her earnest smile meeting people readily. She had smiled at him, too. She had been happy that he - that so many - had escaped Haven with their lives. She had been happy he had made it. He had been devasted by having to send her to her death in Haven. And then she had miraculously survived and somehow revived him from withdrawal-muddled darkness by fluttering those frosted eyelashes at him as he had carried her to safety on the mountainside. Maker’s breath. Those eyelashes. And those bright eyes, that earnest smile. The kindness and courage she inspired people with. The way she had smiled at him. Something was stirring inside of him.

[urrone]

first line meme

Rules: post the first sentence of your last ten fics. If you haven’t written ten fics, share as many first sentences as you have.

Tagged by the wonderful @swaps55

Tagging @mallaidhsomo @screwyouflightlieutenant

1. beyond heroes - The beginning is just an excuse for some fluffy Inquisitor Lavellan/Varric bedside chitchat.

Fallwyn slicks poison along her blades and moves to what she hopes is Corypheus’s blindside to jab her very pointy daggers into his back.

2. in the deep dark - There are gonna be three versions of Lavellan/Varric on this list and I make no apologies.

In the dim torchlight, she can just see Varric’s outline where he’s sitting up in his bedroll. He’d drawn first watch but Fallwyn knows that’s not the only reason he isn’t sleeping.

3. the dragon and the bard - The first line of this is literally a prompt from a list so I’m sharing the first line that I wrote of it. Varric/Cassandra.

If Varric weren’t the kind of dwarf to pick at the edges of things, he might have taken caution at how quickly the laughter in Cassandra’s eyes sharpened into brittle disdain. But if he’s ever met caution, she’s never bought him a drink.

4. A Better Forever - My ode to The Hunger Games. @swaps55 gave the pairing the nickname KatPee and somehow that hasn’t ruined it for me, haha.

Bright, shiny demons creep on the edge of his vision, becoming memories he’s absolutely certain of in that moment: Katniss in the arena killing Rue, Katniss orchestrating the attack on 12 that took his family,   Katniss as a mutt, Katniss kneeling before Snow.

5. warm hands, soft heart - The promised third Lavellan/Varric fic. I love this pairing so much. Again, this first line was a prompt so I’m sharing the second line too.

“You always do this. You always try to warm me up.”

Varric pulls Fallwyn closer to the fire, chafing her hands between his own. “Can I help it if looking at you makes me feel cold?”

6. gravity - A Julie and the Phantoms fic, because I watched that show a million times during quarantine and I wanted something resembling a happy ending, but not without a lot of angst first.

It’s been a lot of trial and error, but Julie’s phantoms have started to respect boundaries. Their problem is identifying exactly where those boundaries are.

7. Scenes From a Cargo Bay - Y’all I fucking love James Vega. This is basically just platonic friendship fic and it fills me with joy.

The first time Shepard comes down to the cargo bay, she still has soot streaked across her face.

8. invisible machinery - apparently I’m the queen of first line prompt memes and this was another one, so again you get the second line too.

"I just want to see you smile again,” Kaidan says.

Shepard turns into the wind off the bay and gives this half-smile, this quirk of his lips that he’s been doing ever since Chakwas okayed his release from the hospital.

9. let me hold you for a while - ANOTHER first line prompt meme, lmaoooo.

“Let me hold you for a while.”

Dorian huffs a little against Bull’s chest, placing his limbs just so and tugging on Bull’s arms until they’re just exactly where he wants them.

10. lathbora viran - A fic that celebrates how much I hate Solas while also fulfilling a “fuck a last kiss” prompt from tumblr.

“You can’t do this, Solas,” Ellana says. The wind on the ramparts steals her words almost as soon as she says them, but she knows Solas understands her. “What will happen to me?”

[spiretdoom]

14 Days of DA Lovers - Frilly Cakes

For prompt 2 of @14daysdalovers Not sure how many more of these I'll do but whipped this one out for funsies~

Pairing: Blackwall x Lavellan

Rating: T

Word Count: 460

“I brought you a treat,” Ellana informed sweetly, raising the frilly cake in her hand higher to emphasize. 

“Oh,” Blackwall expressed surprise, pale eyes darting to the cake as his cheeks turned rosy. “I-“

“Since you’ve been residing down here, I thought I’d bring you something,” she continued, smiling as she extended her arm to encourage the man to take the sweet. 

He did so hesitantly, plucking the sweet roll from her fingers with a delicate touch and holding it as if it was a treasure while he responded with a quiet yet gruffly, “Thank you, My Lady.”

A blush rose to her freckled cheeks, her soft smile never fading from her lips, and she took a bite of her own frilly cake she’d brought for herself to enjoy with him. He watched her take the bite before following her lead, careful of the frosting and his facial hair as he took a chunk of the cake. 

“Anything new to report?” she questioned him, returning back to formalities despite the two enjoying frilly cakes together. 

Blackwall smiled, a chuckle rumbling from his throat while he went through his recent memory. “Nine different ladies and six gentlemen have asked Cullen to dance. I think he’s received two offers of marriage,” he answered her, a smirk rising on the left side of his face causing it to crease. “I think he might need a bodyguard.”

Ellana laughed, Blackwall finding the sound pleasant to his ears as it echoed in the relatively empty room. 

He finished the rest of the frilly cake whilst he watched her, his previous caution towards the sweet forgotten whilst he watched her. His focus left him unaware of the icing that now stained his mustache, Ellana’s laughter dulling to chuckling as she refocused on his features. 

She quickly noticed the white contrast on his dark hair, tilting her head for a moment before speaking. 

“You have something-“ 

She reached forward, moving closer to him for a better eye while she brushed her thumb against his mustache to rid it of the stray frosting that had attached to the coarse hair. Blackwall stood stiff, feeling his chest flutter at her touch and his cheeks grew redder. 

“There,” she declared when she’d deemed the frosting gone, smiling and lifting her eyes to meet his. There was a pause in her movements when their eyes locked, as if she realized how close they’d gotten to one another in that instant. The moment was brief before she smiled again, lowering her hand to settle on his chest where her fingers curled slightly to press into the fabric. 

“Will you save a dance for me?” She asked softly, just above a whisper for only his ears to hear. 

“All of them,” he promised. 

[tsuraiwrites]

✨weekly(ish) fic roundup✨

another round of fics I found especially good reads, as @little--abyss​ and I were talking about secondary curation recently! please check these out and leave a comment and kudos for the wonderful authors.

Assassin’s Creed

The White Aster of Masyaf - alaïr ibn-la’ahad/desmond miles, nsfw complete

And, instead of dying after using the device back in the Grand Temple, Desmond now had first-row seat in the tragic play that was Altaïr’s life in the Levantine Brotherhood.

Oh. And he gets to play the part of the doomed younger brother of Malik Al-Sayf, Kadar Al-Sayf.

BNHA

Oracle - midoriya izuku/shinsou hitoshi wip

Midoriya Izuku always wanted to have a quirk, to be a hero, to make a change.

Until he realizes he did do all that once, a lifetime ago, and paid for it with his life.

(In which Izuku's quirk allows him to remember his past life and it becomes his driving force to become a hero and mend the mistakes of the people from his past.)

Death Note

no man is worth dying for - gen wip with self-insert amane misa

Would there be consequences? Yes. Was it selfish? Perhaps. Did she care? No, because she refuses to lay there motionlessly and let herself die for a man whose God-complex got out of control.

Amane Misa or not, voices in her head or not, she was doing this reincarnation thing her way.

Dragon Age

FIRE IN HER MOUTH - female inquisitor/cassandra pentaghast wip

Former Ostwick Mage Olivia comes from a life of disturbing secrets and devastating loss. Once the daughter of an up-and-coming Orlesian house, her abilities led to a life of ostracized irrelevance to both her nation and her family. Years later, tensions in Thedas between Mages and Andrastian Orders have come to a head. The perfect setting, it seems, for a corrupted Tevinter Magister to stake his claim of chaos. By virtue of rotten luck Olivia finds herself thrust in his path, imbuing her with magic beyond her imagination. Now, she must learn to balance her own hunger for justice with those of the world's most mistreated, as leader of the reborn Inquisition.

Ithelan - male lavellan/omc, oc-insert wip

A struggling college student finds himself dropped in a dungeon in the thick of all things Inquisition with no memory of how he got there.  Now he has pointed ears and too many tattoos and maybe has the chance to help.  He has no idea what he's doing but he loves Thedas, and maybe Thedas will love him too.

Lyrium Addled - anders/fenris soulbond wip

After a desperate healing attempt goes haywire, Anders and Fenris try to get to the bottom of what caused the chaotic reaction. Between the phantom pains from non-existent wounds, and the sudden concern for each other's safety, they find themselves with an abundance of questions and nobody to answer them.

Not Another Dragon Age FanFic (The Lone Wolf Cries) - male lavellan/solas wip

Kieran finds himself suddenly transported to Thedas, and vows to keep a close eye on the Dread Wolf to stop him from betraying them once again.

As he finds out, a 'close eye' unfortunately means actually being close - and it doesn't help that the game's timeline is changing, either.

Over the Sea to the Clouds Above - female cousland-as-inquisitor/leliana wip, an absolute delight to read so far

Because she loved her sister dearly, Niamh set aside her own happiness, watching from afar as Leliana fell for another. However, with Corypheus threatening to cast ruin upon the world, is it possible for her to reveal the truth of her own heart before it’s too late?

Sang a Lady Radiant - solas/ofc, male trevelyan/ofc, oc-insert wip

Ollie doesn't know why she ended up in Thedas, but she wants it to be a better world when she leaves, one way or another. She just has to figure out how to work around Solas and the Inquisition itself.

The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Ellana Lavellan, Mage. - solas/ofc, oc-insert wip

Sweat, blood, and tears. Literally years of preparation, and here she was, at the foot of the mountain path that led up to Haven, while an explosion shook the world and tore a hole into the Beyond.

"Fenedhis."

MCU

Adjustments - bucky barnes/tony stark wip

After the battle at the Triskelion, the Winter Soldier is taken into Avenger's custody and brought to New York.  Slowly the extent to which HYDRA had broken the soldier is revealed. Bucky Barnes' recovery will be long and arduous the outcome of which is uncertain.

With his parent's murderer living under his roof, Tony Stark faces an entirely different problem, one he intents to solve his way.

By fixing the broken soldier.

Naruto

bees don't buzz during an eclipse - gen wip

The thing is, the summoning jutsu isn’t actually that hard.

And little academy student Sakura, young and clanless and desperate to prove the world that she’s bigger than her forehead, is also friends with Ino, clan heir with connections to the Nara. She watches Shikaku summon a deer once, and an idea turns in her brain.

It’s not her fault nobody told her the technique wasn’t for pre-genin.

for the caged bird sings of freedom - gen wip

Hyuuga Hinata dies four years after the Fourth Shinobi War, to protect her Hokage.

She wakes up ten years in the past, the day before Graduation, the day before the spar that would seal her fate as the family disappointment and Hanabi's as the next Clan Head.

She makes changes.

One Piece

so much like stars - law/luffy/zoro complete

Stargazing and snow, festivals and dreams, and the quiet change in the dynamic between Law, Luffy, and Zoro during a few cold nights on the way to Zou.

The Sandman

a lucky break(out) - dream/hob gadling, complete

Hob acquires a familiar ruby at an antiquities sale. Said ruby summons something else into his home as well.

[rosirinoa]

Linger

Author’s notes:

This is my first inquisition fanfiction, and I finally got enough courage to write about Sollavelan, my favorite ship. I hope you like it.

Please, consider that in this story, Lavellan is a warrior and I used the standard name given by the game: Ellana. Also, I came up with the general concept of the story with the song Linger by the Cranberries, although it’s no necessarily an ost or a songfic, but the melody could set the mood.

Enjoy!

Before

Chaos, destruction, uncertainty and fear was what the breach in the veil caused, not only in Thedas, but the rest of the world as well, along with its inhabitants. The world had never faced such catastrophe before, which is saying a lot in a realty where the blight, demons and wars are constant worries.

It seemed that it actually was the end of the world, and in the middle of all confusion, Ellana Lavellan was surprised, while fighting for her life along with Cassandra, by a hand firmly holding her wrist.

“Quickly, before more come through!” with an urgent voice, an elf that she had never seen before took her hand, pointing it towards the rift above them. Everything happened so fast, that the only thing Ellana remembers from that moment, was the tickling in her hand when she closed the rift.  That and the elf’s gaze: Solas, whose eyes conveyed peace and certainty.

                She was confused; how could she had closed the rift when she was no mage?

Solas’ theory turned out to be quite convincing and his kind attitude towards Ellana transmitted her trust. That was the exact moment when her interest towards the apostate began, and without knowing it, she had the same effect on him.

                In retrospective, it’s possible that the inquisitor romanticized the memories of their first meeting, but she is still pretty sure that, the moment their eyes met, her heart beat faster.

                At first, Solas was rather private and wary with everyone around him, including Ellana, but slowly, the mage got a pleasant surprise when he found out she was genuinely interested in what he had to say, his experiences in the fade, his dreams and elven ancient history, and without noticing, he began to see her differently.

                In many occasions he caught himself looking at her, when his eyes lingered more than necessary on her expression when she spoke or thought carefully about something; her hair moving while she fought or the wind made it dance exquisitely, or even her figure when she walked in front of him during expeditions, and when she casually passed by his post in Haven, heading to talk with Dorian, smoothly wiggling her hips, so attractive in his eyes. Sometimes he felt rather disappointed when he realized he was not the one she was coming to see… at last at first.

                Lavellan tried to be as discreet as possible, deliberately avoiding looking at Solas when he walked around Haven, or during a mission in Redcliff or Creestwood, but when she spoke with him, it was impossible to not notice the freckles on his nose or the was his eyes lightened when he talked about the veil, not to mention his smile, which she unconsciously imitated when she saw it, doing her best efforts to not let her eyes linger too much on his lips.

                And all those glances didn’t go unnoticed by Varric, who as a good writer, took note of all those longing gazes, full of desire and flirt, despite their best efforts to not being so obvious with their persisting eyes, always on each other.

For Solas, Ellana Lavellan was a thought that used to slip into his mind during the most inconvenient times: before falling asleep, while he was taking a hike or even traveling in the fade, imagining that maybe someday he could show her those places he visited during his dreams, ruins that told wonderful stories of the past, images lost in time, which could get a different meaning with her company.

On the other hand, she constantly thought about new and interesting questions for him, so she could listen to his voice and tales, wondering what could be interesting for him or a way to get his attention; a small distraction in the middle of all that was happening in Thedas.

Later came the innocent and accidental touches, when one of them passed next to the other too close during a hike in the woods and their hands brushed for an instant that lingered too much, or when one of them needed a potion and their fingers briefly met, both elves trying to make the moment last for as long as they could, until one afternoon after closing a rift with particularly violent and vicious demons, Solas ended up hurt. Being at least a day away from the next village, without enough healing items and him being the only mage in the party, everyone had to tend to their wounds without the help of magic.

Once the camp was set, Cassandra and Varric took care of their own wounds on their legs and arms, while Ellana took care of Solas, who apparently had a deep cut on his back. At first, she was worried about how bad the wound could be, but when the mage took off his tunic and shirt, she immediately wanted to run her fingertips along his back. With slow movements, she cleaned the injury and when it stopped bleeding, she made sure to apply an ointment that could inhibit the pain, her fingers softly touching the mage’s skin, feeling the warmth on his back, which she though was the result of the wound and the pain he was feeling. Nevertheless, the truth was different. Solas shivered very time the other elf’s fingers softly touched his shoulder and upper back, forgetting about the pain for a moment and enjoying her touch, careful and delicate.

He was sure his blush showed on his face and ears, and was silently grateful their companions were rather busy patching up their own wounds and cuts. He wished the contact with the girl continued longer. Solas enjoyed every chill and goose bump he felt, keeping it in his memory forever, while she tried to make the moment last for as long as she could, her fingers lingering on his back.

One night, it was Ellana’s turn to watch over the camp, while the rest of the party slept, but the presence of the elven apostate remained until very late hours, next to her and the fire. He didn’t take his turn to sleep, exchanging it for the chance to enjoy the girl’s company. And then he thought he was unnecessarily lingering there, with her. A luxury he could enjoy once in a while, appeasing his fears of loneliness.

[starwrittenfates]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐬

Many thoughts, but mostly just thinking about Ethyral and her titles in the elven pantheon---

Originally known as the "Goddess of Spirit", something gifted to her by Mythal because of the fact she mostly worked with the Spirits. She was also known for inspiring others, further playing on double meaning of the word: Spirit.

When rejecting taking on a Vallaslin of her own, some came to call her the "Goddess of Hope", which fits because she would also work to secretly help free their people alongside Fen'Harel at times.

Becomes known as the "Goddess of Grief " thanks to Elgar'nan who gave her the title mockingly because of how often they would bicker with each other, but also because of what eventually happens to her sister...(Mythal's murder, hence, Ethyral grieving her sister).

And how TRAGIC it is that she is no longer remembered as the Goddess of Spirit or Hope any longer. She is mostly known as the Goddess of Grief because of her story being misconstrued over the ages until it becomes what it is known as by the Dalish. Not many records of Ethyral survive, often being looked as an omen of grief and despair by the Dalish and something to be weary of as just as they are of Fen'Harel. If anything, she does have murals, but again, it's of her status as Goddess of Grief and usually depicts a female elf weeping.

Then centuries later when she is reborn as Ellana of Clan Lavellan and eventually regains the memories of her former life, she is able to finally look past all the false narratives about her and awaken as the Goddess of Spirit and Hope once more.

Also...realizing that her role as the Inquisitor is suppose to be a symbol of hope too...she's finally home. She's finally herself and whole again. This is where it was all leading her.

Had to put my tags above because they were honestly too good and described Ethyral/Ellana and this post in a conclusion--- #just deeply thinking about how a symbol of hope becomes a tale of tragedy and despair for ages all because of one jerk twisting it around # but then destiny helps guide them and helps them reawaken and remember who they are and what their purpose is as they reclaim their power

[proelio-procusi]

@ellana-lavellan-rp​ continued from here

"They only had minor injuries and are alright." She spoke as she watched Ellana's eyes to make sure they were reacting to the light properly. "Because you've forgotten I would say you need time to rest and recoup. Most people get their memories back but it's not a guarantee." Lyria's voice was gentle as she grabbed a glass of water holding it out to the other. "With your permission I could see if my magic might help speed along some of your healing."

[haverdoodles]

Herald’s Wrath

— (Cullen Rutherford, Ellana Lavellan)

.

The night that followed the Inquisition’s return to Skyhold was a relatively peaceful one, if rather unexpected in its quietude. The travel-worn soldiers had been greeted with open arms and a general air of excitement at the gates, as all those who had stayed behind trembled in curiosity. News of the legendary battle at Adamant Fortress had long preceded the militia’s return, reaching all corners of Thedas, and there wasn’t a soul alive that wasn’t eager to know which of the wild tales were true.

While her soldiers celebrated, the Inquisitor had retired to her quarters immediately upon returning, closely flanked by her advisors and Inner Circle. This did not bother the members of the Inquisition, who by now knew their leader to be the queenly, stand-offish type. Though, soon as she disappeared behind closed doors, all attention turned to the soldiers, and the home-bound members of the Inquisition descended upon them like ravenous wolves.

“Right then!” A new recruit scooted eagerly closer to a grumpy warrior, watching him with bright eyes. “Oh Ser, you have to tell us! You must!”

“Tell you what, exactly?” He grumbled into his mug of ale, acutely aware that all eyes around the bonfire were now on him.

The recruit whined. “Don’t play dumb! You were there, at Adamant! What was it like? What happened? Was there really an Archdemon?!”

The warrior sighed, reluctantly lowering his drink. He was pleased, despite himself, by the attention, and what good soldier could refuse to entertain a newbie? “Aye,” he said. “T’was an Archdemon, as far as we know, but it was nothing like we’ve ever seen. T’was monstrous, unholy at best, and I hope to never lay eyes on it again, lest it is slayed.”

The members around the fire shifted, eyeing one another nervously. This was grim news. Archdemons heralded Blights, after all, and Southern Thedas was still recovering from the last one a decade prior.

“And the battle?” The recruit prompted, his eagerness remaining undamped.

“I was getting to that.” The warrior gave him an irritated look, then sighed. “The energy in the air at Adamant was like nothing I’d ever felt before. Electric, angry, ferocious. As we marched up to those fortified walls, staring up at the Wardens lining the battlements like silver ants, we were certain we wouldn’t be coming home.” He swallowed. “That was… until the Herald came.”

Everyone held their breath. This was what they really had been dying to know.

“She marched to the frontlines without a hint of hesitation,” he went on, voice trembling in awe. “With the Commander at her side, sword drawn, she seemed unbeatable. There was no fear on her face, no doubt, just… pure, unbridled rage. Like the Wardens had sinned heavily by incurring her wrath.” He shook his head disbelievingly. “I had never seen so much emotion on her face before.”

“What did she do?” The recruit whispered, the awe the warrior felt reflected in his voice.

The warrior met his gaze, bright-eyed and breathless. “She drew a dagger from its sheathe, raised her Marked hand, and roared that if the Wardens did not surrender, she would raze Adamant to the ground with all of the Inquisition’s fury.”

A ripple of shock and horrified admiration spread among the group of listeners, which had only tripled in size since his story began.

“Maker have mercy,” a soldier whispered.

“T’was certainly the kick in the ass we needed.” The warrior smiled down into his ale, his face vacant with memory. “I can still feel the adrenaline rushing through my veins, setting them alight like wildfire. We were thirsty for blood. We were ready to win. In that moment, standing there with rage on her face and power in her voice, she wasn’t just an elf, or the Herald, or the Inquisitor. Being in her presence, it was like…”

“What?” The recruit eagerly prompted when he trailed off, leaning forward. “What was it like?”

The warrior looked at him, shuddering, horrified and amazed all at once. His trembling hands clenched around his mug.

“It was like being in the presence of a god.”

[thebookworm0001]

Laundry Day

Rating: E

Pairing: Ellana Lavellan x Solas

Summary: After the Dread Wolf's defeat at the hands of the former Inquisitor, his punishment is far more lenient than many were anticipating. House arrest, under the supervision of the Herald of Andraste herself. As Ellana and Solas settle into their new lives, neither has forgotten the events just before their final confrontation, and, caught in close quarters, old feelings begin to resurface. Follow-up to Last Chance

AO3 Link: Here

Months passed, and somehow they settled into something that could be called domesticity. Whatever aches and pains they carried from their war and its resolution melted into a quiet routine of shared responsibility that kept their lives quietly moving between visits from whatever official delegation arrived to check in on the Dread Wolf’s house arrest. Ellana had taken to gardening much as she had in Skyhold, though this time she tended to tubers and tomatoes and other edible plants that would supplement their deliveries of flour and sugar and other goods they could not easily procure on their own. When they came out of the ground, they found their way into Solas’s hands. Sometime in his long life, she determined, he had apparently acquired an ability, if not a talent, for working in a kitchen. She imagined the idea of the Thedas’s greatest known adversary making the meals of its savior daily would give more than a few nobles heart attacks, but it provided him with something to do. And to say his cooking was far superior to hers would not be an overstatement. A few millennia's difference of practice was likely to do that, she supposed.

Laundry had become her purview as well. It was an all day affair with the necessary scrubbing and beating and hanging of clothes, but Ellana found she didn’t mind it so much. Though she was no longer avoiding her housemate, it let her escape from the house for a few hours; and the burn in her arm after using the washboard reminded her of the days when she was responsible for helping her father with the halla. Hard work, but rewarding all the same. Even if she came away from the stream with fingers red from strain and chill now that the weather had turned.

Solas always offered to accompany her when the pile of soiled clothes grew large or to go himself and let her rest. A few days before, after she had returned inside with a burn in her cheeks from the cold, he’d playfully threatened to tie her to a chair if that is what it took to keep herself from losing her other hand to frostbite washing their things. Immediately, he had apologized, her stunned silence translating to an overstep of unspoken boundaries he wished to assure her would never happen again. He had disappeared into his room for the evening before she’d been able to regain her senses, struck by the aching desire to laugh at the casual jest at her expense and the altogether different kind of heat that had arisen at his suggestion of restraint.

It was not the only time in recent days she had found herself struck by rather distracting feelings. In his culinary efforts, Solas had also taken to making fresh bread for them nearly daily. Oftentimes, she came back to the cottage to find dough rising on the counter, Solas covered in thin film of flour that told her he’d yet to figure out a way to handle it without the powder flying into his face. Despite the apron, his clothes were just as covered as he, and she’d shoo him off to change. He’d gotten only marginally better over time, though had learned that rolling his sleeves to his elbows helped keep the cuffs free of flour and dried-out dough. A practical decision. And one that had fully occupied her mind with memories of how the rolling muscles in his arms had once smoothed knots from her body after long days of battle and traveling on horseback, how they had held her firmly when he had healed wounds both embarrassing and terror-inducing, and how they’d wrapped around her as they’d found found each other in the hours before what they’d believed would be their final meeting.

And it was lost in these thoughts that, at his questioning her staring at him from the entry to the kitchen, she had suggested he simply forgo the clothes altogether and give her less to clean. The comment slipped out smoothly, as though she had been practicing the line like an Orlesian noble desperately trying to impress an uninterested lady. Her attempts to assure him she meant nothing by it, on the other hand, were… Well, she’d fallen on her ass more gracefully. Luckily, the laundry still needed to be hung up and she was able to quickly retreat before she’d thoroughly embarrassed herself.

Today, thankfully, they had managed to avoid any new awkward encounters. They’d successfully made it through the midday meal without either of them stumbling over the ever-blurring line of appropriate intimacy. It has almost been like before, in the early days in Haven where they had slowly discovered each other’s interests and sore points without a lifetime of history hovering between them. Leaving the table to attend to the laundry had been more difficult than she cared to admit, but it always took a few hours for the clothes to dry on the line. It was, however, a wait which she often found was worth the freshness that seemed to cling to the fabric for days after, even on days like this, when the cold cowed even the most resilient creatures into seeking shelter. Though it required them to employ the use of one of the limited heating runes around the house. While drying their clothes in the cold was technically possible, neither was too keen on how their clothes stood upright without their aid when they were brought inside. Or venturing out into the cold any longer than was strictly necessary.

Upon arriving in her rooms, she was pleased to once again see her tub filled. Another of the many tasks Solas had taken on to help pass the time between their respective chores. Shutting the door, she stripped from her clothes and sunk into the steaming water. A moan slipped from her lips, her muscles voicing their appreciation of the heat. She never realized how sore she was until there was nothing to distract her from it. Falling into bed after excursions as Inquisitor had always been a bitter relief. There was finally time to think of all the things weighing on her spirit. All the lives she’d lost and was responsible for. Not much had changed, it seemed.

But she had more to distract her now. Though she’d had plenty of privacy in her quarters in Skyhold, she’d never taken full advantage of it. Save the occasional insistence from her body, she’d never felt compelled to let her fingers linger. To search out the movements that would send her toes curling and heart pumping. And there was so little time between her realizations that, perhaps, she might enjoy those explorations, might enjoy them with him in particular, and the crumbling of any hope they might occur that any rising desire had often been doused by the cold waters of reality. And the occasional literal cold water of a bath or bucket when her body could not be reasoned with and the concern of an unwanted visit from particularly insistent spirits was warranted. But now?

Now there was time and want. And though she would not indulge the voice that reminded her she had not been the only one to stare from doorways, there were memories she would not deny herself the pleasure of revisiting.

She took her time cleansing the day from herself. Starting with her hair, grown long again since its unceremonious chop after the loss of her arm, she massaged cleansing poultices and oils onto her scalp. She closed her eyes, dragging her nails across the top of her head and letting her mind mind to a different hand massaging the products into her head and tugging on it ever so slightly as she slid just beneath the water to rinse it from her locks. She imagined that same hand joined by another as she lathered the floral soap against her body, imagined them slowly, carefully ensuring every inch of her skin was attended to, imagined one hand lifting her leg from the tub and the other slipping inside her again and again and again until she could no longer recall her name.

By the time she’d dragged herself from the bath, the water was cold.

Slipping on a robe, she found a basket of clothes in its normal place just outside her door where Solas had taken to leaving her share of the laundry. She brought it inside her room and pulled a larger tunic from her basket, not bothering with a breast band or smallclothes for the moment. The fabric was warm against her skin, the heat of the drying room still clinging to the softened lambswool.

“Excuse me, I appear to have misplaced my-” Solas stopped short in the doorway, taking her in. His throat bobbed. “shirt.” She stole a glance of herself in the mirror wedged in the corner. What she had thought was one of her larger sweaters was, in fact, Solas’s tunic. The fabric swallowed her, the hem brushing the back of her thighs, nearly reaching her knees. No doubt if she studied herself she’d see the dark shadows of her areolas bleeding through the cream fabric. If Solas’s flush was any indication, he certainly had. Ellana was suddenly all too aware of her body. Of the strain of her nipples against the tunic. Of the slickness between her legs that remained after her bath and the flush that warmed her skin. They stood frozen for a moment, each holding the other’s gaze to see who would break the tentative peace first. He took a step forward, then another, until he was in front of her, sharing the same breath.

Her heart skittered down her spine as his fingers teased at the edge of the soft knit, fingers working the fraying yarn. They were cool against her heated skin. Close, so very close to touching her. She watched as his fingers curled under the seam of the tunic, not quite a grip but still a claim. His knuckles lifted, brushing against the curve of her hip. A shuddering breath passed through him. He did not pull away, but he didn’t press forward either. Ever in control. Even here, even now after everything. Of course.

For a moment, she let herself indulge in the image of his hands curving around her hips, lying flat as they skimmed up her stomach and over her breast before lifting his tunic from her shoulders. They would roam down her arms and lower, lower still until they found their home. He sucked in a breath, pulling her from the fantasy, and she attempted to calm the heat in her veins with one of her own.

His hands flexed at his side, a subtle movement to mask how they were shaking. Slowly, she laid her palm over his chest, where she could feel his heart fluttering like a caged bird beneath his scarred skin. Perhaps they needed more time. Whatever they felt, whatever degree of comfort they’d found together, maybe they hadn’t healed enough from the past years for this to be wise. This life was still so new, and they were still struggling to find what lines they were comfortable crossing. Before, backed against a ticking clock, their need had outweighed anything else. It had been a flurry of hands and discarded clothes that caused more hurt than it healed. Waking up alone the following morning had cut her heart as much as watching him walk away in Crestwood. But this time there was no reason to leave. No duty that demanded they walk away. No cause to force them apart.

Now, all they had was time.

She could wait. Her hand reached up, cupping his cheek in her palm.

“I’ll get it back to you.” She smiled. It was small, but filled with understanding and reassurance. She expected to see relief in his face. Or the quiet, sad knowledge that had haunted his eyes as long as she’d known him. Something that reminded her of the many times they’d given each other the space they’d needed but hadn’t wanted when they found themselves stumbling towards decisions that would complicate their duties. Instead, her smile fell, lips parting, as she found certainty and care and lust searching for their mirror. He had found them, she knew, at the flattening of his palms over her hips. She let her hand fall from his face, curling it to rest on the back of his neck. Her eyes flickered to his lips, then back to his eyes.

Then she moved.

With a swift tug, she brought his head down to hers in a crushing kiss. His tongue swiped at her bottom lip, fingers curling into her side, and she opened her mouth against his to give him access. Rising on her toes, she wrapped the crook of her elbow around his neck. He pressed himself closer to her, sliding a long leg between her own.

“I believe this is mine.” His hands skimmed up her sides, the hem of the tunic pooling over his wrists, until they rested on the curve of her ribs, thumbs caressing the skin just below the swell of her breasts. His hands traveled up, pulling his tunic with them as he moved to kiss her jaw, her neck, her shoulder. She lifted her arm from him just long enough to let the fabric slide from her body, shivering as the cool air touched her heated body, gooseflesh rising on her skin. Ellana leaned back, letting her weight gently pull him forward, until she was hanging over the bed. One of Solas’s legs parted hers, knee pressing into the edge of the mattress, and he wrapped an arm behind her back to hold her up until he’d laid her flat on the blankets.

When he kissed her again, it felt as though he were breathing her in. Every inch of her warmed as he pulled her chest flush to his, only the thin layer of his clothing separating them. He slid his tongue over her lip, and she opened her mouth to deepen the kiss. She let her focus narrow to the sensation of his tongue dancing against hers and the warmth it sent through her. For so long she had wondered if she would ever feel this again, feel his body move against hers in a way that set her head spinning and her heart racing. She’d thought her memory would suffice, that fantasy would sate her hunger for this closeness. Creators, she was a fool.

The calloused skin of one hand smoothed over her breast as the other slid up to tangle itself in her hair. A slight curl of his fingers tugged at her tresses, a pleasant pressure that made her scalp ache in a way that made her want to pull against him. But he held her fast and used the tension to tilt her head backwards and bare her neck. He kissed her hard before peppering kisses along her jawline and moving farther down to nip at the column of her throat, soothing her skin with his tongue where his teeth sunk into the flesh. He sucked at her pulse and drew his thumb across her nipple as he kneaded the tender flesh, and she felt his smile against her skin at the moan it drew from her.

Ellana grasped at Solas’s tunic, bunching the fabric at the base of his neck, and began to tug it off his back. The hand at her chest paused its attentions long enough to reach behind him and pull the shirt off in one fell swoop, throwing it somewhere off the side of the bed. It then returned to her side, caressing the flesh over her ribs and slowly, purposefully trailing down the curve of her waist and hip. His hand slid further down still, and as Solas’s fingers found the junction of her thighs and the slickness that met him there, she gave a thin whine at the swipe of his thumb across her clit, still sensitive from her own ministrations in the tub. A flash of understanding passed through Solas’s eyes, and a low growl vibrated in his throat as his lips traveled to her ear.

“What were you thinking of?” Though they sought an answer, his words were not a question. He knew her. Knew how her mind and body had ached for him over years of absence. Knew that if there were anyone she had held in her mind as she circled her own clit and pressed at the tender spot inside her, it must have been him. But knowing was different from hearing. Knowing was different from knowing . His fingers ghosted over her folds. They were touching her, but only barely. Only enough for her body to arch upward to beg for the pressure he withheld. And he could make her beg, if he wanted. But there were other times for that. Other nights they could explore how much she wanted him to make her plead, knowing he would relent only when he was certain she would come undone at the barest touch. For now, she needed them both to hear what they already knew.

“You.”

He crushed his lips against hers and slid two fingers into her. Ellana moaned against his lips , the sound turning into a whine as he broke the kiss to travel down her body once more. The hand in her hair released its grip to stroke down her sides, capturing her breast for him to kiss and suck and nip at, before continuing down the length of her torso. He continued to stroke the inside of her, slow and steady, and gripped her hip to hold her still as his lips sealed around her clit. A gasp flew from her throat and she fisted her hands in the comforter, desperate to find purchase. Solas hummed against her, and Ellana couldn’t tell if she was writhing toward or away from the vibration. Then she was lost to the sensation of his fingers and mouth, tongue dipping between her folds and lapping at the dripping mess between her legs and fingertips playing at her most sensitive places. It was not the rapid rise and retreat of their last joining, where he held her close to the edge but never let her fall. Rather it was slow and deliberate, the careful heating of a pot of water until somehow, suddenly, it’s boiling.

When Ellana came, she saw stars.

Somewhere behind a fog, she could hear Solas speaking to her gently. He continued to speak as the heat of him disappeared from between her legs, then reappeared beside her. Slowly, her senses returned to her. He was murmuring in elvish from where he lay next to her. Though the whole of the language was still lost to her, she could make out small phrases of encouragement and praise and wonder. And she did not need to understand the meaning to hear the affection and longing in the cadence of the words. Ellana turned her head to Solas, limbs still too heavy with pleasure and exhaustion to move, and gazed into his eyes. Their soft, purple-streaked gray was hidden behind his wide pupils, and they lit up at the sight of her. It nearly made her heart stop in her chest. She reached her hand to his cheek, cradling it in her palm. He didn’t move as she traced the deep-set lines with her thumb, only pressed a light kiss to it as it swiped over his lips. And that, that small, simple showing of affection, free from any doubt or restrain or fear, made her eyes begin to burn.

She rolled onto her side, and kissed him. The taste of her lingered on his tongue, warm and musky, and she wondered what he might taste like should she venture to try. His arms wrapped around her, sliding between her and the bed to pull her flush against him. She hooked her leg over his hip, vaguely aware that her thigh rested on bare skin, and shifted her fingers to lay against his jaw. They held each other for a while, content to let their kisses last and linger and hands stroke without any other purpose than to feel each others’ skin beneath their fingers. They’d done this before, had once spent so long wrapped in the feeling of holding and learning each other that Josephine had sent an unfortunate servant to seek them out before their absence became rumors visiting nobles could latch on to. But there were no nobles to offend here. No advisors needing their input or companions seeking their help. No apologetic servants attempting to avoid embarrassment. No concern or confusion about where their desire and want ended. No secrets or plans that could be disturbed if they let themselves go too far.

Ellana shifted her weight onto Solas and rolled him onto his back. Straddling his chest, she arched her back into their next kiss and trailed her fingers down his neck. She let her lips follow her fingers, pressing soft kisses to his throat and across his shoulders. As her hand moved down his chest, it stalled on the jagged, silvery line that ran between two of his ribs. It had healed well, this scar. Only slightly raised above the rest of his chest, and it did not pull or pucker on his skin. Her handiwork, in more ways than one. She had sealed the wound, yes. Miraculously kept his heart from tearing itself to shreds, from pumping all his blood outside his body in a desperate attempt to keep beating. But it had been her knife, her hand that had guided it home. And she’d had little faith in her ability to bring him back from the kind of damage she’d intended to inflict.

Solas’s warm hand grabbed her own, pulling it away from where it traced the echo of the wound, and pressed her palm against his lips. Whatever her actions had done, no matter how deeply they were imprinted on her soul or his, they did not change this. Not tonight. However they’d arrived, they were here, alive, with no desperate fight to tear them apart. This was theirs alone.

Ellana lifted onto her knees and leaned back, and Solas reached between them to assist her. She lowered herself onto him slowly, careful of her body’s need to adjust to each new inch entering her. When she bottomed out, she held still for a moment. It was to let them both acclimate to the sensation of him filling her, yes, but it was more than that. She needed to remember this, to savor it. To commit the image of him to memory, eyes blown and filled with love, splayed under her with his hands holding her hips, sweat glistening on his skin, and so, so beautiful. And then, only when she was certain whatever spirit combed her mind tonight would know the exact pattern of freckles on his skin, the precise way his eyes wrinkled with the hint of a smile, the way his fingers gripped her as though she might disappear if he let go, did she move.

She started out slowly, barely moving as she rocked back and forth in a shallow rhythm. Then Solas’s hands slid down to her hips, steadying them as her movements became longer, stronger. He rolled his own hips to match hers, and guided her own to grind down when they met. And then they were moving as one, as though they had done this a million times before and knew the precise way to pull a groan or whine from the other. He would buck his hips at just the right moment to hit the sweet spot inside her as he entered and she would clench as he slipped from her. Soon, all there was to know was the feeling of each other and the sound of their whispered names as they built towards their ends.

When it found them, it found them together. It stole their breaths, leaving them frozen in space for the eternal moments it took for their climaxes to reverberate throughout their bodies. Ellana collapsed on top of him, and used the last dregs of her energy to slide onto the bed, curling into his side and slotting her head into the curve of his neck. She pressed her lips to his skin, tasting the salt of his sweat, and whispered kisses into his shoulder. A gentle hand curled over her ear, pushing the hair that had fallen into her face behind it before coming to rest under her chin and angle it up for another kiss. He kissed her until she pulled back for air, then rested his forehead against hers. Their chests rose and fell together, waves of pleasure shaking them both until they calmed to quiet tremors.

They lay quietly together until the heat faded from their bodies. With a spell, Solas cleared the sweat and slick from their bodies, and in a shuffle of limbs, they wrestled the sheets over top of them. Ellana tangled her legs with Solas’s, and rested her hand atop his beating heart. He covered her hand with her own, holding it there.

“I missed you.” The whispered words slipped from her mouth, but they were not accusing. They held none of the pain of his disappearance and attempts to change the world. Instead, they were the words of a woman welcoming her lover home after a long absence, the bitter distance between them forgotten like the cold at the first signs of spring.

“ Ir abelas, ma vhenan .” She kissed him again. His words weren’t weighted with a lonely god’s guilt. For once, he was not apologizing for things which he had yet to do or that she did not know he had done. He was simply a man, returned home, sorry for having been gone. His other hand came to cradle the back of her head, fingers gently stroking her hair. Wrapped around Solas, the warmth of their bodies trapped between the sheets, her mind began to drift. Sleep was waiting, and would claim her if she let it. And this time, she would. This time she would gladly let the gentle beat of her vhenan’s heart lull her towards the fade and whatever dreams it held for them that night.

This time, she knew, he would be there when she woke.

[dragon--sage]

WIP Whenever

tagged by @fadedsweater FOREVER ago but i am just now feeling like i have a grip on this not-so-cute meet cute i have devised for my latest untitled WIP (modern au, parisy val royeaux, magical elements bc i can't restrain myself) that has taken up all my daydreams lately. ANYWAYS tl;dr here is a little peak behind the veil. thank you for tagging me sweater!!! ✨

i'm tagging anyone else who'd like to share something they're working on because i LOVE to see it, and appreciate being tagged but overthink and fret over who else to tag! :')

“You are Dalish,” Solas said, as Ellana stepped into the weak moonlight filtering through the windows, and he made out her vallaslin for the first time. The word, on his sharp and admittedly honeyed tongue, came just shy of an insult. His eyes raked over her face and a look of cool dismissal instantly fell over his own.

“What’s the matter, allergic to halla?” She quipped back, crossing her arms over her chest and quirking her head to the side.

“The Dalish are as children, clinging to false memories of a long-forgotten past,” He snapped immediately, the accusation so practiced it was as if he’d uttered this exact sentence several hundred times before.

Sweet Sylaise—what an insufferable know-it-all, she thought.

“Oh, but you know the truth, right?” Ellana countered—voice acidic, mocking.

The degree of condescension in her voice was a bit shocking, even to her.

(How much and how quickly she had been riled, how easy it had been for him…)

His brow quirked and he smirked at the challenge in her response, apparently amused by her consternation. She fought an epic and nigh impossible battle to keep her frustration from showing on her face.

“I have seen things they—you—have not,” He said simply, with a small shrug.

“Oh, well that clears everything up. Thank you for sharing your infinite wisdom, hahren.”

“Felassan!” Solas snapped, eyes cutting from Ellana to the Slow Arrow. Felassan, having been examining an old satin curtain that framed one of the room’s many windows between his pointer finger and thumb, abruptly dropped it, straightening to his full height.

“Hm?” Came his eventual reply, after he’d cleared his throat. The moonlight filtering through the dusty windowpane glinted starkly against his pale skin and flashed in his violet eyes.

“Are you trying to be funny?” Solas lapsed into elvish (perhaps this was a habit of his, when he was feeling particularly peevish).

“Well, if I am, I’m not trying hard enough, am I?” Felassan shot back with a glare. He stepped closer, motioning to Lavellan as he went. “I bring you our best potential recruit in ages and this is the thanks I get?” He had switched back to Common, though Ellana understood their elvish well enough.

(Yet even while she understood them, there was something distinctly different about the way they spoke it that struck her—the pronunciations and emphases different from any she’d come across, even having met elves from Dalish clans all over Thedas in her twenty-nine years.)

They moved closer and lowered their voices, and spoke so quickly she could no longer make out what they were saying.

Suddenly, Solas stepped away from Felassan and looked at her. His eyes darkened and narrowed, just for the slightest instant, and then he smirked.

“Fine,” He said coolly. “As a first test: you are welcome in our city safehouse.” A pause. A moment’s silence to appreciate that, of course, there would be a catch. “If you can find it.” His smugness indicated that he believed he’d just given Ellana an impossible task.

Felassan gave a loud, indignant huff of breath, and made as if to speak, but Solas pointed an accusatory finger in his direction.

“No help,” Said Solas, interrupting whatever Felassan was going to say.

The Slow Arrow rolled his eyes and waved him off.

Solas looked at Ellana again. “The only hint I’ll allow you is this: numbers here mean nothing, the crowd is lonely.”

He turned from the window and headed towards the door Felassan had pulled her through earlier, the one that led to the back stairwell. Just before he disappeared into the mess of props that obscured the exit from view, Solas half turned, looking back at them over his shoulder.

“It was a pleasure, Ellana.”

The finality in his voice made the statement sound like a less-than-fond farewell. He turned away and continued out of sight. Then, the sound of a door opening and closing echoed sharply through the room.

“Bastard,” Ellana breathed, glaring in the direction Solas had gone. Her eyes cut to Felassan, widening in frustration and disbelief.

“Talks like a villain from a period drama on the OPB and dresses like a disgraced librarian living full-time out of his van with three feral cats! And has the never to treat someone like that? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

Once she began to complain it was difficult to stop.

Felassan shrugged, brows knitting apologetically, as if he had no idea how to answer the question.  

“If it makes you feel any better,” He said, after a long, slightly uncomfortable silence, “I actually think that could have gone much worse.”

[thechildofbhaalhasawoken]

It’s been a while so I decided to have Ellana Lavellan wake up with a mark on her hand and no memory of where she got it from or how she ended up in a prison cell.

Hold on to your fur mantle, Cullen, we’re coming for you!

[kittynomsdeplume]

Embers Of The Sun

Summary: Ellana Lavellan makes her periodic pilgrimage to the Dales; to the scene of the final bloody battle against the Evanuris. Here she remembers her fallen comrades and waits for night to fall, so that she may once again see her greatest love. Rating: Teen+ Pairing: Solas/Ellana Lavellan Word Count: 2142

Preview:

Ellana tugs at the weeds that strangle the headstone. It has been too long since her last visit and the vines have taken stubborn root. It is difficult work one-handed, but she perseveres. After all, she is Ellana Lavellan - Herald of the Inquisition; scourge of demons and blighted Magisters; vanquisher of Red Templars, and destroyer of would-be Gods. She does not yield to an obstinate bramble.

“Ha!” she crows in victory, as the last tangle pulls away. Panting and flush with sweat from the effort, she reverently brushes layers of dirt and grime from the weathered stone marker. Decades it has been, since she first laid this stone and yet, the memories of that time remain eternally vivid in the corners of her mind. Forever itching and restless; just like her phantom left arm. It still wakes her some nights; burning with the memory of the Anchor that once possessed it.

‘Lucky’ - that’s what Varric had dubbed her when they’d first met. Even then she did not feel particularly so, and the passage of time has done little to change her mind. It is a hard, painful curse, to always be the one left behind. The one that has to carry on alone. Shouldering all the burdens of the world, even after watching her friends fall, one by one.

Cassandra, Cullen, Dorian - Varric himself, and so many others. All the nameless innocents that perished in the war with the Evanuris. Ordinary people, with simple lives and simple dreams - that wanted only to live in peace, but were nonetheless swept into oblivion by the madness of a powerful few.

Ellana’s hand trembles agains the headstone as the memories wash over her. She remembers their laughter; their tears; all their adventures together. But their faces have slowly faded in time. Her heart aches, that she can no longer remember what they looked like. Only his face remains sharp and clear; the face she sees each night in her dreams. Or in the worst of times, her nightmares.

Most of the time her dreams are pleasant however, and he appears to her looking very much as he did the first time they met. Quietly dignified, his eyes clear and bright; crinkling at times with a gentle mirth. So often she looks back upon those happier days, scouring her memories - searching for signs of his inner turmoil; wondering how she could have missed the clues. The answer is obvious of course - she did not want to see it. She was falling deeply, helplessly in love.

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