#abelas x eirwen

[obsidianmichi]

Abelas/Lavellan: kiss on the forehead and kiss on the shoulder. Solas/Lavellan: kiss on the nose and kiss on the leg. Lavellan and any companion: kiss on the cheek (as friends). Know that's a lot, but you're writing is so beautiful and I'm a little greedy :)

Solavellan

Kiss on the nose

“Are you saying I’m not distracting?”

Solas didn’t glance up. Mouth pulling into a thin line, fighting a smile, he continued to wrap her foot with a clean set of bandages. “I did not imply a lack of interest,” he said. “Merely that my concentration cannot be so easily swayed.”

Eirwen Lavellan leaned back on the tree stump, her fingernails dug into the bark. He could hear delicate teeth chewing on a lower lip and did not need to look up to know her eyebrow rose wryly. “Ah-huh.”

For a moment, there was silence. Only the song of birds in overhead branches, a gentle flutter of wings. He heard heavy footsteps tromping through the underbrush to their left. The usual sound of Inquisition soldiers. Humans and their lack of delicacy. Shemlen as the Dalish would say. Unaware, perhaps, that they too were the same as those the despised. Shemlen, a word Eirwen Lavellan exorcised from her vocabulary. He’d heard her speak the slur perhaps once or twice and then, as time went on, not at all.

Adaptation. A surprising turn for one from a culture so rigid and inflexible.

With careful fingers, he lifted her heel. The offending boot fallen to the side, tipped and fallen on the grass. Red toes wiggled in the sun, a sign she was not badly damaged from her fall. Still blue bruises peeked out of the bandages around her instep. Running his fingers down the top of her foot, pads searching for signs of injury and any fractured bones.

She winced.

“You know, Solas,” the wheedling tone was back. “There’s no reason to do this here.”

He gently prodded the region below her ankle again.

Again, she winced. Leg twitched, almost jerked to escape a rush of pain.

“How do propose to reach camp?” he asked. “Wounded as you are?”

“I could hobble,” Eirwen replied. Only a slight hitch in her cheerful enthusiasm voiced the agony racing through her body. “No?” She leaned forward. “How about hop? I promise, I’ll do it slowly. From one tree to another, move bush to bush. You could watch.”

He frowned.

“I didn’t think so.” He watched her head tilt, sky blue eyes rolling sideways and flicking toward camp. “We could call Cassandra back,” Eirwen continued. “If I ask nicely, maybe she’ll put aside her sword and carry me. I mean, I’m not that heavy.” Corners of her mouth twitching as her nails scraped the bark. “She could do it.”

“That is unnecessary,” he replied. “You are not severely injured and thus require no immediate medical attention.”

“What do you call this then?”

“Preventative care,” Solas replied. “Though you may desperately require it, you are not in any danger.”

“We could solve this with a potion. Just one elfroot, easily refilled twenty feet that way,” her arm pointed left toward camp. “Then, get back to the mission. These rifts won’t close themselves.”

Shaking his head, Solas let his gaze drop back to the business at hand. I could use the rest, he thought. They all could. Fingertips running down her calf, his nose wrinkled. Watching Eirwen Lavellan send herself shooting off a cliff with yet another a poorly aimed Fade Step might be one more than his heart could bear. “Rest and time are what you need,” he said. Finishing with the wrap, he straightened and rested both hands on the stump. “An elixir will not remind you of the gravity of your mistakes.”

“Or, perhaps, just gravity?” When he didn’t respond, she laughed. “I swear, Solas,” Eirwen murmured. Her bright eyes locked on his and she leaned forward until their noses almost brushed. “It’s almost as if you don’t approve of spectacular flights off cliffs.”

He lifted a careful hand, tracing her cheek with a thumb. Her skin burned under his touch, warm and bright. “I would prefer you be more careful, yes.”

A grin tugged her mouth. “This is just because you don’t know any healing spells, isn’t it?”

Solas snorted. “Three days of rest will aid everyone.”

She laughed. Her fingers swept up the back his head, gentle and careful. Hesitant, almost unsure. A warm palm on his cool skin, she drew him down and rested her forehead against his. Their noses brushed.

Companionship, he realized, friendship. His brief flirtations at Haven were warmly received, his advice taken to heart, his stories appreciated, yet this, it meant something more. Acceptance, a gesture she might make to another of the Dalish in thanks. In doing so, she offered such closeness to him. Kinship. In her mind, they were blood kin. There were, he knew, a thousand ways one might say ‘ar lath ma’ and a thousand meanings came with their own interpretation. He did not know what he expected, this however was not it.

“Ma serannas,” Solas murmured. Then, he said, very slowly, “Lethallan.”

Wrinkling her nose, Eirwen rubbed hers against his, tip to tip. “I should say that to you, Lethallin.”

“Did you not already?”

Her lips yanked sideways, pursing and, once again, her eyebrow rose. Then, she rolled her eyes. Exhaling a long stream of air, Eirwen blew orange bangs off her brow. Her gaze flicked back to him and she smiled rather slyly. “Maybe I did.” She popped a little closer and, lifting her chin, she kissed his nose.He blinked, then he chuckled. “You are attempting to coerce me, da’len.”

“It’s true, hahren,” she said, batting her lashes. “I’m injured. I should be carried. Give me a ride?”

Void take me, Solas thought. Taking her cheek between his thumb and forefinger, he pinched. “Indeed?” he asked. “And what have you done that is so deserving of a reward? Perhaps, instead, I should put you over my shoulder and carry you off to bed.”

“No!” Eirwen giggled. “I’d fight you.”

“Am I to be frightened of a silly child?” he asked. “One barely able to stand? No.” He shook his head. “I do not believe so.”

“I can stand,” Eirwen replied. “I’ll wrap a barrier around my foot, then I’ll set fire to your pack.”

“Here,” he said. Taking her hands, he pulled her to her feet, then he wrapped one arm over his shoulder as he cinched his other around her waist. “You may lean on me.”

Grumbling, she rested her head on his shoulder. Her breath raced across his neck. “I suppose I’ll accept the privilege.”

“As you should.”

Carefully, they began to make their way toward the camp.

“You know, I have a staff? I could be leaning on that!”

“Should you balance long enough, you are welcome to attempt it.”

“Is that a challenge, hahren?”

“It is not, da’len.”

“It definitely sounds like one.”

He sighed. “If you wish.”

“It’s tempting,” her arm pulled tighter across his shoulders, “but,” her eyes dropped and she tried to take another slight hobbling step forward, “this is fine.”

“Certainly,” Solas said. Focusing on keeping his support around her waist, eyes following each small shift in her eyes, he ignored the warmth fizzling in his stomach. “For now.”

“For now?” Eirwen glanced at him. “Really?” She took another hopping step. Fingers tightening on his hand, she winced. “Expecting to be traded in for someone more willing to carry me, Solas?”

“No,” he replied. “Merely that you will eventually need to make your own way.”Her laughter caught him off guard. “I suppose,” she giggled. “Everyone always must, you know.”

Yes. He let his eyes slide sideways. I know. She was not looking at him, her eyes on the ground instead. Watching each stone as if it were some enemy attempting to capture her, to make her trip and fall. As if I’d allow it. The amount of feeling, the level of warmth which came with that thought was surprising. Yet, he realized, it was also welcome. He saw the grin still played on her mouth, warm eyes pausing ever so often to glance at him. Her arms held onto him, naturally and easily as each inhalation. Easy as breathing. Here, he was not a man caught out of time. He was neither lost nor foundering. He had a place and a reason for being. He belonged.

In a sunlit grove, as he listened to Eirwen Lavellan laugh and guided her careful steps, Solas felt for the first time since he’d awoken from In Uthenera. He was no longer alone.

((I’m sorry. The joke of Solas not having access to any healing spells in game is never going to get old.))

Kiss on the leg

Eirwen flopped back onto her mattress. Bouncing, up and down, with each lumpy and rolling fluctuation of feathers, she allowed a slow sigh to escape her. Here, in the darkness of her room, it was easy to forget. Below, she could hear the yells and cheers of celebration. Another one. The sixtieth in the past six months. Her fingers gripped her sheets and she closed her eyes.

I’d rather be sleeping.

Another yell sent her rolling onto her stomach. Eirwen grabbed the pillow, slamming it down on top of her head. The last few weeks in the Emprise du Leon had been one test after another in exhaustion and misery, tempting frostbite at every turn. The grisly features of the red Templars, the fallen faces of her friends as they broke lock after lock in the cages holding the villagers. All those villagers they’d been too late to save. The genuine worries about setting up Inquisition camps among the outgrowths of red lyrium, blighted lyrium.

She swallowed.

Beyond her window, the crackle of magic sparked through the air. More mages sending up magical flares, exploding into fireworks. A rain of colors, purples, yellows, reds, greens, blues, and golds, glittering in diadems and flashing on the closed glass doors off her balcony. The room lit in color, brilliant flashes, blinding. They rippled across the walls and ceiling. As if she were floating underwater and watching the sun rise, beams of soft pink, red, and gold light filtering down through a crystal clear lake.

Josephine and Leliana said I didn’t need to attend this one. I put in my time, shook the right hands, smiled at the soldiers, and congratulated them on a hard won victory. Now, I just want to go to bed.

Still, sleep felt so very far away.

“Vhenan,” Solas’ voice came from the door.

Lowering the pillow from her eyes, Eirwen sat up. Her eyes dropped to her shirt, the long, soft button down human male shirt she’d bought on a shopping trip in Val Royeaux. Hardly proper sleeping attire for one of her current station, yet she hadn’t truly cared until this moment. Lowering the pillow over her bare legs, she pulled it tight against her stomach. “Solas.”

“Leliana said I might find you here,” he said. He walked forward, his gait easy though the tightness surrounding his eyes indicated he was uncomfortable. “She seemed concerned.”

“It’s been a long trip.” Eirwen glanced at him as he seated himself on the bed.

Solas stretched out a hand, brushing his fingers up through her hair and pushed back her bangs. His warm hand gentle on her cool skin. His thumb passed over her forehead, stroking her skin. “You do not seem ill.”

Slowly, she shook her head. “Just tired.”

“That is a relief,” he said. “With all we have seen and done these past few weeks, it is also unsurprising.”

She smiled. “It won’t ever go away, will it?”

“No,” he replied. His hand slid down the side of her face, until he cupped her cheek. “However, in time, it may grow easier.”

Despite their continued closeness, he remained uncomfortable in her quarters. He preferred to keep his own space, to keep some distance between them. She understood, he was a proud man and he took his time. Sometimes a little too quick, sometimes a little too eager, yet always drawing back, wanting to give her space. She could not deny he cared. Not with the way his eyes lingered, not with the teasing smile, or his willingness to engage in their quiet moments together. Sleeping in her bed at Skyhold though was a no go. He valued his privacy far too much for that. They were a poorly kept secret at best and open displays of affection.

“Try not to dwell upon it,” he said. “There is so much in this world beyond our control and you did far more than any could expect.”

Her gaze dropped, hands pressing tightly across the pillow. “So,” she murmured. “Why doesn’t it feel like enough?”

“One cannot take back tragedy, vhenan.”

She glanced up, tilting her head. Her smile thinned and grew faint. “Sometimes,” she said. “I just wish I could undo this whole miserable mess.”

He leaned forward, lips brushing across her forehead. Left a tingle as they went. His mouth moved down to her temple, then her ear. Until he blew hard on her skin. One hand wrapping around her waist, sliding underneath the soft silk to tease the sensitive spot above her hip.

In spite of herself, Eirwen giggled.

“Ah,” he said, tapping her nose. “There we are.”

Eirwen smiled. “Are you sure you want to be up here?” she asked. “The rogue elven apostate in the Inquisitor’s quarters. People will talk.”

“Let them,” he said. “I am more concerned for your well-being than I am about providing fodder for some noble’s shallow gossip.”

She laughed. “You’ve never been one to care for what other people thought.”

“Untrue,” he replied. “I do not care how they perceive me.” He stroked her cheek. “I do worry over how those opinions might affect you, vhenan. Your opinions, your thoughts, your worries, even what you think of me, have all grown important.” His warm breath sent a nervous shiver racing across her skin. “You have not been yourself for some time.”

“I suppose not,” she said. She swallowed. “I don’t care about them, Solas.”

“Mmm,” he murmured, vibrations of his mouth shook on her temple. “Usually, you are the one to awaken me from my melancholy.” He slid onto the bed, taking the pillow from her hands. “You seek me out, draw me back.” Then, he wrapped a second hand around the back of her head and rested his forehead on hers. “In my angriest and darkest moments, you have always provided comfort and a willing ear.” She felt him smile. “It is only fair if I do the same.” His thumb rose to her ear, lightly tracing fine ridges up toward the tip. “I confess, I miss the sound of your laughter, vhenan.”

“I long to hear yours,” Eirwen replied. Her fingers following the lines in the rough fabric of his shirt up to his neck. She found his warm skin, hands wrapping about his head. Lifting her head until their noses brushed. “I just want you to be happy, Solas.”

His mouth caught hers, pulling her close. Warm rough lips, a warm rough mouth, teeth and tongue plied against her. His hand passed down her back, lifting her up, arching her body, as he tilted her head. She turned toward him, tongue slipping past his defenses. Her hands gripped his head, teasing the tips of his ears with her thumbs.

She felt him grin. Felt him toss her down.

Her back hit the mattress, his hand slid down her leg. Fingertips skating over soft skin, light as a butterfly flirting with the water of a pond. His lips pressed to her knee, then down the inside of her thigh. Slowly, lightly, gently.

Eirwen gasped. “Solas.”

His teeth closed on the inside of her leg. “Lie still for me, vhenan.”

Overhead, the ceiling burned brightly with flashes of color.

Her back arched.

Suddenly, she was very glad that sleep was indeed so far away.

Abelavellan:

Kiss on the forehead:

“Do you ever smile?” Eirwen asked.

At her side, she felt Abelas stiffen.

“I was just wondering,” she continued, crossing her arms. “Varric hasn’t told me your nickname, but he must have given you one.” Her head tilted and she forced her eyes to remain on the practicing recruits below. “Not broody, that’s taken.”

“Is it your habit to ask inane questions?” he asked. “Do all you Dalish behave in such a way? Or is it merely some flaw you alone possess?”

“Grumpy,” Eirwen said. “You’re definitely a grump.” She tapped her chin. “I wonder if that one’s been assigned.”

Abelas leaned forward, his bronze pauldrons glittering in the warm glow cast by the evening’s torches. His hands settled on the stone railing, then he turned. Leaning sideways with one arm resting on the wall, he glanced at her. “You are a strange one.”

Eirwen paused, she glanced at him. A tiny smile quirking her mouth. Leaning forward onto the stone, she rested her ribs against the wall, and matched his pose. “Stoney?”

“I suppose you believe my face acts as stone,” Abelas said. “Unmoving and implacable.”

“Stone,” Eirwen said in her lowest, most serious voice, “never smiles.”

His lips pursed, a smooth brow tilting into a frown. The lines of Mythal’s vallaslin highlighted his features, from his high sharp cheeks to his long aquiline nose. In the shadow of his hood, golden irises gazed at her. They were perpetually sad, filled with the sorrow of his namesake. 

“I know,” Eirwen leaned forward. “Grouchy.”

“Grouchy?” Abelas lifted his head. He glanced away, eyes returning to soldiers practicing in the arena. “That cannot be a word.”

“You know,” Eirwen said. “I thought so too when I found it in the Fereldan dictionary.” She lifted a finger. “Then,” she smiled and shifted a little closer. “I discovered cantankerous.”

“You believe me to be…” Abelas snorted, then spat it out, “cantankerous?”

“Well,” she shifted a little closer. “You are old and grumpy—”

“Grouchy,” he said. “As you said.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “And crabby, and tetchy, and…”

His head tilted, his voice completely level. “Irritable, perhaps?”

“I was getting there!” She prodded his gauntlet with her finger. “Crotchety!”

“This shemlen language contains too many words, and almost all are superfluous if they carry similar meanings.”

“I know,” Eirwen sighed. “Aren’t the humans fun?”

Abelas leaned forward. “You wish to see me smile, Lethallan?”

“No, Lethallin,” Eirwen said. She tilted her head, lifting her chin. “I take it as a personal challenge.” She grinned. “I must convince you.”

“There might be a way.”

“Oh?” She scooted forward, her hand scraping on the stone. She stopped with fingers centimeters from his bronze gauntlet. Swallowing, Eirwen stared into his eyes. “I’m all ears.”

“It will require an act of great surprise.”

“Will it?”

“Yes,” Abelas said. “My concentration is not so easily broken.”

Eirwen slid a little closer. “It’s not?”

“It may involve extreme dedication.”

“Hmm,” her eyes flicked up to his nose, then his forehead. She bit her lip. “Bet I could do it in one.”

Abelas leaned closer. “Are you so—”

Popping up, Eirwen slid her hand around his hood and pulled him forward. She pressed her lips to his brow. His skin was cold to the touch, her mouth warm. Mythal’s vallaslin burned on her lips, left her tingling.

“Confident?”

She leaned back, dropping onto her heels.

An odd, gravelly laugh shook the air.

Eirwen grinned, crossing her arms. “See,” she said. “Got it.”

“Indeed.” A tiny smile twitched on Abelas’ lips. “You are a wonder all your own.”

Kiss on the shoulder:

The bed sheets rustled as Eirwen kicked them away, disrupting the tall pile of missives in front of her. The towering stack shuddered, shifted. One foot catching on a glittering, golden blanket and she tumbled backwards. Hitting warm skin and a sold, broad chest. A pair of hands settled on her shoulders, rough callused fingertips and palms rough and tingling as they slid down her arms. A sharp chin rested in her hair. Then, those solid arms closed around her and Abelas pulled her tight against him.

“Indeed, Lethallan,” he said. “You are feisty in the mornings.”

“Abelas!” She held up a sheet of parchment. Thick lines smudged beyond all recognition. “I’m working!”

His legs kicked out on either side, thick thighs closing around her, cinching her waist as he flopped into the pillows. “I know,” he replied. “In the time we spend together, it has grown increasingly clear.” His head tilted, sharp cheek brushing against her temple, he murmured, “you never stop.”

Trapped by his arms and his legs, she wriggled. One hand clenched around her quill, the other dropping the crumpled paper to the bed. Whipping up the feather, she stretched toward his finely tipped aquiline nose. Thick black ink dribbled on her stomach, catching on her elbow, slipping off onto his forearm. She turned, the fine hawk tail feather twitched on his skin.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his nose wrinkle.

His arms squeezed tighter.

“There aren’t enough hours in the day,” she said.

“And you determinedly make them up with your nights,” Abelas replied. “You sleep, perhaps, four hours?”

She frowned. “Maybe.” The feather twitched again, twice as fast. “How do you know?”

“It is the minimum requirement,” Abelas said. His mouth slipped over the surface of her cheek. Rough bumps of old scars moving against her skin. The hot rush of his exhale, the shivering pull of indrawn breath skating on her nose. His words a warm whisper in her ear, “this pace you cannot keep.”

“I know.” Eirwen sighed. “There’s just so much to get done.” She leaned forward, collecting another sheaf from her stack. “See? From the Comte de Montfort!” Waving it under his nose, she let out another exasperated groan. “Wants special reparations for the Inquisition’s actions regarding the abduction,” she emphasized ‘abduction’ with an ironic twist, “of nearly twenty livestock. Though they were removed at his farmer’s request due the area’s rifts and demonic activity, they have since been returned.”

“Then he deserves nothing,” Abelas said.

“He claims emotional damages, the event has been highly traumatizing to his family.”

“Does he view the druffalo as blood kin?”

She giggled. “I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “Josephine thinks he has dowry concerns for his three daughters. Combined with a meager winter, a rise in opportunistic raiders following displacement in Orlais, he obviously needs coin from somewhere. I should put him in the trouble pile, shouldn’t I?”With a sigh, Abelas plucked the parchment from her fingers. Lifting it up, she felt his lips move against her ear, shifting in time with his gaze as he read. Finally, after a few moments, he sighed again.

“What?”

“Shemlen script is vexing.”

Eirwen flicked his nose with her quill. “If I, a slow-witted and flitting Dalish shadow, found it within myself to be able to learn then I’m sure the great Abelas can—”

His teeth closed on her ear, then shut with a snap.

She jerked against him, gasping.

A pleased chuckle rumbled against her back. “Even in Arlathan, we had such nobles. Fools all, yet even the most powerful have those whose whims they must bow before. I suppose pacifying him will be necessary?”

“He apparently has connections to Northern trade routes through the Anderfels.”

“I believe I begin to understand,” Abelas nodded. “Those we will need if we are to secure lighter tariffs for that elven caravan out of Toulon.”

“Mmm,” she nodded. “I can’t afford to get rid of him either. The Comte is mostly stable, runs his city and estates well, is fair to the vast majority of the populace, and he has an elven mistress whose pet project is introducing more elven merchants into Toulon’s main trade district. More, it’s a region hub. Whatever trends there may spread to surrounding areas.”

“May I never understand Orlesians and their desire to rule social politics through what is fashionable,” Abelas said.

Eirwen laughed. Then, her eyes fell back to the sheaf of parchment. Glumly, she sighed. “The whole thing’s going nowhere if the Comte can’t provide for his daughters.”

“Your Lady Josephine offers another solution.”

“Marriage for his eldest to a prominent merchant family’s second son in Rivain, I know.” Eirwen sighed. “I just hate this business of using women as bargaining chips.” Her mouth yanked sideways. “It feels like every problem opens a gate to twenty more.”

A gentle kiss brushed her shoulder. “Or,” he said. “You are avoiding the obvious.”

Pursing her lips, Eirwen picked up another missive from the pile. She leaned back and rested her cheek against his. His arm encircled her waist, warm, strong, and supportive. “I guess,” Eirwen said. “I’ve been having issues controlling my dreams.” She turned and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t even want to go looking for Solas, but my dream self hasn’t gotten the message.”

His mouth quirked. A sad smile, not an unusual expression for him, but this one was commiserating. “Ir abelas, Lethallan,” he said. “This is one area where I can offer little assistance.”

“I know.” She rolled, sliding down his chest, and buried her nose in his neck. “I just thought you should.”

Abelas shifted, unhooking his legs and adjusting so she could lay comfortably. One arm dropped lower, his fingertip tracing the curve his hip. Warm breath tickled her hair. With his free hand, he tossed the report back to the bed. “Ma serannas, Inquisitor,” he murmured. “It is unexpected, but not unappreciated.”

“Eirwen,” she said.

He paused. “Eirwen.”

“I don’t want to keep stuff from you,” Eirwen said. She closed her eyes. “I think I’ve had enough of lies, half-truths, misleading stories, and outright misinformation.” She groaned. “I just want one place in my life where I can be honest.” Her nose nuzzled the curve of his neck. “From here on out, Abelas, it’s an open door honesty policy.”

“Then,” Abelas said. “In the spirit of honesty, I must tell you the truth.”

“Oh.” She snuggled against him. He was warm, surprisingly comfortable for a man with so many hard edges. Warm, comfortable, and oh, so safe. Lashes fluttering, she yawned. “No.”

“You cannot run from this forever.” Abelas’ warm voice rumbled from his chest, low and deep. “You must face these dreams.”

“Knew you’d say that.”

“Common sense dictates all.” Abelas chuckled. “It is possible these do not mean what you believe.”

She sighed, her arm flopped on his chest. Left leg stretched sideways. Drowsily, she murmured, “what if they do?” Fingertips traced the cross-shaped scars on his chest, finding the bumps of old burns, of battle wounds. “I’m not ready, Abelas.”

“You are, Lethallan.” His lips moved in her hair. “You are stronger than you realize.”

Lips drifting against his neck, Eirwen swallowed. “What if I don’t want to be strong?” she asked. Sitting up, she studied him. “What if I’m tired of it?” Her fingers followed the curve of his cheek, down to his sharp chin, and across to his lips. Leaning down, she smirked. “What if I want to be weak and helpless, and swaddled like a babe. You know, just weak, weak, weak—”

He yanked her down, their lips meeting in a slow, gentle kiss.

“You are who you are,” he murmured. “Should you asking for a handicap on the practice courts, however, I may oblige.”

“Oh!” Giving him a solid thwack with her knuckles, Eirwen grinned. “I like that! Admit one little weakness,” she sang, “and they all try to take you for the full ride!”

Abelas laughed. “Indeed.”

“Indeed, indeed,” she repeated, kissing him again.

Lavellan/Companion

Kiss on the cheek:

Varric spent hours writing by the fire. He had a rather comfy chair, easy access to all the nobles and merchants he might wish for, and a great view of the main hall. Bits of conversation floating past provided fodder for stories and for Nightingale. He passed on more than half of what he learned, kept the rest. It was easy to focus here, he liked being in the thick of it. In a central area filled with people. Ones who always stopped to talk, stopped to chat, checked in for a story.

This place though, it was clean. Skyhold lacked the stench of piss and stale vomit he’d long ago come to associate with home. Every morning, the floor was swept, the fireplace cleaned, a few more stone masons and artisans fixed the cracks in the stone. Made the Great Hall a little nicer, a little nobler, a little less like the Hanged Man. All signs, he supposed, that he’d come up in the world.Yet it all felt just a little emptier, just a little more lonely, and he was a little less necessary. An alcove and fireplace weren’t quite the same as a big ass armchair in the center of the Hanged Man.

Hanging loose with his friends after a day’s work and drinking ale that tasted like hog piss. Listening to Isabella curse up a storm as she stole Fenris’ money at Wicked Grace. Watching over Daisy as she tried to navigate her way between the bar and their table without getting either her money stolen or hit on by a cavalcade of men and women. Ignoring Anders and his ongoing talk of a manifesto. They’d lost track of Choir Boy, but his fondest memories of Hawke still involved some pranks at his expense. The waitresses who knew his name and always had a few drinks ready.

Those were the days when he wondered what he was really doing here. Then, the Inquisitor swung by, leaned one hand down on his armchair, and planted one, big, sloppy kiss on his cheek. Quick and fast, then she was gone again. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, the bloody Herald of Andraste striding off on other business, whether it was to talk to another of her Inner Circle, deal with a renegade merchant, or personally put in some requisition or other to aid their soldiers.

He grinned.

No matter where he was, Varric remembered, some things never changed.

[obsidianmichi]

At the Arlathvhen, Eirwen Lavellan reflects on her relationship with Solas and how her life has changed. After she finds herself moodily drunk in the woods at Fen'harel's statue, Abelas offers her a supportive shoulder to lean on.

Rating: T

Pairing: Abelas x Lavellan, Abelavellan, Post-Solavellan

Fluff n’ Angst, Post Game

((I usually don’t cross post my stories unless they are porn, this is not porn. 1) I usually write my stories in word and then transfer them but Tumblr has become difficult in the last update. 2) I’m lazy.))

[obsidianmichi]

Working on prompts, currently in the depths of Abelas x Lavellan hell. Like why so cute? Whyyyyyy? (Oh so cute... cute babies...)