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halla-hunts-the-wolf · 3 years ago

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A short-story preview.

Set in a story where years down the line, Fen'harel has yet to destroy the Veil, but his plights are making all of Thedas weary of the modern elves.

Four Dalish elves band together to avenge a massacre. Will they inflict Justice or Vengeance on those responsible? And what secrets will they uncover along the way?

Warning: Violent acts & Character Death.

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On the outskirts of Ansburg, a Dalish settlement had been destroyed.

They had been camping beside the coast, where a river drained off from the ocean.

They’d thought that the lack of freshwater would make the paths less favorable towards merchants or humans in general. Their aravels had been pitched and their halla let loose to graze.

They lasted three days.

On the fourth day, when two cloaked riders closed in on where the Dalish were meant to be, the stench of death still remained, carrion birds harvested bodies, and a started fire had laid waste to everything.

Blood ran the river red by the time the two riders reached the desolate camp.

Their movements became slow and they approached with caution; anticipating an ambush, but all they were met with was the silence that the massacre left behind.

“Maker,” one of the riders mumbled, bringing his arm up to cover his nose. “Who could have done this? Do you think it could’ve been Fen’harel?”

“No,” the other rider says, his voice somber and distant. “No, these elves were not his enemies and they did not deserve his wrath.” As he spoke, he would have abandoned his mount, an older Dracolisk, beside the river. Carrying on by foot, he would assess the carnage. Bodies lay to waste around him, many of which were missing their pointed ears. It was sickening, deplorable, and a byproduct of fear. “Even so, this act is unforgivable.” His voice would crack, overwhelmed by anger and grief. “There are so few of our people left, and the only thing they have done is chosen not to take a side in this foolish war.”

“The war that we are fighting.”

“Yes, because even though it is foolish, it can not be ignored. Not when innocent people are being slaughtered like this.” The second rider would crouch down, to close the eyes of an elf who was staring up at the sky. “Falon’Din enasal enaste.”

“What are we going to do now, carry on to Tevinter?”

“We are going to bury them, and find those responsible.”

The first rider lets out an exasperated sigh. “Lavellan, we don’t have the time-”

“- Then we make time.”

The first rider says nothing more, hanging his head in silent compliance.

They spend their evening in this way, gathering bodies and offering them final prayers. They didn’t have the means to do a proper ceremony, but they would do their best with heavy hearts.

Nightfall had soon come and gone, and as a new dawn broke across the sky, the two men sat across from each other, swallowing down their rations despite lacking a proper appetite.

“So you didn’t find your dalish contact amongst the dead?” The first rider would ask, his bright green eyes were growing red, as he fought the need to sleep. Only in his mid-twenties, and a recently freed slave of the Tevinter Imperium, he was not used to the constant traveling and combat he had to endure while shadowing the former Inquisitor. He rubs at his face, hands running across his mutilated vallaslin. The branches that spread over his cheeks had been cut into and burned by his former master, when he was only eighteen and freshly kidnapped from his own clan. “Perhaps he went after those responsible?”

“No,” Lavellan would shake his head. “Ryland would have waited for us, had he still been alive and of his own free will.” The older elf would be fiddling with a string around his neck. He clutched at the sending crystal as if it was his life line with one hand, while the other, a prosthetic, would be clutching a potion. “This group was made up of smaller dalish clans, ones that were left abandoned by their clanmates when they joined Solas. Ryland was traveling with them, to bring them to another encampment on the other side of Nevarra.”

“That was very noble of him.”

“Yes, and I’m the one who asked him to do it.”

“You can’t blame yourself for what happened, and drink your potion.”

Lavellan would stop fiddling with his necklace, taking to unscrewing the cork of the bottle in his hand. “If we had gotten here a day sooner Ma’hallian, we may have prevented this from happening entirely.” He would down the bottle in one go, guzzling it’s dark purple liquid, looking as if he’d just bit into a lemon afterwards. “This thing could be a poison.”

“A poison that keeps you from keeling over in pain.” Ma’hallian would remind him gently, before reaching out to take the empty bottle from the other man’s hands. “And we didn’t get here a day sooner, so we have to keep moving forward.”

“We will, as soon as the person responsible is brought to justice.”

The white-haired elf would lean forward, fixing the former Inquisitor with a narrowed gaze.

The older elf was on the cusp of fifty, with silver streaks in his long chestnut hair and wrinkles overtaking his darkened skin. These days, his hands shook whenever he lifted his sword, and his amber eyes always smoldered with conviction. “Is it justice you are after, or is it vengeance?”

“The two are not so different, when faced with a situation like this.”

“We both know that they are.”

Lavellan hated being shown up by his assistant, someone who could be so callous and shy towards the rest of the world. The boy had spent the majority of his life either in solitude or servitude and yet, he still managed to come out of it with a remarkable sense of responsibility and level headedness.

“I-” He does not get a proper sentence out, as a distant sound causes his ears to twitch. Ma’hallian hears it too and they rise to their feet.

Ma’hallian draws a dagger from his belt and Lavellan pulls free his sword from its sheath. They approach the source of the noise with silent steps, until they are looming over the site of a destroyed aravel. It’s red fabric and splintered wood had made a heavy pile, and something dared to move beneath it.

“Careful,” Lavellan murmurs, “it may be an abomination that’s risen.”

Leering forward with one foot, the elf would kick the debris away, his sword poised to strike down, but he would stop just short of skewering another elf.

An elf also nearing his fifties, with deep red hair that was coated in soot and streaked with soft greys. His face, while well defined, was covered in laugh lines and scars alike. They danced along his vallaslin for Ghilan’nain, etched in blue to match his eyes. This new elf stares up at them, as a cough rattles throughout his chest and past his lips. “Well, hello your highness. I survived then? Unless you managed to finally kick the bucket too.”

“No, Ry, you’re just that lucky.” Lavellan would put his sword away before holding out a hand, hauling his former partner from the aravel. Eyeing him wearily, in search of any wounds that could prove fatal.

“Ah well, what can I say? The universe loves me.” Ryland dusts himself off, wincing as he does so, but seemingly unharmed save for a few aches, bruises, and perhaps a concussion after being crushed beneath one of their landships. “How bad is it?”

“You’re the only survivor.”

The red-head takes in a sharp breath. “That can’t be right. Where are the bodies?”

They take him to the people who they had wrapped or covered, ready to be buried, as time permitted them. He looks them over, with blue eyes watering, before he shakes his head. “There were younger elves here, children, and a mage. None of them are with the dead.”

“Perhaps they perished in the fire that ravaged the camp?” Ma’hallain offers, supervising Ryland as Lavellan wanders off to their mounts. “Or animals picked off their remains?”

“You are a grim young man, Ma’hallain, but no. The only scavengers in this area are the birds, and they wouldn’t be able to devour a body within a day, let alone a dozen or so. The person responsible for the siege must have taken them.”

“And who was responsible?” Lavellan had rejoined them, bringing a fresh pair of clothes to Ryland from his carry on.

“There’s a human settlement nearby, Ansburg? They’ve recently come into new leadership and the man appears to be terrified of us knife-ears.” Ryland would strip there, pulling his otherwise tattered shirt over his head and tossing it to the ground. Lavellan would hand him the clean one and Ma’hallian would have the decency to look away as he took off his pants as well. “When the local militia arrived, I told them that we had no ties with Fen’Harel or the Qun. They said that they were under orders and at the end of the day, all elves were the same.”

“Yet they would never claim that all humans are murderers, would they?”

“Fear is bred by ignorance, highness. They’ll get what’s coming for them.”

Lavellan would grumble, “Did you at least scout Ansburg when you first made camp?”

“Course I did, seemed like a normal shemlen village. Smelt of rotten fish and wet dog. There weren’t any elves, but I didn’t find that odd. There aren’t many flat ears left in the smaller settlements.”

“Did you find where this new leader lived?”

“It was the first thing on my list, but something seemed off about it. The whole village was sort of dreary, but his estate was shimmery, almost. Like the stones were reflecting the light.”

Ma’hallian snaps back to attention, his ears drooping just so. “That sounds like warding, and a very obvious one. I bet he is using it to scare others away, people do that in the Magisterium. Either to scare the already fearful, or to make a spectacle out of something valuable.”

“So we’ll need a mage?” Lavellans asks.

“Unless warriors suddenly know how to dispel things? Rogues most certainly do not.”

“Oh,” Ryland would croon, “Do you know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like a call to Dorian. Tell him I said hello, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to know that I survived.”

Rolling his eyes, Lavellan would turn away from the other men. Knowing that Ma’hallian was glib due to his many years living in darkness and Ryland was only using humor to cope with the carnage around them.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dorian pavus #lavellan #original character #post trespasser #pavellan

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pine-lark · 4 years ago

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later at night

Hi so last time you heard of Ven in “soup” was when he was just starting to let his sympathy get the best of him, right? Well, I have a bad habit of skipping around in timelines, and this is a big leap! There’s a lot of development coming in between these drabbles but for now it’s just… a BIIIIG jump from “hi I’m a decent person now probably” to “oh look they’re in love now”. So uh. Without any context or further ado, enjoy! ✨

(also, for those of you who looked at the masterlist going, “wait wait wait…. RECAPTURE ARC???” uh…………. Yeeeeah. About that. *slips into vent*)

CWs: tiny!whumpee, tiny!whumpers, tiny!caretaker, romance (nonsexual- these are my lil tiny hopeless ace romantics!!), forced nudity (nonsexual), implied recent noncon/aftermath of noncon, captivity and implication that only some captives are ‘allowed’ clothing, implied starvation, implied wing whump/amputation, implied reluctant!whumper/caretaker dynamic where Ven essentially has no choice but to participate in the torture of Arion and then comforts him when no one else can see, this is generally just a pretty sad drabble about Ven sacrificing the few things he has for Arion who he feels needs it more.

Arion’s legs collapse when he tries to stand, so when he slips into Ven’s cupboard, quiet and hurting, he’s half-crawling, half-sliding. He’s a mess. A bleeding, aching mess with sharp, pained eyes and tear-stained cheeks, still red from the backhand slap and the following deep, burning shame. He feels horrible. Used. Disgusting. Uncomfortably warm, that same sickening feeling on his skin that a fever may invoke. But it’s not a fever.

Being completely spent, with no more energy to spare, his arms tremble to a halt once he’s within the safety of the cabinet’s walls and he collapses right there, headfirst, one limb failing at a time.

“A- Arion?” Ven yelps from somewhere in the room, surprised and panicked and heartbroken all at once. Arion barely registers Ven’s hurried footsteps before he’s at his side, handing him a thin, worn blanket to cover with, brushing careful, fleeting hands over his shoulder and through his hair. Ven’s black wings move to shelter him, to hide him from the lingering gazes and hands that aren’t there anymore, but still stain like ink in his mind. “Arion… what- what did they do to you, what did they- Ari…” His voice drops to a hoarse whisper as Arion breaks into sobs. Ven reaches for him, pauses to ask before touching. Gathers him in his arms.

Arion seems thinner than he was the last time Ven held him. His hair is matted, greasier, thin. Brittle. All of him is brittle. Ven’s noticed his healing is slower than it used to be. It only took a few days to mend his own bones when he first got here, Ven remembers, after Heston lost it and broke both Arion’s legs with the big sledge hammer that always had hung near all the knives. Ven had cowered then, safer in his cabinet with his hands over his ears, backed up in the corner with wide eyes as he heard the screams and Heston’s yelling. You thought you could run? Just thought you could pack up and leave? That you had a right to go to some nice little house, and heal and sleep and eat like a pig, and you thought that was fine?

His body had healed quickly then, from nearly a year of mending, nearly a year of being safe in a warm cabin with someone there to protect him. But now… now it’s been a week, maybe two, since Arion had been knocked off the garage desk and crippled; and he still limps, if he can even manage to walk at all.

The blanket, the one that’s been there even before Ven, is scarce and small and full of holes and barely covers Arion, let alone keep him warm. It’s been passed from captive to captive over the years, Ven assumed, until finally it was himself who landed the luck to be placed in a cabinet like the others, and not a cage.

Ven’s stomach lurches. It wasn’t really luck, though, was it.

Arion chokes on his own tears and coughs at the breath that catches in his cracked ribs. He shifts closer to Ven, arms to his chest, nuzzles pleadingly at the collar of Ven’s shirt. Closer, please, closer, hold me closer, the gesture says, but Ven’s afraid of holding him any tighter, afraid of brushing up against an open wound, afraid of hurting what’s already hurt. He presses a kiss to Arion’s temple, instead. “Want to lie down?” he whispers. “We can lie down on my mat.”

He nods in answer but as soon as Ven shifts to stand, Arion’s voice breaks, his fingers tuck into the folds of Ven’s shirt with a white-knuckle grip, he holds tightly to him with renewed desperation. Don’t let go, he says, words broken and taught and barely audible, please don’t let go, please, don’t let go of me, I need you, I need you, and by the time he says those last words his voice is gone and he’s just mouthing them. Just silent, heavy truths.

Ven hushes him in the gentlest, most patient voice, weighted with the sheer ache nested deep within his chest. “I won’t. I won’t,” he promises. “I’m not letting go, Arion. Not until you ask me to let go. I’m here.” He moves to stand once more but this time he makes certain to keep a firm hold on the other shaking arivie. “I’m here, I’m staying,” he murmurs. “They won’t find you here.” With some effort he helps Arion to stand, but only so that he can easier sweep him off his feet, and carry him the rest of the way.

Ven’s mat is no nest, and it’s no dollhouse bed. It’s dirty and worn and the old fabric is itchy but it’s so much better than the floor, so much better than the cage. Arion melts into it as Ven sets him down. The tension in his shoulders eases and the growing headache at the base of his skull begins to ebb. His breathing still hitches but its slows, deepens. Ven sits at the side of the mat, but hesitates there.

It doesn’t sit right with him, that all Arion has is the pathetic little piece of cloth to cover. Ven’s own clothes start to feel too hot, though he’s only wearing a black t-shirt and pants that feel of thin, synthetic fabric. He knows it’s wrong. Knows that Arion wouldn’t be here, cold and bare and terrified and starving, if it weren’t for Ven’s selfishness.

He’d still be at that cabin.

He watches Arion try to curl in on himself, draw his legs closer to his chest, move the flimsy blanket forward to feel less open, less seen, less vulnerable. Ven feels a sharp pang in his chest, just from the sight.

“Do you remember, when, when I said I would give you the clothes off my back, Ari…” he says, quietly.

Arion turns his head to meet his gaze.

“I, um.” He swallows. “I meant it, you know.” He thumbs the hem of his shirt, just a little too big and meant for a doll. He lifts his arms, pulls it over his head.

“Ven, I, no no no no no, you don’t, don’t have to-“

“Please take it.” He says. “Both. I- I’d rather you have them.” He watches the sad way Arion regards his long, pale scars. He hates having them uncovered. His skin starts to crawl. But it’s better than what he knows he’d feel if he deliberately let someone he loves go unclothed while he didn’t, while he held them but still wouldn’t let them have what he was unrightfully given. Ven swallows thickly against the crashing, threatening waves of guilt resting in his throat like a stone. “It’s not fair. Ari, please let me.”

Arion shakes his head, wipes away a few stray tears with a bruised wrist. “I-I can-can’t, can’t, can’t, I, I can’t, Ven, can’t. Don’t. You need- they’re yours.”

“I have wings, Arion, I- I’m okay. I’d rather it be me than you. I’d rather it be me.” Those words have more weight to them than he voices. I’d rather it be me.

Arion takes the shirt in his hands, but he doesn’t move to put it on. “I’ll, I’ll get them, I’m dirty, I-“

“They have a little blood on them anyway. I don’t care. Arion. Please.” He waits for Arion to shift to slip it over his head before he sinks his hands to his waistband- and Arion softly turns to look away- and Ven pauses only briefly at the vague breath of a horrible memory before sliding off the only other layer of clothing he’s allowed to wear. His wings circle around him, wrap over his sides like a long, thick black towel, and even still he feels guilty that at least he has that, at least he always has something.

Arion looks like he’s about to cry, as Ven hands that last piece of clothing to him. Like he’s about to refuse, like he wants to so badly, but he knows that it’s only out of love that Ven’s doing this and for that reason he can’t quite bring himself to. It’s as if this is some grand gift, the greatest sacrifice, something so tremendous that he can’t except and it shouldn’t be that way, it should never be that way. Ven whispers small assurances that yes, he still means it. Yes, take it. Really, he’s okay. He’ll be okay. He’s just fine. Please take it. Please sleep.

And even as he says it he knows that if anyone found them like this they’d both be dead or worse by morning. But, at this point, for both of them, to be alone and to have the opportunity for a little comfort among all the suffering…

It’s worth the risk.

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tagging: @whumping-every-day, @deluxewhump, @sola-whumping @haro-whumps, @inaridriscoll, @whatwasmyprevioususername, @kiretto-laorentze @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @ahorriblebimess

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maleficar-writes · 4 years ago

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Empress

Pairing: Female Lavellan/Solas

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Mildly Dubious Consent

Summary: Fen'Harel sweeps across the nations like vengeance, and all that will stop him is Ellana Lavellan as his wife.

On AO3: Link

He had razed Halamshiral and built in its place a palace of crystal spires that speared the heavens with their glory. Sunlight glittering off balustrades and parapets and reflecting off towers and arches blinded the devout and the apathetic alike. It was a castle meant to inspire wonder and awe, and it did those things well. It also inspired fear. Bone-deep, icy fear that clawed at the spine and twisted the stomach, and as Ellana stepped from her carriage and regarded the magnificent work of his magic, she felt that fear.

That terror.

Magic had built this castle. The magic of the ancients, once lost and now resurrected. By the man she’d called Solas. The man who was Fen’Harel.

That one name was enough to bring out a host of feelings in her, and fear was the least of them. Her emotions roiled inside of her, a confusing mass of sensation that left her dizzy and weak, and she hated feeling weak. If only she had time to sort through her thoughts.

Time.

He tantalized her with promises of time, coming to her in dreams as he swept across Thedas with his armies. If she would just give in to him, if she would come to him, if she would love him once again, he would give her immortality. He held her in her dreams, possessed of a strength she hadn’t seen in him before, and he’d stroked her hips, her back, her breasts. “Come to me, vhenan’ara, give yourself to me, and I will give you immortality and freedom and a heritage of pride.”

She’d spat in his face. “Look what pride has wrought,” she had snarled, and that dream had dissolved.

But he was nothing if not persistent. Night after night, he had slipped into her dreams, sometimes to whisper promises, sometimes to tease her body to the point of madness, and sometimes to gloat over all he’d done. How Fen’Harel had brought nations to their knees, causing mighty Tevinter to crumble and proud Ferelden to fracture. Orlais, he promised, was next. Unless…

Unless.

Ellana lifted her chin, set her expression into one of stony indifference. She refused to be cowed by his glory, even if she had, at last, agreed to his terms. Her hand in return for peace. She was bartering her body and soul for all of Thedas.

And some dark, awful part of her delighted in it. Her body thrilled to the knowledge that he wanted her so desperately that he would stop his tireless march in exchange for her. The death would stop because she was giving herself over to him. A god desired her beyond all other things.

She took a shuddering breath, horrified at the ache between her legs. It was Fen’Harel who wanted her, the architect of her people’s destruction and, now, the vehicle for their salvation.

Closing her eyes, she took a minute to compose herself.

She was alone, without any of her companions to offer council. She hadn’t dared bring them when she finally gave into his summons. She knew what they thought of him. Half of them wanted to crush him and were still dedicated to resisting him at every turn. The other half simply despised him.

“God or no god,” Vivienne had said with fury lacing her tone, “I will not bow to him.”

A hand touched her elbow, reminding her that she wasn’t truly alone. She allowed herself a moment of fantasy, that the hand belonged to Cassandra. Cassandra would murmur a line from the Chant, tell her she was strong, tell her she was making the right choice. But it wasn’t Cassandra’s hand. The hand’s owner was the only person Ellana’s honor guard.

Once the Hero of Ferelden, now Fen’Harel’s general.

Exerting a subtle pressure, General Mahariel urged her forward. Opening her eyes, forward she went.

In their traveling together, the General hadn’t spoken a single word to her. There were stories that spoke of the Hero as a quiet soul, so Ellana hadn’t expected great amounts of conversations. Maybe a few traded pleasantries. Instead, she hadn’t even received a hello.

Mahariel guided her into the great palace. Its insides were as grand as its outsides, all glittering and glimmering and, quite frankly, breathtaking. Overwhelming. The vaulted ceilings were so high she half expected to see clouds gathered at their peaks. Instead, the ceilings were painted to look like the sky, and starlight glittered in their far reaches.

Magic crackled over her skin. Even a warrior like her could feel it. It pressed all around her, a static force. It tickled her naked arms, ghosted up her legs, curled against her thighs. She stopped walking abruptly, taking long, slow breaths to steady herself. The magic felt like his. She knew well what it felt like when he touched her with the Fade, when he bent the Veil around her to caress her and leave her gasping. How many times had he done that to her in dreams? How many times had he sat, just watching, as he brought her to quaking orgasms with nothing more than the force of his will.

She swallowed a whimper, and still Mahariel said nothing.

So she straightened her back. She took a deep breath, inhaling sharply through her nose and ignoring the spice of his magic on the air. Lacing her fingers before her – ostensibly to appear composed, but truthfully to hide their shaking – she strode forward to meet her destiny.

Destiny, it turned out, was even more breathtaking than she could have imagined. Some part of her expected his throne room to be gaudy to better show off his power. It was not. It was simple, understated, made of white marble threaded through with rich veins of emerald. Golden mosaics on the walls were inspired by those they’d seen in the Temple of Mythal but were clearly crafted by Orlesian hands. They depicted scenes of elven liberation and magic. They depicted him, in his glory. But nothing about the mosaics was tacky. Nothing about any of it was tacky.

All around the throne room, conversations died. The words simply dried up, turning to ash that floated away on a cold wind. Just like her freedom. But this was the duty of a Keeper, and Ellana had no illusions about who and what she was. She was no mage, but she was Thedas’s Keeper now, and Keepers stood between the Dread Wolf and their people. She stood between him and Thedas.

As her eyes swept over the people, her heart broke. There was Tevinter’s once might Archon, now a trembling, broken man. There were rings of scars all over his body, as though someone had tried to flay him. Across from him, the King and Queen of Ferelden. They watched her with hollow eyes. Accusing eyes. If you had done this sooner, they seemed to say, our people would not have suffered and died.

She had failed.

Worst of all was the sight of Celene. Because when Ellana saw Celene, she realized that Orlais was not the last bastion of a dying world. Orlais had fallen long ago, and Celene… Celene was a shell of herself. Gone was the mighty, assured Empress. In her place stood a woman who wore the trappings of royalty without any of the power.

Briala stood beside his throne in the position of a favored retainer, and Ellana had a moment of clarity. Briala had been the first.

Finally, Ellana’s gaze shifted to him. Once Solas, now Fen’Harel, and her breath caught in her throat. He had turned from a missive held in Briala’s hands, straightening slowly. His every motion was grace given physical form. Power dripped from him, distorting the air around him. Gone was the unassuming apostate. The man on the ironwood throne, wearing cloth of gold and a cloak of midnight, crowned with flame, was a god.

His expression didn’t change from one of mild interest as he rose.

All around her, the court went to its knees. Ellana’s eyes darted from face to face, finding rage and hatred on some and devout reverence on others.

“Welcome home, my queen,” he said, striding down the dais. He stopped when he stood an arm’s length from her and extended his hand.

For Thedas, she reminded herself, but she was unable to keep her face as blank as his. He regarded her with the same kind of curiosity one reserved for ants. She felt her expression twist into one of pain.

She hated him. She loved him. She craved him. She despised him.

For Thedas.

She put her hand in his.

His eyes softened with heat and longing, and he drew her close. With barely any space between them, his magic curled around her like a palpable force. It swept over her skin, caressing her cheeks, her throat, the daring neckline of her gown. He’d give her the dress. She’d worn it as a sign of her submission, but she detested it.

“Andaran atish’an, vhenan’ara,” Fen’Harel said to her in a voice so low it rumbled between them. His eyes raked over her, lingering on the swells of her breasts.

“You summoned me,” she returned, trying not to stiffen at his greeting. Trying not to melt.

His brows rose. “Ah. I see it is to be like this between us.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushing her knuckles across his lips. His tongue flicked against her skin and she ground her teeth together, ignoring the flood of wet heat between her legs. “It need not be, ma vhenan.”

“You made it this way,” she said tightly, “when you abandoned me only to come sweeping across Thedas, killing everyone who stood in your way.”

“An act of justice for our people.”

“Murder.” She whispered the word, sharing it with no one except him. “Murderer.”

A grin tipped up his lips, but it was not kind. “You see yourself as Thedas’s Keeper though you are not a mage. You view this as a failing. You did not fail, vhenan’ara, this was as inevitable as the changing of the tides.” His thumb brushed over her palm, drawing circles against her flesh, and she shuddered at the prickling heat he conjured beneath her skin.

“You crushing Thedas beneath your heel? Doing to the humans what they did to us?”

“No,” he said, nonplussed. He leaned forward, into her space. The magic that wreathed him curled around her breasts, stroking her nipples through the thin fabric, and she sucked in a sharp breath. She strangled a whimper in the back of her throat as the fingers of his freehand brushed over her cheek. “You coming to me.” He chuckled lightly, softly. “And, soon, for me. I have long dreamed of this day.”

Drawing away from her but not releasing her hand, leaving her trembling and all but panting, he turned to his court. “Let us celebrate,” he called. “Let us feast, for our empress has come at last.” And then, shifting close to her, he murmured, “Come, vhenan’ara.”

Fire washed through her, fierce and sudden, and his magic pressed between her legs. She would have stumbled if he hadn’t taken her arm. Gasping, she clung to him as an orgasm tore through her, sudden and impossible to hold out against.

She lifted her eyes to him, not sure if she should be starting at him with fury or lust, and she found him gazing back with barely concealed lust. “Come,” he said again, gently, and an echo of the pleasure rolled through her, making her legs tremble as he brought her to his throne.

Throughout the wedding, which was vaguely Dalish, and the feast, which was also vaguely Dalish, he toyed with her. He fed her from his own fingers, leaned close to whisper filthy promises in her ear, and used his magic to stroke and caress every inch of her body. She could barely lift her goblet of wine she shook so badly, and when he noticed, he plucked the glass from her hands.

“Allow me,” he murmured, and he lifted it to her lips.

She despised his proprietary behavior, as if he had the right to bring her food and drink. What made it worse was that, now, bound to him, he did have the right. It was his right and his right alone, and there wasn’t a single person in the throne room who would stop him.

“Why do you tremble so?” he asked her as he brushed his thumb over the corner of her lip. His long-fingered hand curled around the back of her neck. Slid between her shoulders. The gown he’d chosen had no back, so his caress fell on naked skin.

“Fuck you,” she breathed, arching away from his touch.

Something like a tongue licked her inner thigh. Fingers of magic caught the crotch of her smallclothes, pushing inside to stroke through the swollen, wet lips of her cunt.

“I plan to.” His voice was so steady. So assured. As if he wasn’t using his magic to wring pleasure from every inch of her body. In public. Where his defeated enemies watched. “Slowly, Ellana.” It was the first time he’d spoken her name. “So very slowly.” He brushed his lips over her ear. “Ellana.”

She went rigid, clenching her hands into fists in her lap. The tongue licking her thigh turned inward. Apparently cloth was no barrier for magic because the tongue swept through her folds without any hindrance, and she gasped softly, all her muscles tightening even more.

“Ellana.”

“Enough,” she spat. “I’m your wife, your empress, at least treat me with respect.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he drew away from her. His hand lingered on her back, but the magic pressing against her cunt withdrew. “You are right, Empress,” he murmured, and he lifted a fruit from her plate, offering it to her.

After a second’s hesitation, she closed her lips around his fingers. Tit for tat, she figured, tucking the fruit to one side of her mouth. Her tongue swept over the tips of his fingers. Her teeth grazed his skin. When she released his fingers to bite into the fruit, he was watching her with wolf-like intensity, his eyes hooded. “Do not tempt me,” he said softly.

The remainder of the feast passed slowly for her, dragging by in agonizingly slow measures. His hand never left her back, and instead of being a comfort it gave her a sense of dread. Soon enough, that hand would be on her hips, her breasts. Between her legs. Before he’d returned, before he’d left her, he’d teased her mercilessly in the Fade, touching her until she screamed for him. But never once had he done anything but kiss her in the physical world.

No one had done anything more than kiss her in the physical world.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t wanted to bed someone. In the Clan, there had never been time, and then once she became Inquisitor, it had always been him, and he had always been very strict about where they drew the line for physical intimacy. After him, she’d had Cullen and Blackwall both being incredibly solicitous, but she could never bring herself to do more than kiss either of them. It just seemed wrong.

And now he was leading her down a shimmering hallway into a room draped with fluttering strips of cloth, a room where the light came from the walls themselves. There were no windows, only gorgeous, vaulted arches, and though it the night was chill, warmth seeped from the very stones beneath their feet.

Neither of them, she realized with a start, were wearing shoes.

He led her to the massive bed in the center of the room. Circular, it had no head or foot, but was laden with sumptuous blankets, pillows made from silk and velvet with gilded fringe.

For Thedas, she reminded herself as he stopped beside the bed.

He released her, lifting his hands to her face. Tilting her head back, he gazed at her with a soul-shaking tenderness, his eyes soft and gentle. He was so much taller than she was, towering over her.

The wicked part of her mind whispered, For you, Ellana.

Beside him, she was so small, so vulnerable. She once thought she was physically stronger than him, but she doubted that was true. He had magical and physical strength, the wisdom of ages, and she had nothing.

“You are terrified,” he observed, and she was.

With him staring down at her, she already felt naked. Her limbs trembled, feeling weak in a way she’d never felt weak before. Even standing before Corypheus, she hadn’t felt like this. Like she was giving away part of herself. It was for the greater good, everything she did was for the greater good. Part of her would die in this room, in his arms, so that everyone else could live. So the fighting would end.

Life was a series of sacrifices. Either you sacrificed yourself or someone else, but in the end, someone had to go to the knife. All she could hope for was a quick death.

Withdrawing his hands, he stepped away from her. She watched him, swallowing hard, trembling as her stomach twisted and turned. All the food he’d fed her burned the back of her throat, but she forced it back down. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her throw up. Then she thought maybe she should. Maybe it would turn him off her.

But she didn’t want to turn him off her. She just wanted things to go back to how they were before all of this, back to the times when he slipped into her dreams. When he—

All the breath left her. He had dropped his midnight cloak and shrugged out of his golden tunic revealing a body that could only be described as perfect. Seeing him in the Fade was one thing. In the Fade, things could be manipulated. He could manipulate them. Reality was… She licked her lips.

How was she supposed to hate him when he was everything she wanted?

“Ask me questions, ma vhenan,” he said as he settled on a padded bench. He didn’t look at her, but she didn’t feel as though he were being dismissive. Rather, as he unwound the lacing around his ankles and calves, he was offering her privacy. Or keeping his. “Let us relearn one another.”

She bit back a waspish first question. Demanding to know why he razed half of Thedas wouldn’t do either of them any favors. Instead, she asked, “How much older than me are you, then?”

He paused, his fingers hovering over his calves. Then he straightened, turning to her with a look of dry amusement. “I make many mountain ranges look young.”

“Cradle robber,” she muttered.

The most miraculous thing happened. He threw back his head and he laughed, a full, rich sound that made colors ripple through the air. She tasted those colors on her tongue, bursts of bright citrus, and felt them like silk against her naked arms and chest. Heat unfurled in her belly, a warm rush of need and want that had her panting.

“Was there ever any doubt?” he asked her when his laughter subsided.

She was still too stunned to answer.

He rose from his chair, naked except for his trousers, and he passed her, moving toward one of the walls. A mural covered it. A living mural of a great forest that stretched for miles, so real she thought she might be able to step into it. He touched it, brushing his fingers over the wall, and the scent of pine filled the room.

“Another question, perhaps,” he said, and he turned back to her, padding slowly toward her. He moved… simply. Still elegant, but not predatory. It was a man’s walk, not a god’s. It set her at ease.

“Do I call you Solas or Fen’Harel?”

“Are you asking who I am or which I prefer?”

She thought about it for a moment. “Solas was a mask you wore to bear your shame,” she said softly.

“Just so,” he agreed.

The setting sun poured scarlet and violet light across the room, across him, painting him in fire and midnight. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to see if his skin burned or froze, but she was afraid to. Afraid of what she might feel if she did. She wanted him, desperately, but he was still the Dread Wolf. She was Thedas’s Keeper. By that logic, she really should just give in to him.

“Fen’Harel,” she breathed, testing the name.

He reached out, his fingers brushing her chin. This time, when their gazes met, his was full of hunger. Desire. Heat flared in her in response, and he inhaled sharply. “Let me show you that it will not be such a burden to be my wife,” he murmured, his fingers sliding over her jaw, along the length of her ear. She shivered, allowing him to draw closer. “My Empress.”

She licked her lips, a flick of her tongue over dry skin, and he groaned softly. It was a sound of need, of weakness, of helplessness, and it made more of that delicious, electric heat crackle through her. A god wanted her. She made a god weak.

“Allow me to taste you, vhenan’ara.”

He’d moved so close that his chest brushed the tips of her breasts, a tantalizing tease. “Yes,” she whispered, hating herself for giving in. A Keeper stood against the Dread Wolf, and here she was giving in to him in the most primal and elemental way.

His mouth brushed over hers. It was hardly a kiss at all, just a simple caress. A strangled sound escaped her. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and drag him against her. She’d never had the patience for these sorts of kisses, these light, teasing, ephemeral things. When she kissed someone, she liked fire and heat, passion and torment. She wanted his arms banded around her like iron, wanted him to crush her to his body as he pressed her to the bed, parted her legs, and—

Wrenching back, gasping, she pressed a hand to her chest, staring at him. Such a light touching of lips should not inspire such a conflagration. But more than that, the ferocious depths of her desire terrified her more than he did. She wanted him beyond reason, with all the strength of her spirit, and it made her shudder with uncertainty and fear.

“Ma vhenan, my Empress,” he said, so gently, so kindly.

“I…” She choked on the words. “You…” She’d faced dragons and darkspawn and terrors untold, and the simple act of going to bed with a man frightened her more than all of them.

Because he wasn’t just a man. He was a god, the one she had been taught to respect and fear more than any other. And he was the man – the god – that she loved. With everything she was, she loved him, and that should make this easier. That should make giving herself to him simple. But there was all the hurt, all the pain, and the deep, yawning stretch of the unknown.

“What frightens you so?” he asked softly. He hadn’t put his hands on her yet. Though he stood achingly close to her, if she stepped back, his arms wouldn’t cage her. His eyes searched her face, bright with wisdom, and then he let out a quiet sound of comprehension. Of wonder. “Virgin.” He uttered the word with no small measure of awe.

Balking, she turned away from him, even though she was acutely aware of how close they were. How every breath brushed her breasts against his chest. How their breath mingled in the space between their bodies. “It doesn’t mean anything. I wasn’t…” She choked on the words. She hadn’t been saving herself for him. Before he left, she had fully intended on him being her first, but after that she just hadn’t wanted anyone else. It hadn’t seemed right.

One of his hands cupped the back of her head, his fingers sliding into her hair. He turned her gaze back to his, and his eyes were full of banked heat. Of want. Of predatory desire. She began to tremble.

“No, no,” he murmured, settling one hand on her hip. In spite of all the lust in his gaze, his touch wasn’t heavy. It was possessive, but not caging. He would let her run if she so chose.

Of course, he would probably chase her. And like it. She knew better than to run from a predator, from a wolf, so she remained in his hold, still like a deer.

“I’m not who I have or haven’t slept with,” she finally said, her voice strangled. She fisted her hands in the gauzy fabric of her skirt, twisting it, wringing it.

His teeth flashed. A feral grin. Animalistic. Unnatural. So much more than elven. “You are mine,” he growled, and he bent his face to hers, brushing his lips against hers in another of those wispy, ephemeral kisses. His gazed fixed on her own eyes, and she released her skirts to brace her hands against his chest.

He felt like fire against her palms. Fire fierce and deadly, like the sun had taken up residence in his form.

“People don’t belong to people,” she whispered against his mouth, shocked that she was arguing with a god.

“My Empress,” he returned, his voice like gravel, rough-edged and jagged. He stepped closed, into her, and she felt the hard line of his cock against her body.

Suddenly, she was in a memory, in the Fade, with him wrapped around her, kissing her, whispering the sweetest things against the point of one ear. His heart, his love, the breath in his lungs, the light by which he saw. His hope, his joy, his relief, his succor. He rubbed against her in that memory, her legs around his waist, their clothes a flimsy barrier between them. And then she was back with him, truly with him, in his arms. His lips were hot on hers, tongue tracing the line of her mouth.

She opened for him, needing that kiss to quench the fire he stoked inside her. Her arms slid around his neck, drawing him to her, against her, and it was all too much and not enough. She thought she might sob with relief that she was holding him again. That he was holding her. That it was real.

The minute his tongue touched hers, he changed. He all but dragged her against him, wrapping one arm around the small of her back so she couldn’t escape. She felt the strength in his embrace, so much greater than any man’s had a right to be, and her body answered it with a flood of wet heat and burning need. He snarled softly into the kiss, the sound one of delight not violence, and he moved her, pushed her, crowded her until her legs hit his massive bed.

Together, wrapped around one another, they tumbled down. He twisted to take the brunt of the fall, landing on his back with her on his chest, and still he kissed her. He devoured her. His tongue swept into her mouth and consumed her with a passion that stole her breath. With him, she didn’t need to breathe. He was all the air she needed.

She was trembling when he finally drew away from the kiss, his hand still in her hair, and it wasn’t from fear or uncertainty. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her, because he looked at her like there was no one else alive in Thedas. Like it was just the two of them. Like there was no such thing as time or conflict or anything else.

“I need to see you,” he said, and though it was a god’s command it sounded like the plea of a desperate man.

It gave her strength. Not the kind of strength it took to swing a sword or lift a shield, but the strength that women held over men, a sexual power of mystery and allure. The power of pleasure promised by the hollows of her body.

Straddling him, she pushed herself up, freezing when the motion brought her into contact with his cock. There were still his trousers and her smalls between them, but that pressure, that rub, arrested her entirely. She gasped, palms flat on his chest, eyes fluttering shut. Slowly, carefully, she rocked against his cock, like she had in so many dreams, and a little moan escaped her.

“Later, ma vhenan,” he said roughly, grasping her hips and stilling her.

“Now,” she insisted, trying to move in spite of his hands and not succeeding in the slightest. He was too strong, too firm, too everything.

“Later,” he said again, rising, trapping her against his chest. “Your gown. Remove it.”

She shot him what she hoped was a venomous look as she started shrugging out of the dress. The sleeves were just caps on her arms, there was no back so there were no buttons. It was a gown for an elven queen, something he’d commissioned and sent to her. Truthfully, it seemed made for slipping into, and out of, easily.

“No.” He stilled her with gentle hands, but his expression was intense. Intent. “You have me in your power, my Empress.” He leaned close, tipping his head to the side and kissing her softly, lingering for a moment. “Kill me with it,” he breathed against her mouth.

She was panting when he drew back, a little dazed by his words. Then, slowly, she rolled her shoulder and drew one of the straps down her arm.

A quiet groan escaped him, and his eyes followed the path of the sleeve. Watched her arm pull free. Fixed on the place her scandalous décolletage started to gape and sag. His lips parted as though he were about to speak, but he didn’t. He simply turned his gaze to her other arm and waited.

There again was that feeling of power. Of control.

Emboldened by his rapt attention, she pushed lightly on his chest. “Down,” she said. He gave her an arch look, and though it pained her, she added, “Please.”

“As my Empress asks,” he murmured, and he stretched himself across the bed, still watching her fixedly. Hungrily.

Astride him still, she felt the hardness of his cock rubbing between her legs, and she had to steel herself against the faint, burgeoning pleasure of it.

Slowly, she stroked her hand over her shoulder, dragging the sleeve with it, her fingertips trailing along her skin. She gasped softly, back arching, surprised by how her own touch sent pleasure feathering through her. When she released the fabric, her bodice sagged, falling away from her breasts. They were firm and high but terribly small, and she’d always been self conscious about them.

He stared at her breasts like they were the humans’ Golden City, like they were the most beautiful things he’d ever beheld. So she lifted her arms above her head, struggling against shyness, and arched her back.

A string of Elvish she couldn’t understand flowed from his mouth, and then his mouth was on her, on her breast, sucking her deep. She cried out, stunned by the shock of pleasure that tore through her, by the sudden fire that burst in her veins. Her body curled toward his, her head bowing over his own, and she shuddered as he suckled her, as his teeth worried one hardened nub. He bit her, just hard enough to hurt, then soothed the pain with a stroke of his tongue, and she was panting, gasping, barely capable of breathing.

“Fen’Harel.” She whispered his name, and he groaned against her breast, turning to the other. His hands swept up her side, lifting her breasts for his teeth and tongue and kisses. His hips shifted under hers, and she couldn’t stop herself from grinding against him. Rubbing over him. The motions were instinctive, needy, and felt so damn good.

Reality exceeded everything he’d ever done to her in the Fade. Which, admittedly, hadn’t been much. Their clothes had never come off. He’d never seen her. Never touched her like this.

His arms came around her, and he bore her gently down to the bed. Then he rose over her, staring, taking her in. The shyness overcame her then, and she started to cross her arms over her breasts.

“No,” he said firmly, catching her wrists in his hands. “Don’t hide from me, ma vhenan, my Empress.” He paused, briefly, before adding, “If you do, I will bind you to my bed. Let me drink in your beauty. Let me feast on the sight of your body.”

Her body flushed with heat at the same time her mind suddenly screamed protests at her. This was Fen’Harel. This was the man who slaughtered his way to his throne. Who had betrayed her. Who loved her, the forgiving part of her whispered. “Who talks like that?” she said aloud, her voice embarrassingly breathless.

He arched a brow. “I do. Hmm.” He ran his palm over one of her breasts, and she arched into the touch mindlessly, already addicted to the reality of him. “Hands above your head, Empress.”

She hesitated for just a moment before obeying, lifting her arms and dropping them above her head as commanded. His eyes swept over her, over her breasts and the toned musculature of her stomach. His fingers followed his eyes, dipping into the valley between her breasts and then following those lines of muscle. “You were always magnificent,” he murmured. “You still are.”

His fingers dug into the fabric of her gown and he pulled it down her legs in a single motion, pulling her smalls with the dress, and he tossed both aside. Leaving her naked. She cried out in surprise, feeling suddenly, terribly vulnerable. But instead of leaning back to stare at her, he stretched over her, curling her against him, and he kissed her.

He kissed her for what felt like hours. The tension in her melted away, replaced by sweet fire. Her body pressed against his, molded itself to his form, and he laughed into her mouth. She whimpered in response. One of his hands curled over her naked hip, pulling her leg over his, spreading her, opening her, and it didn’t frighten her. Instead, she arched against him as he ran his tongue over her lips, into her mouth. She moved sinuously against his body, his cock trapped hard and hot between them, and she moaned softly, eagerly.

“Please,” she whispered into their kiss, the fire inside her becoming too much. Too strong.

“Ah, my sweet Empress, what need have we to rush?” he asked, but he urged her onto her back, settling between her legs. Open-mouthed kissed scalded her neck, her chest. He laved her nipples with a rough tongue, and she shivered against him, whimpering. His hands swept over her sides, curling around her hips, and he rubbed himself against her, the friction of his clothing almost unbearable against her sensitive cunt.

His tongue traced the lines of her muscles. His teeth bit the arch of her hipbone. Then he drew back. He looked at her, splayed and open before him, and there was nothing but desire in his eyes. Hot, hungry desire, and she was too fascinated by it to be ashamed of her nakedness, of her openness.

One of his knuckles brushed over the outside of her sex, stroking her, and the electric pleasure of it bowed her back. She cried out, feeling as though she’d come out of her skin, and anxiety, sharp and terrible, replaced pleasure. Her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist to stop him.

“Release me, ma vhenan,” he said so softly she nearly missed the words.

Her eyes flew to his, and she realized she was pushing him. She didn’t want to push him. Well, that was a lie. She wanted to shove back against him. Maybe grasp his cock and stroke it to repay him for that caress between her legs. She wanted more power. More control. With his every touch, he stripped control from her even as he gave her power. Power over him.

“I…” How could she tell him the intensity of this was overwhelming her? Subsuming her? She felt like she was drowning, and it was wonderful and terrible at the same time. “I can’t.”

“This is no different from the Fade,” he said, prying her hand off his wrist. He kissed the tip of each of her fingers and then set her hand aside.

“I wasn’t naked there,” she whispered breathlessly, staring at his face like he was a solid anchor.

He slipped off the bed, and she didn’t know whether to feel relieved or bereft. But then his hands were at the sash holding up his trousers, pulling the knot free. He tossed the red slash of fabric aside, and she stared as he began stepping out of his trousers. Then she turned away, but not before she saw his cock, hard between his legs.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to focus on breathing. But breathing was next to impossible. She wanted him but was afraid of him, she loved him but she detested what he’d done. No, no! She was giving herself to him to save Thedas, not because she cared. Not because she wanted. Not because she desired.

She certainly didn’t want to see him naked.

What a lie that was.

She felt him settle beside her, felt his naked skin on hers. “Now we’re both naked,” he murmured. “Does that help?”

“No.”

His mouth found her ear, and she shivered as he traced the shell of it with his tongue. He took the point of it into his mouth, sucking lightly, and she whimpered. At the same time, his hand settled on her belly, and her eyes flew open as it crept lower. But curiosity kept her silent.

“I dreamed of touching you,” he murmured as he released her ear, as he kissed the tip. “Of dipping my fingers between your legs and finding you wet with your need for me.” She trembled as his fingers curled over her mound, slipping between the swollen lips of her sex. “I have often wondered what I would do to find you—” He broke off with a growl. “Wet,” he hissed, and she moaned as his fingers stroked her, teased her.

“Wonder no more,” she said breathlessly as he began a ruthless perusal of her body.

“Indeed.” He kissed her cheek, the corner of her lips. “Look at me, my Empress. Let me see your face.”

Shaking, she obeyed him as his fingers stroked her, caressed her, traversed every inch of her. He was meticulous but not dispassionate. Every time he coaxed a quiet moan or whimper from her, a restless, needy sound broke from him. His brows drew together, his lips parting. She bit hers, not to hold sound in or for any logical reason. Just because. It made him growl.

Then he slipped one finger inside her. She cried out, grabbing his shoulders hard enough to bruise, her nails digging crescents into his skin, and he snarled, dragging her against his chest. His finger curled inside her, moving hard and fast against tender, sensitive flesh, and she cried out again, her head falling back as her eyes drifted shut. All she could feel was the pleasure, the burning intensity of it, of him.

He whispered to her in Elvish as he stroked her, caressed her, as he burned her with that single finger inside her. She didn’t know the words, but she didn’t need to. She understood his intent. Either he was complimenting her or speaking filth, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was how he was touching her. It was so much more than having her own fingers inside her, so different. So surprising. He did things she’d never tried, stirring her, pressing against her, curling that finger against one spot that made her scream.

“Fen’Harel!”

He snarled against her neck, slipping another finger into her. His fingers stretched her, and there was a shocking, obscene pleasure to that. She let out a keening wail that transformed into his name and then into senseless pleas for more.

She thought he’d bring her to a swift completion.

Wrong. She was so wrong.

He tormented her, thrusting into her and building the pressure but never letting it overwhelm her. She was drowning in it, swept up in it, suffocating in it, but it was wonderful. He was wonderful, and she’d never known. She hadn’t guessed she would find this in the Dread Wolf’s arms, this pleasure, this mindless, aching need.

As he worked her body over, as she arched and twisted and begged senselessly for him to give her completion, he pressed his mouth to her ear. “Beautiful,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Indescribably beautiful. You are perfection, vhenan’ara, my Empress, my wife, and you are mine.” He snarled the word. “No one else shall ever have you. No one else will touch you, taste you, fill you. You belong to me.”

“Yes, yes,” she chanted, beyond any sense of arguing with him.

“My name, Ellana.” He all but purred her name, dragging it out with sinfully rounded vowels. Her body rippled around him, and he laughed, the sound delighted. “My name, and I will give you everything.”

Arching into his hand, trying desperately to get him to touch some nameless place inside her, she whispered, “Fen’Harel.”

His thumb brushed over her clit, his fingers curled, and she came with a shattered, broken cry. Pleasure coursed through her, burned her, scalded her. It devoured her body and left her empty and formless, a piece of clay for him to remake.

Before her orgasm died, he was between her legs, spreading them wide with his hands and dipping his head. She tried to stop him, to tell him not to, but then his tongue touched her, and she was lost. Oh, she was lost to everything except him, except his touch, except the sheer agony of him.

He consumed. He devoured. His tongue ran over every part of her sex until she was shuddering and trembling beneath him, until she was barely sensible. Every thought of resisting him was gone, replaced by the singular need to have him. To be had by him.

She reached out blindly, her back bowed as she gasped his name, and he laced his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing the scar of the Anchor on her palm. She cried out, gasping, for that simple touch made her burn brighter, hotter. He laughed against her, and the sound resonated inside her, shattering her, breaking her into a thousand little pieces as she came undone for him again and again, until she lost all sense of anything but the endless pleasure.

It was dark when he slid up her body, still holding her hand. It was midnight when he finally eased into her. “Ar lath ma, vhenan’ara,” he whispered against her mouth, and she drank in the words, unable to repeat them for her murmurs of more. More of him, more of his pleasure, more of everything he could possibly give her.

There was no pain when he was finally inside her, no discomfort. Only glorious, impossible fullness. She rolled her hips against him to test the feeling, gasping with delight at the pleasure that sparked through her. Her revelation of ecstasy made him laugh again, and his laughter delighted her. She’d never seen him so pleased, so happy. But his eyes shone as he braced himself above her and thrust slowly into her, taking his time taking her.

He brought her hand to his cheek, nuzzling against her palm, and then he kissed the green slash of light. It flickered, crackled. Then he licked the mark, and she whimpered, staring at him.

Releasing her, he bent his head to her lips, teasing her with promises of kisses but making good on none of them. She chased him as he thrust into her, his pace even and steady, until the friction of his cock in her became too much to ignore. Then she wrapped herself around him and pleaded for more, for something, for some end to their dance.

“Do you want it to end?” he asked her, his lips brushing her ear again. “I could make love to you until the sun rose over the mountains and bathed us in its light. I could make love to you until days turned to weeks, my Empress.”

She gasped, straining beneath him. Sweat slicked their bodies, and they slid together so sweetly, so perfectly, but it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” she whispered. “I want…”

“What do you want?”

She wanted to come with his cock inside her, but he was denying her that, keeping her on the edge. She wanted him as mindless as she was.

So she did the only thing that seemed logical. She bit him, digging her teeth into the unyielding flesh of his shoulder, and he howled. Her name echoed through his room, and then he was moving against her, driving into her, his hands on her hips to hold her.

Elvish words spilled from his lips, and she understood some of them, more of them than she expected. He spoke of filling her, of completing her, of branding her with his essence. He snarled softly and dragged her mouth to his, murmuring more words into their kisses as one hand slid between them to find her clit.

He touched her, and with that touch, he ended her. Her world dissolved, and she drowned in the shattered pieces of it, crying out his name as her body clenched around him, rippled around him, grasped at him with greedy pulls to drag him deeper. And again he laughed, the god and the man jubilant and victorious.

“You are magnificent when you come,” he told her, still moving inside her, but now his thrusts were harried instead of measured. “Your sweet cunt squeezing me, your back arching, your gasps and moans.” A groan escaped him, then another. Then his hand closed hard on her hip and he jerked into her, his head falling back and his lips parting. He breathed her name as he came, as he spilled hot jets of his seed into her pliant, open body.

Her fingers curled over his shoulders, brushed over the base of his neck. “Yes, yes,” she whispered, awed by his face, by his pleasure, by the look of utter freedom and contentment he wore.

When he was finished, he dropped his forehead to hers, and for a time they stayed like that, still wrapped around each other. Their gazes locked, they simply breathed.

Then, softly, as if the words might break her if spoken to loud, he murmured, “I have waited ages for you, vhenan’ara. You are the heart that beats outside of my chest.”

She smiled at him tentatively, and because the world and its troubles seemed so far away, she said, simply, “You are everything.”

#Female Lavellan/Solas #dragon age: inquisition #dragon age: inquisition fic #fanfic #female lavellan #solas #dai

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emerald-amidst-gold · 4 years ago

Note

If you're still taking OC asks, maybe 4, 33, 37 for Mhairi and/or Fane? 👀

This. THIS. Is a breath of fresh air that I really needed with the way my week has been going, so guess what? You get BOTH of my children! 😭😭

4. how did they feel about being called “the herald of andraste”?

Fane detests the title from the moment it’s uttered. No matter where he goes, or who he’s speaking with, if he hears it fall from their lips he usually shuts it down immediately. Fane is not a man of faith, and he never has been. He trusts in his sword, the world around him, and the will to think freely. Religion to him is like another form of slavery, and as a dragon, he saw what happened to those that followed those who proclaimed to be gods. So, to be referenced as a herald of a prophet of one? Ohhh, no, no, nooo. Fane’s more a herald of doom when that title is uttered. Also, while it angers him, it also frightens him because it is pushing the temptation of power into his hands, which Fane, throughout the course of my fic, has a hard time resisting. He also has issues with identity (especially after he learns his heritage), so constantly being no more than an icon pushes Fane closer and closer to the edge of that is his crumbling mind.

Mhairi, while far more gentile than Fane, hates the title just as much, if not more. She’s simply more subdued about it. Whereas Fane has no religious faith, Mhairi has tons, but only with the Creators. Mhairi more or less believes everything that the Dalish have taught, so when that is threatened or treated as just ‘stories’, she becomes similiar to Fane. She snaps, she bites, but she does it in a more tactful way. She’ll throw vague information about the Maker and the Chantry’s history back at whoever called her people’s faith ‘meaningless’. She’ll poke where it hurts the most as retribution, but usually feels awful for it later. Even so, Mhairi does eventually relent a bit, but she will never address herself as the Herald of Andraste. She simply becomes numb to it from other people.

33. are they afraid of anything specifically?

Contrary to popular belief, Fane is afraid of things--many, in fact. However, the one thing he is absolutely terrified of is losing himself--through insanity or who is he. This kind of pieces together with the last question, but the more Fane is referred to as something different, or something that reacts adversely to his nature as a dragon, then he gets closer and closer and closer to losing himself in insanity. He’s terrified he’ll lose himself so completely that he’ll end up killing someone he loves, or that person having to kill him. Solas already had to do that once, and the pain it inflicted was great, so Fane does not want it to happen again. So, he keeps the fear close, keeps it at the forefront, all so he can fight off what or who is attempting to change him.

I’m just gonna say it: Mhairi is fragile with a capital F. She’s twenty-one. She knows next to nothing about the outside world. And she had a very, very traumatic incident with a templar when she just came into her magic. The memory haunts Fane to do this day as well; more or less a failure in his life. However, Mhairi walked away with a scar, as well as how it felt to be silenced that day. To be helpless, to be seen as worthless, and no more than a pest, to not have a voice. Mhairi is terrified, terrified, terrified of not having a voice to shout with, to laugh with, to debate with, to defend herself with. It’s one of the reasons, in the few stories I’ve popped her in, that Mhairi’s so talkative and energetic. She’s compensating, hiding the fear with a smile and a loud tone. She wants to be heard, even if its annoying, and any time there at templars on the field, she nearly crumbles until Fane--ohhh, yeah--until Fane closes in on them. It’s another reason why Fane is so protective with Mhairi when she and Cullen begin a relationship. He’s watching, he’s observing, and hang any kind of acceptance if Cullen were to ever do anything to harm her.

37. do they like their skyhold pajamas?

Plain and simple: Fane hates them. While Fane does wear constricting leather bindings to hide his scars, he doesn’t like restrictive clothing. Also, he’s a 6 foot product of love and devotion that made him have a build like an Elvhen (I always like to think the ancient elves were taller if not larger in some regards), and a fucking dragon that was almost as tall as half a mountain! Even if tailored, those things would not work for Fane. He’s a slender muscled type, but not lithe, by any means. He doesn’t like his body being pointed out either, so the pajamas would make him feel self conscious. (I mean, this boy bashes his head into a stone wall every time Solas smiles at him, so you think he’d be able to handle Solas smoothly commenting about his body? Fane would fucking dissolve, and then attempt to put on far too many layers to hide.) Fane’s more into wearing leather armor that seals his body, and doesn’t draw attention to his leather wrappings. With Solas, he’s a little more open, but only in private.

Mhairi, however, doesn’t mind them! She just opts out the boots, and even adds her own personal flair at times! (stitching to represent her people, a different, lighter color, or adding accessories to make it pop). Mhairi likes to be comfortable while still staying stylish, so as long as she can adapt things, then she’ll wear whatever! (except Orlesian fashion. No one wants to wear Orlesian fashion. I mean, seriously.)

Thank you for the ask! ❤️❤️❤️ (*will take this ounce of serotonin with her to work because she needs it*)

#oc asks #oc: fane lavellan #oc: mhairi lavellan #dragon age #asks #thank you for the ask!#last two days have been rough for me so this was nice <3 #hopefully it'll help today go a bit smoother #i'm always up for answering questions about my children!

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heartslogos · 4 years ago

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newfragile yellows [879]

“Anything,” Solas whispers, taking Ellana’s hands in his own. Mythal doesn’t know if she’s ever seen the man look as such. Like a man. Her brother is so good at playing at being something greater. He could have given their parents a run for their money with how good he is at playing the enigma. "You know that I would permit you anything in the world. Anything I could give, I would. You know what your aunts and uncles and I would do for you, have done for you. Anything we can get is yours. Anything but this. Ask for something else, Ellana. We have lost you once already, do not ask us to let you go a second time.”

“I’d come back,” Ellana says. She sounds so, so sure of herself.

Solas’s thin mouth turns wry and Mythal touches his shoulder, gently pushing him aside to take her niece into a warm embrace.

“They always say they’ll come back,” Mythal says, casting a glance at her brother who closes his eyes and turns away.

“You told me that you foresaw a wonderful future for me. The curse of sleep you put on me was just the first step,” Ellana says, holding her aunt back. “It brought me my traveling companions. It brought me visions of the world — and there was so much to see. I did see the person you saw, but I saw other things too. The world is so big and I want to touch it like I couldn’t in dreams. I want to eat the things I saw, I want to wear the clothes I saw being made, I want to climb the mountains and sail across the seas. How could you expect me to be content with seeing and imagining? Everyone has their grand adventure. I want one too.”

“Being basically dead wasn’t enough for you?” Mahanon says from where he’s been sulking by the hearth while Ellana was explaining her plans to Solas.

“That was an adventure for other people to go on, one in which I was a passive observer and participant,” Ellana turns to her brother, bitter sharpness on her tongue. Mythal brushes Ellana’s hair, feeling the strands between her fingers. “The only relief is that I figured out how to speak, otherwise I would have been a mute observer as well.”

“The world beyond our domains is dangerous,” Mythal says, drawing her nieces attention back to herself. “There is a reason we stay in these forgotten places, these frontiers and unwanted spaces, the abandoned ones.”

Ellana narrows her eyes. “But you made these places abandoned. You made these into unwanted, hostile places. These places are the way they are because you made them so.”

“Out of self defense,” Solas says and Mythal shoots him a look to tell him to shut the hells up because she’s trying to convince his daughter not to go into the world of men and if he starts talking he’s inevitably going to screw it up by saying something that will attract Ellana’s vast and insatiable curiosity.

Ellana’s eyes turn to her father and she looks at him with inscrutable calm before saying, “And so shall I die, here, in the house in which I was once a baby, having never known a world beyond its doors? Because the world is wide and unpredictable and full of depth and complexity that a single mind would require a thousand lives to even catch a glimpse of understanding of such a vast weave? When you bury me will I be as ignorant as the day you first raised me up from my cradle? Is that the extent of my existence? Is that the life envisioned for me? Am I less than a hound or a cat? To be kept on a leash and tethered to my father’s and brother’s side until my dying breath?”

The men in the room flinch and Ellana turns to Mythal.

“Why was I given gifts upon birth if they were never meant to be used? Why bless me with charisma and capability? Why bless me with a promise of a future at all?”

“It is one thing if the world choses to come to you, Ellana,” Mythal says. “And it is another thing to dream. But it is another beast entirely for you to go into the world on your own. It is not something you are ready for.”

“Is it something anyone can ever be ready for?”

“No, but ideally that person would be more prepared than you.”

“Then prepare me. And let me go.”

Solas covers his mouth with a hand, eyes closing.

“Ellana,” he says quietly and she turns back to him. “The world beyond — the villages and townships close by our homes. They are used to us and we them. We have built a rapport over generations. It is different for those who have never interacted with us. We are not normal, we are not existences that the rest of the world understands. We are but stories to them. As your brother would also be. We are nightmares and we are the things they tell children about at night to scare them into proper behavior. There will be more doors closed to you than you think.”

“The world beyond hates magic,” Mahanon says. “They despise faerie, they consider spirits fake, and everything we consider beautiful as a great and malicious lie. Did you not see the wars? Did you not see the suffering?”

“Evelyn and Maxwell are from that world, the person I dreamed was in that world. And I can’t expect them to stay here.” Ellana’s gaze goes far away and her voice quiets. “I don’t think I was born to be hidden. If I am hurt and if I am made tired and angry then so be it, but it would be something and that is what is most important of all. I refuse to rely on the safety made by others forever. I will grasp my fate out of the stars for myself.”

#heartsfic #gather your party and venture forth

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novamm66 · 5 years ago

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Red Sky in the Morning - Chapter 17 – Safe Harbour

Find the Red Sky Master Page Here.

And if you prefer AO3 that is Here.

—-

Kiaya gulped as she stood at the base of the stairs, waiting with Cassandra. She could hear the ebb and flow of the sounds of many people gathered in the lower courtyard.

“Is it too late to change my mind?”

The other woman snorted. “I think it might be. Just remember, slow and steady, don’t look at the people directly if it makes you uncomfortable, and don’t drop the sword.”

The last startled a laugh out of Kiaya, and her smile came a little bit easier. “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, waiting for their cue, before Kiaya turned to Cassandra.

“I am really sorry about before. We should have told you. I should have told you before we left for Crestwood or when we got back. It was a mistake, I know. And I don’t want you to think I was siding with Varric.” Kiaya said, referring to the fight she had broken up earlier that day. “I just didn’t want you to kill him. I think you would have regretted it. Eventually.”

“I know,” Cassandra sighed. “I just wish…” her face was wistful for a moment before hardening, “It doesn’t matter. It is done.”

Kiaya couldn’t resist hugging her. “Just try not to hate him forever. I really need you both.” Kiaya said.

Cass chuckled. “I promise not to kill him, at least not right away.”

Kiaya laughed, “That works.” The two women pulled apart as they both saw Leliana motion to them from the landing. Kiaya felt her stomach heave as her nerves reasserted themselves.

“Tell me you have a bucket stashed somewhere close.”

Cassandra looked at her with concern. “Don’t be sick over the wall.”

“I’m kidding.” Kiaya managed a weak smile as Cassandra started leading the way up the stairs. Kiaya following a few steps behind. “Mostly.”

—-

“Kiaya?” Evelyn’s voice echoed up the stairs to Kiaya’s room.

“I’m here, Evie,” Kiaya called from where she sat, scrubbing at a spot of the rug.

Evelyn started speaking just as she reached the top of the stairs. “We need to… Why are you doing that?”

Kiaya grinned over her shoulder at her sister, but before she could answer, Cole beat her to it.

“Trying to fit the mould of what they need me to be. Nothing feels real.” Cole said, running his fingers down Shi’s back. He was sitting on the couch with the cat in his lap, their identical expressions of curiosity and innocence making Kiaya laugh.

“Not what I would have said, but not wrong. Shi was sick on the rug, he’s my cat, I’m cleaning it up.” Kiaya rinsed out the brush in the bucket next to her before picking up a rag and resuming her scrubbing.

“Nothing is more real than that,” Evelyn laughed, crossing the room and started to shuffle through the papers on the desk.

Kiaya climbed to her feet, picked up the bucket, and headed to the balcony to dump it. “Was there something you needed?” She asked as she came back in.

“Alone would be- Maker’s Breath!” Evelyn was staring at the empty couch. Both Cole and the cat were gone.

“You get used to that.” Kiaya smiled fondly at the vacant space. “You may commence your scolding.” Kiaya said as she put the cleaning gear away.

“What makes you think I am going to scold you?” Evelyn was trying to look stern but Kiaya could see the smile fighting to get through.

“You have that, Kiaya-is-being-an-idiot tone of voice.” Kiaya flopped down on the couch.

“Well, you are.” Evelyn crossed the room and sat down beside Kiaya. “You want to be coy and aloof about yourself, fine. But it’s dangerous and stupid. Why haven’t you told anyone about the extent of your injuries?” Evelyn grabbed Kiaya’s hand, worry clear on her face. “You haven’t been doing the therapy that would help you. Why are you hurting yourself?”

“Feel better?” Kiaya asked when Evelyn stopped.

“Not until I get answers.” Evelyn frowned at her.

Kiaya sighed, “I woke up in chains, in a cell, with no idea how I got there or why, and your name was the only one they had for me. The only reason I wasn’t executed on the spot was this fucking thing.” Kiaya dug her fingertips into the palm of her left hand as she held it out. “I was, I am, living on borrowed time. After everything that has happened,” Kiaya shuddered, “The Inquisition needed someone better. They needed someone who is not me.”

“That’s shit and you know it,” Evelyn stated. Kiaya looked at her in surprise. Evelyn rarely swore. “They need someone human, who thinks of others before they think of themselves, and for that you are perfect.” Evelyn’s face softened as she wrapped her arms around Kiaya’s shoulders. “You shouldn’t isolate yourself. It leads to bad places, remember? You need people, and there is no shame in that. Your friends here have fought beside you, bled with you. Why can’t you be honest with them?”

“The truth hasn’t always served me well in the past, and I’m just…”

“Scared.” Evelyn finished for her.

“Yes, I am scared,” Kiaya groaned. “I couldn’t bear seeing pity on their faces. Or worse.”

“This is not the same as the Circle, and no one is going to treat you like that again as long as I draw breath. You cannot survive this alone. You need to trust people. I think you should start with that gorgeous Commander of yours.” Evelyn suggested.

“He’s not my Commander,” Kiaya replied, rolling her eyes at her sister as her face warmed.

“The way he looks at you all gooey-eyed, he is yours. You have been in his office every night for the last two weeks. Just tell him already.” Evelyn poked Kiaya in the side.

“I am there getting help with writing reports. You know that, Evelyn. ‘My mother abandoned me like a stray dog and my father tried to kill me like one’ tends to be a bit difficult to work into Inquisition business, and it tends to dampen any pleasant conversation.”

“You are being an idiot. There, now I do feel better,” Evelyn said as she stood and crossed the room to Kiaya’s wardrobe while Kiaya laughed.

Evelyn began putting away Kiaya’s laundry as she continued. “Lyra will be here shortly with food and then I am teaching, her, Cassandra, Solas, and Dorian the exercises you need, so whether you are here or out there running around, you will be doing them.”

“Why not Sera too? She will get the most joy out of folding me into knots and making me squirm,” Kiaya said dryly.

“Good idea.” Evelyn laughed and Kiaya groaned.

“After that, you are going to stop being silly and tell Commander Cullen how you feel. You are leaving in two days and you won’t get another chance for ages.”

Kiaya watched her sister pulling out clothes. Tears pricked at her eyes. Evelyn always took care of her; she took care of everyone. Her tone brought back memories of a ten-year-old scolding her for tracking dirt on the library rug. “I am so happy you are here, Evie. I am so sorry for dragging you into this mess.”

“Stop that,” Evelyn said, pausing with hands on her hips to glare at Kiaya. “I started all this when I asked you to go to the Conclave for me and besides, the Trevelyan name has never done you any good before. I am going to make damn sure it does now.” Her voice and stance softened. “You are not alone in this. Now, get changed into something loose. We don’t have a lot of time.”

—-

Kiaya couldn’t concentrate. The letters on the parchment were dancing in front of her eyes and she couldn’t pin them down properly.

It had been a long afternoon. Dorian had brought wine, and her friend’s jokes and teasing had made the afternoon fun, but Evelyn had been thorough in showing everyone what needed to be done and it had left Kiaya in a lot of pain. Which was really her own fault. Kiaya’s months of neglect had resulted in very stiff joints, and the muscles in her legs and back were unbalanced. She had barely been able to walk by the time she arrived at Cullen’s office.

Also, she kept changing her mind about confessing her feelings to Cullen or not. Every time she made her decision another reason, for or against, would come to her and she was plunged back into doubt again.

“Kiaya, are you alright?”

Kiaya jumped. Cullen was looking at her with a half-smile and a tenderness in his eyes that always made her heart beat faster.

“I’m fine.” Kiaya croaked, her throat feeling dry.

“You just seem a bit distracted.” Cullen’s eyes flicked down to the parchment in front of her. Kiaya followed suit and discovered that she had dripped ink all over the page. It was beyond saving.

“Crap,” Kiaya groaned, looking up sheepishly. “I guess I am having trouble focusing.”

“Then we have done enough for this evening.” Cullen stretched his shoulders, rubbing his neck.

“This from the man who never stops working before midnight,” Kiaya said, glancing at the pearly light of evening outside the window. “I will pretend I believe you.” She looked back to the document in front of her and sighed, “I guess this one is kindling.” Crumpling it up into a ball, she tossed it into the wood box next to the fire.

“Let’s go for a walk.” Cullen said, “If you are able.” Concern appeared on his face; he had commented on her noticeable limp when she had arrived.

Kiaya smiled and nodded. “Moving might actually be better right now. It might help with the stiffness.”

“Evelyn was quite upset this afternoon. I take it she was hard on you?” Cullen asked as he put away what he was working on.

“I got an ear full, that’s for sure. As for how sore I am, that’s really my own fault. If I had been doing what I should have I wouldn’t hurt so damn much now.” Kiaya couldn’t stop the small groan as she stood.

Cullen held the door open for her. “Well, I’m not in a position to judge, so you will not hear a scolding from me.”

—-

The walk was Cullen’s idea but he was having trouble thinking of anything to say. Kiaya had fallen silent again. They had stopped along the back wall of the keep, and Kiaya was leaning against it, staring at the horizon with unfocused eyes.

The light played up the rich red and gold of her hair. Waves and curls had escaped the knot she had bound it in and they drifted around her face on the gentle breeze. Her eyes shone with soft grey light and she was absolutely...

“Beautiful.”

Kiaya turned to face him, the grey of her eyes shifting to blue as she moved.

“I, the sunset and view.” Cullen stammered. “It’s beautiful.”

Kiaya nodded as she looked back to the horizon. She seemed about to say something, but instead she shook her head and sighed instead.

“What is bothering you Kiaya? Maybe I could help.” Instinctively, Cullen reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering on her cheek.

Her eyes closed and she tilted her head into his fingers. Before Cullen could even register his surprise Kiaya spoke.

“I can’t decide whether my caring so much for you is a good or bad idea.”

Cullen froze, his hand still gently touching her face. His heart suddenly wanted to fly. Then Kiaya seemed to realize what she had said and she stiffened, her face the picture of surprise before she covered it with her hands.

—-

Kiaya was mortified. She had been so wrapped up in her own head, the moment he had touched her everything else had disappeared. When he asked, she answered without a thought, distracted by the warmth of his hand on her face and the care and concern in his voice. In all the scenarios she had imagined, both good and bad, none of them started with her blurting her feelings out like a ninny.

Kiaya felt Cullen’s hands circle her wrists. “Kiaya, look at me.” Cullen’s voice was gentle but firm. “Please.”

It took her a moment before she let him pull her hands away from her face and she opened her eyes. He had moved closer, and she had to look up to see his face. When their eyes met, her racing heart stopped dead in its tracks.

Cullen’s golden eyes were on fire. “Do you mean it? You care for me?” He asked.

Kiaya nodded, and he kissed her.

Kiaya’s eyes closed and her hands fisted into his shirt as she rose up on her toes to meet him. He tasted like honey and rainwater, mixed with the scent of leather and metal that always clung to him. It had Kiaya intoxicated instantly.

Their kiss lasted forever and it ended far too soon. Kiaya’s heels hit the ground with a thump, their foreheads touching as they caught their breath.

“I take it that you think it’s a good idea?” Kiaya smiled.

“A very good idea.” The two melted together again, kissing softly as sunset gold surrounded them. It was perfect.

—-

Cullen was more content then he had thought possible. Kiaya’s confession that her feelings matched his own had given him the courage to act, and he had done what he had been dreaming of longer then he would care to admit.

They had stayed on the battlements until the stars came out, but when Cullen felt Kiaya shiver he insisted they return to his office. Once they were safely shut away, they curled up on the couch with idle conversation between stolen kisses, gradually settling into a comfortable silence. Kiaya was curled into his side, her head resting on his chest. The gentle movement of her fingers stroking his was the only indication she was awake.

Cullen tenderly kissed her hair, inhaling the delicate scent of her, and she hummed quietly.

“Kiaya, how did you get hurt?” Cullen softly asked the question foremost in his mind.

Cullen felt Kiaya tense beneath his arm, her fingers stilling before they resumed their slow pattern. He was relieved that she didn’t pull away; in fact, she curled more tightly into his side.

“I was about fourteen, fifteen when my Grams told me how they found me. She gave me the Ostwick Chantry emblem with ‘Kiaya’ scratched on the back, and they agreed to my request to go there. The chantry had the record of my birth with my approximate age and the names of my parents. It listed my father as Lord Trevelyan. I decided I wanted to know more, but Papa was dead set against it. We had an awful row and I, as an almost adult, thought I knew better. I packed up and left.”

Kiaya paused. Cullen could tell this wasn’t easy for her to talk about. Her sentences were clipped, and she was speaking very quickly. He tightened his arm around her shoulders, waiting for her to continue.

“I travelled to the Trevelyan estate outside of Ostwick only to discover the family wasn’t there. So, I talked my way into a job in their kitchen, which didn’t go well because I can’t cook, and waited for their return. By the time they did, I had heard enough of the household gossip to convince me that I did not want to tell the Lord who I was. I was simply biding my time until the Raven came back to Ostwick and I could run home. Then I met Evelyn.”

Kiaya’s voice warmed as she spoke of her sister. “She was smart for a ten-year-old, and she knew we were blood the moment she laid eyes on me. She was so lonely after her mother died. Her father and brother were, are, nasty pieces of shit. She was thrilled to have a sister, and we agreed to keep my presence to ourselves. I was kitchen staff, and no one looked at me twice, so it wasn’t hard. I was there when Evelyn’s magic presented, and I was able to help her control and hide it, and she was teaching me to read and write. It was fun, like a game, sneaking around to spend time together at night.”

Cullen felt a shudder go through her, but before he could speak Kiaya continued.

“Until the night he caught us. There was a party and he was drunk, and I guess he wanted to show off his collection of books he never read. He caught us practicing magic. He was angry that I had ‘turned’ his daughter into a mage. Evelyn defended me and told him everything, which only threw him into a rage. He hit her and I attacked him, and Evelyn lost control.”

Kiaya sighed. “The last thing I remember is casting a barrier that barely protected all of us from the explosion and I was thrown out a window. Whether that was the cause of my injury or the beating Lord Trevelyan laid on me after he found me unconscious on the ground, I don’t know. Ultimately, I was lucky that Malcolm was attending the party with his family, who were neighbours of the Trevelyans. He pulled Lord Trevelyan off me, then, since both Evelyn and I were discovered as mages, he brought us to the Circle. Lydia was the head healer, and she saved my life. But there was too much damage, and it took me six years and some desperate measures to walk normally again.”

The crackle and snap of the fire filled the room. Cullen’s mind was a storm of thoughts and feelings as he processed everything she had said. No wonder she struggled to trust anyone. He was angry on her behalf, but there was nothing to be done about anything now.

Kiaya shifted and sat up, her eyes filled with worry as she scanned his face. “Was that too much? Should I have gone with the short version?” Her tone was light but forced, the crease between her brows betraying her concern.

Cullen reached out to stroke the side of her face. “Not at all. I’m touched that you told me, but out of curiosity, what is the short version?”

“Bad shit happened, and I got hurt,” Kiaya said, her brow smoothing and the sparkle of laughter appearing in her eyes.

Cullen laughed, “Well, that is certainly shorter.”

Kiaya grinned as she curled back against him with a sigh of contentment. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Cullen asked kissing the top of her head again.

“For listening. For not feeling sorry for me or thinking less of me, or at least not outwardly.”

Cullen shifted and tilted her face up to his. “You have only increased my admiration for you. You are strong and amazing, and I will always listen to anything you wish to tell me.”

Kiaya kissed him, and for a time, words became unnecessary.

—-

I am furiously blushing right now. This one was a hard one for me to write. It’s my first kiss scene so I hope you enjoyed it.

(Thank you so much @kagetsukai for the advice I hope I embraced the awkward well.)

Comments, Likes and Reblogs would make me giddy.

#Red Sky in the Morning #Kiaya Trevelyan #Kiaya&Cullen #commander cullen #Cassandra Pentaghast #here comes the fluff

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buttsonthebeach · 6 years ago

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Overwhelmed

EVERYONE! I had the distinct pleasure of writing a full scene commission for @lauren-draws-things/@lauren-draws-xxx based off of one of her very NSFW and very amazing drawings! (The link might not work - Tumblr is giving me a hard time, of course)

Thank you for letting me write Lenneth, and I am so pleased that you think I did her justice <3

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots for February coming SOON!)

Pairing: Solas x Lenneth Lavellan

Rating: EXPLICIT. Content warnings for double penetration, dom/sub dynamics, and inappropriate uses of magic.

**********

Solas was always entirely too controlled, in Lenneth’s humble opinion. He didn’t misplace a single spell or word. He considered each bite of his food, each sip of his drink. He was mild-mannered to the rudest of nobles, quiet in noisy arguments. Of course, she did have to admit that that made it extra fun to rile him up. To be the only one who saw another side of him. To creep up behind him as he stood in front of his desk in the rotunda, wrap her arms around his waist, nuzzle into the space between his shoulder blades, feel him relax into her touch – and then to stand on tiptoe and place a wet, smacking, sucking kiss on the soft skin where his neck met his shoulder. “Lenneth!” He was trying to be scolding, but there wasn’t much use in trying to be scolding when one had just yelped like a dog. “You’ve been at this for far too long. Those oculara skulls won’t get any deader, you know. They will still be here in the morning. Come to bed, vhenan.” She wrapped her arms around him again and cuddled into the crook of his neck. He smelled like ink and lyrium and his own skin and it was perfect, and she wanted to drown herself in that scent. There was already a prickle of heat between her legs, and she would stoke it to a flame before the night was done.

“I am close to done.” He said, gently extricating himself from her grasp, giving her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Lenneth looked him over from head to toe. “Really? You don’t even look like you’ve started.” She let her gaze linger on the part of his sweater that preserved his modesty in order to make her meaning clear. He rolled his eyes. “You are more clever than that.” “When I want to be, perhaps. Right now I just want to be underneath you. Or on top of you. Whichever you prefer, really.” She rocked up onto her toes and then back onto her heels, full of her own excitement, her affection for the stoic man before her. She would peel back every layer soon enough. “No,” Solas said breezily, walking around to the other side of his desk. With a lazy wave of his hand, he reignited a candle that had fizzled while they talked.

That gave Lenneth a thought. One that had more to do with said prickle of heat between her own legs, and less to do with actual candles.

“You know,” she said. “You could always try using your magic on me instead.”

The aura of her own magic heightened around her at the thought, as though prickling with a hundred needles. It was one of those things she’d always wondered about when she was younger, and coming into her power. Things were always complicated with other mages in her clan and outside of it. She hadn’t had a chance to try with anyone else.

And Solas - the creativity in his spells, the way he confounded Vivienne and Dorian and Bull with them, the way he always seemed to be holding back some of his power - he was the perfect person to try with.

It helped that he was also handsome, and charming, that he loved her, and that she loved him, of course.

It also helped that goading him into giving it a try would be the most fun Lenneth had had in a long time, and the gods knew she needed the fun after the tension and horror of Halamshiral and Adamant.

She sent one long lick of her mana towards Solas and used it to trace the curve of his ear. She could feel the lightness that always filled her body when she stood halfway between both worlds - Fade and reality - and that only amplified that hunger growing within her. It did good things for Solas, too, from the vibration she felt in his aura at the touch of hers. The way he stood up straighter and breathed in through his nose was a good indication, too. A grin broke across her face.

“I have no idea what you are implying,” Solas said mildly.

“Come on,” she pleaded, following him, draping herself around him, nuzzling against his back and running her hands down his sides, perilously close to the fronts of his thighs. “I know how much you love to show off.”

“Lenneth, I promised this report to your council by the time you have your morning meeting.”

Solas’s tone was exasperated but he did not draw away from her. She knew how much he craved touch, how under that confident, austere veneer he was desperate for it, so desperate he could not even admit it fully, and had to show it in the way he would inevitably take control from her so he could have exactly what he wanted, needed, and from the way he seemed to hate every inch of space between them once they were alone, and bare.

Lenneth liked the role she played in that dance. She liked teasing, teasing, prodding, until she reached the soft, vulnerable center of him, and he had to react. She knew he liked it too. He didn’t know how to let it out otherwise.

“Well, that’s the marvelous thing about being in charge,” she said. “I hereby push your deadline to the afternoon meeting instead.” She traced a line down the front of his left leg with just one finger. He shivered but did not react otherwise.

Solas shook his head. “You know full well that the Seeker asked for the report. She wants to know how it intersects with what she learned from Lord Seeker Lucius. And she will not be present at the afternoon meeting.”

But he was starting to lean back into her now. Lenneth let her wandering finger wander inward, away from the warm muscle of his thigh towards the warmer, softer part of him that she most wanted to touch.

“I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard for you to amuse me for a little while, and then finish your report later,” she said as she cupped him and felt the beautiful weight of his sex in her hand.

Solas sucked in a breath.

“Lenneth,” he said. “We are in public.”

“And?” she said, cupping him closer, tighter, feeling him start to swell. “Am I not allowed to embrace my lover in public?”

“I believe that you are currently doing much more than embrace me,” he said, voice pitched low. It vibrated in his chest and she wondered if he could make his magic vibrate like that.

“Oh, my mistake then,” she said, withdrawing the touch, stepping back around to the other side of the desk, adding a twirl because she was alive and happy and she knew the dance between them had begun, and she was taking a night off from thinking about anything else. She retreated to the couch, feeling Solas’s eyes on her the whole while, knowing he was eyeing the sway of her ass as she walked.

“I have never known you to be so easily convinced,” Solas said.

“Disappointed?”

“In you? Never.”

It was such an unexpectedly sweet response. His smile was so genuine. Lenneth curled her toes with delight and then slouched down on the couch so she was reclined, and let her legs fall open, and Solas’s gaze was so heavy on the place between them that she could feel it, as real as if it was his hand.

“I must finish this,” he said.

“Would you really have me believe that you can’t finish me at the same time?”

She could see the delicate flaring of his nostrils, the flicker of his gaze from her casually spread legs to the report on his desk. He was weighing his obligations and the challenge she’d just thrown down for him. His parents, whoever they had been, had done well to name their son Pride.

Solas sat down at the desk and picked up his quill, as calm and poised as if their conversation had never happened. Lenneth deflated, dropping her head back against the sofa, and sighing theatrically. But Solas’s timing, as ever, was unerring. At the exact moment that she began to think she really had fallen in love with the most stubborn, unyielding man alive, she felt a row of wet kisses trickling down her neck. They were plush, warm, exquisitely placed. She would have sworn she felt Solas’s breath brushing across her skin with each one, that his weight was braced above her on the couch. But even as she let out a pleased hum and arched up, seeking more, she saw that he was still at the desk.

His left hand was busy with his quill, and his right hand was somewhere beneath the desk, on his knee, perhaps, and that was the trick. That was how he was doing this. He had so much power, so much control, that he could make her feel his presence with just a few subtle, out-of-sight gestures of his fingers.

Lenneth knew exactly what else he could do with a few subtle gestures of his fingers.

The ethereal kisses went lower, between her breasts, towards her navel. She whimpered, then slapped a hand over her mouth. It was late enough that the tower was mostly empty, but there was forever a spy in the rookery above, or one last scholar in the library scribbling notes, and she did have to be some sort of figure of authority at the end of the day.

“I cannot believe I ever found your focus indomitable,” Solas said, a chuckle warming the words.

He ended whatever sentence he was writing with a decisive stab of his quill onto the parchment. She could see the muscles in his right arm tense and before she could respond she felt a wash of sensation all over her body, a rain of a hundred kisses all over her skin, as if her clothes didn’t exist, as if nothing existed except his affection for her. He was kissing her breasts, her shoulders, her earlobes, her thighs, her ankles, the length of her spine. He was kissing her everywhere except her throbbing sex. She felt unbearably hot there, unbearably slick, unbearably swollen, already half undone, and she was still fully clothed, and he had not actually touched her once.

But Lenneth had some pride, too. She bit back the final mewling cry that threatened to spill from her when the rain of kisses faded, the last six or so being placed strategically around her lower belly and the tops of her legs, accompanied with a gentle nuzzling sensation. She propped herself up on her elbows and met Solas’s gaze.

“You know, I really thought your tricks would be more impressive. Is that all you can do?”

“Oh?” Solas said, returning to his writing, looking away from her. “I did not think I had to impress you. I thought I had already won you, my heart.”

And there, again, that disarming sweetness that made her want to melt into the floor, that made her breath catch in her throat. She felt a final ghostly kiss, this one on her forehead. She loved this side of him. But it wasn’t quite what she was after tonight. They could have all of that later. For now, she wanted him to transport her, to shed every pretense, to make her forget they were anything but animals.

“Didn’t you say something to me about Halamshiral? How no victory is permanent?” she replied, sitting up now - but keeping her legs spread wide, her feet planted firmly on the stone floor, and invitation and a challenge alike.

“Ah, so you do listen to my - what did you call them? My ramblings?” Solas continued writing, and now there were gentle fingers whispering up and down the outside of her legs, hands kneading the tension from her shoulders and running through her hair. Lenneth moaned in spite of herself, widened her legs further.

“Occasionally. And if I didn’t?” She did not bother to hide the breathlessness in her voice, even if she did not yet beg for him to stop teasing and fuck her already.

“That would be your choice. But I do so enjoy talking to you. You have the loveliest voice, you know.”

And that was when his magic placed a sloppy, open-mouthed, hungry kiss right on her cunt.

Lenneth arched, keened, scrabbled for purchase on the sofa, tried to press forward into a touch that wasn’t there. Other sensations joined that of his mouth - she felt hands spreading her legs, pushing them onto the sofa, felt the bulk of his shoulders, and even if she stared at the empty air in front of her, even if she stared at Solas, whose eyes were lowered demurely to the report, she could not convince herself that the feelings were anything less than utterly real.

“Oh, please, oh, more, yes, more -” she cut off her own babbling, felt her face go flame red, rode against the shape of his jaw and the press of his tongue. Her clit twitched, grew, ached for more.

“More of what?” Solas said. “I thought my talents were not impressive.”

That was, of course (of course) when two fingers slid inside of her, when he sealed his lips around her aching clit and sucked, when she had to bite down on her wrist, and even then her desperate whimpers still echoed off of the stone walls, and even then the ravens in the rookery rustled and clucked.

He kept working her. Lenneth’s smallclothes clung to her body, each stroke of his fingers and his tongue bringing a fresh wave of slick welling up from within her, and she was pulsing with her own need, writhing against the couch, shuddering every time he fluttered his tongue around her clit and calmly continued writing. The space between them was an ocean now, a gap so vast it took her breath away.

“Please, please - I want you and this, you and this, you and this.” She babbled her own refrain, not even really sure of her own meaning, just knowing that she needed all of him, every last scrap of Solas she could have, that she needed to be totally and utterly overwhelmed.

She opened her eyes. Solas had stopped writing. He was staring at her, hard, the muscles in his jaw working, like he really was there between her legs, eating her like she was his last meal. They locked eyes. He guided her closer, closer, closer to that precipice, she felt all the pleasure gather in one place, felt it about to explode outwards, felt a scream building in her throat - and then all the sensations stopped. She hovered, locked, at that precipice, panting, her throat raw.

“Upstairs,” Solas said, that one word a command. Then, smiling slyly: “If you can stand.”

Between the two of them and their ability to warp the Veil around themselves for speed and silence and cover, they made it up to her bedroom relatively unnoticed. Lenneth started shucking off her clothes on the stairs. She wasn’t sure who reached for who first - if it was Solas who clutched at her, or she who clutched at him, but before they ever reached the bed they were wrapped up in each other, clawing, biting, kissing. There was no magic now, other than the magic of their own connection, of how they bent and swayed together.

“More,” Lenneth said, reaching between them, cupping and grasping him, already ramrod straight and painfully hard in her hand. Solas made a muffled, gutted sound against her throat, where he was leaving sucking kisses behind. His hips rocked forward and so did hers.

“Bed,” Solas said.

And like that, Lenneth knew she had him. He had gone from his usual eloquence to single words, to ripping the hem of his tunic as he drew it over his head, to dropping his jawbone necklace with a clatter against the stone floor instead of setting it gently aside - he had gone from carefully controlled forays with his magic to a crackling power that seethed around him as he followed her onto the bed, crawling over her, his eyes all hunger and his hands all need.

“More,” she begged again. “More, vhenan, please, more -”

She was still soaked from their earlier play, and that had to be the only reason it didn't hurt when Solas drove himself into her, filling her up. She looked down the length of their bodies to watch his cock pumping in and out of her, the steady, driving rhythm of his need, the way her body parted for his, the shine of her slick on his rosy, rigid flesh.

“More,” she whined again. “I can't ever have enough of you, give me more.”

“Patience.” Single words again, this one little more than a growl.

“No.” Lenneth nipped at his chin, his throat, the corner of his mouth, squeezed herself around him.

And like that, she was on her stomach, and he was hauling her hips back, keeping her legs spread, pressing down between her shoulder blades, spreading her with two fingers. She ached with her own emptiness, leaned towards him, utterly wanton now.

“I am going to fill you with my magic,” Solas said. She could not see his face but she could hear his harsh breathing. “Will that satisfy you at last?” He stroked the length of her spine. It was a soothing, gently touch that made her skin prickle.

“No,” Lenneth said. “I want you, too. I want you everywhere.”

Solas's hand paused in its journey on her back. Lenneth turned her head so she could see him. His blue eyes gone black with desire, the flush on his high, sharp cheekbones, the angle of his jaw, his parted lips.

“I do,” she said, raw in her own need, her own vulnerability. She was spread before him, needing him, opened up to the most primal parts of her self. Nothing else mattered but this. She had wanted that tonight. After everything she had given for others. She just wanted this and all it meant.

Solas slid two fingers into her, curled them down, and her belly hollowed out with pleasure. He pressed on that rough spot within in her over and over again.

“I want all of you, too,” he said. “Will you give me that?”

“Of course,” she said. A wave of pleasures rippled through her, made her wetter, made Solas groan, finger her harder. “Please, gods, Solas - fuck me.”

Solas pulled her up by her waist - their bodies were flush together - he turned, they stumbled a bit, they ended up against the headboard of the bed, Lenneth spread wide between his legs. Another moment of fumbling, hands and legs - a lifting - and he was inside her again, but still this time. It was his mana that was stirring, rising, thickening from the ethereality of the Fade into something she could truly feel. Something pressing against her opening, close against Solas's length, rubbing shyly, teasingly, not quite breaching her.

A shiver ran through Lenneth's whole body.

“Oh, please, please, please -”

“You beg so prettily,” Solas said. She could feel his grin against her cheek.

The magic pressed inward by the smallest margin, stretching and burning her. She was full of Solas's body and she would have his magic now too, the essence of him, every ounce of him. She thought of him coming like this, filling her up the way she liked best, how he would groan and shudder behind her. Her cunt clenched. The magic slid in further. It was heavy, thick, blunt, pulsing with energy. Solas muffled a sound into her shoulder. Lenneth squeezed around him again, whined high and loud at the fullness, the vibration coming off the magic, the flex of Solas's own flesh within her.

“Wicked thing,” Solas murmured, rocking his hips, easing the magic in further.

“More, more, more,” Lenneth begged, and probably more besides that. She was not really in the business of paying much attention to what she was saying at the moment. All of her focus was reserved for swiveling and grinding her hips against that all consuming pressure within her.

“Needy thing,” he murmured.

And then he thrust hard, up into her, and she was so full she could not breathe or speak at all.

She burned, she ached, she felt herself on the verge of coming, her core so hot and so wet and so built up that surely all that pleasure would spill over soon. Solas seemed to sense that. He withdrew.

“No - no no no, please, vhenan, I need you, I need you to fuck me, right now, please, fuck me -”

She was being loud (as usual) and she did not care (as usual). Solas chuckled. The sound reverberated between their sweat-slick bodies. Lenneth looked down between them, caught a glimpse of the swollen red head of him, leaking clear fluid, the way his cock twitched and bobbed and the way he held back his own need.

“Noisy thing, too,” he said. “Perhaps I shall find a way to silence you. Would you like that, my heart? To be so full of me you cannot even speak?”

“Yes, please, yes -”

“Then have -” he paused, inched himself in, nestled his head into her folds. “Patience.”

Then Lenneth watched as the magic swelled beside him, a pale, shimmering phallus that found its own way into her body. They slid in together. She tried to watch but her eyes rolled back and it was good, so good, so overwhelming in the best way, there was nothing but sensation, pressure, friction, closeness. Her own magic hummed with the touch of his, the core of her connection to the Fade swelling at the same time as her clit, the walls of her cunt. She started up her sounds again, her noisy cries and moans and pleas. Solas worked her, held onto her hips to give himself stability, bounced her up and down and both the cocks filling her up. It was too much and not enough, when she came she would only get tighter and tighter, and she was going to come, her skin was all sparks and she was shouting now, feeling the wave building, her head tipped back -

And that, of course, was when her mouth was filled as well.

If she had not watched Solas’s own cock disappear inside her body, if she could not feel the slow, powerful pumping of his hips beneath hers, she would have sworn that that was what happened - that he had pushed himself into her mouth and was fucking her there, too. The cock that filled her mouth was smooth, thick, heavy, warm, as urgent in its movement as the two inside her sex were.

Lenneth only shouted all the louder. She was sweating. Solas was too. Beneath the sound of her own pleasure (trapped in her throat as it was) she could still hear him grunting his own joy. It was perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect - the rough jostling of their bodies, the ecstasy of feeling him everywhere, of not being able to think of anything but how fucking good it all felt, how wet she was, how tight - tighter, tighter, tighter, she’d come so close the first two times, this time would she tip over the edge, would all that pleasure spill out in wave after wave, would that make Solas come too -

Solas nuzzled against her ear. He pinched her nipple. How did he still have a hand free? He went slower, harder with each thrust, and the sheer power, the power in him - he had such control over his magic and over himself -

“Do you think you will ever doubt me again?” he crooned.

The cock in her mouth slid further, teased the back of her throat. She tasted salt. She wanted it to spill all over her mouth. She wanted him to spill all over her belly. Her clit twitched, twitched, twitched. She wanted to come. She was babbling all of that but he couldn’t hear it, of course. Although - maybe he did, because he bit down on her shoulder and resumed one last driving rhythm, filled her, filled her, filled her, sent a spark of magic down to the place between her thighs and then -

And then her whole world was light, and sound, and pleasure.

She was coming, coming, coming, jerks and spasms, long keening cries, her whole body shaking, and she felt the ethereal shaft in her mouth jerk and spasm too, felt Solas’s whole body go tense - felt the magic dissipate, suddenly, half of the fullness leaving her body just as the last pulses wracked her - and then he pulled himself free from her body just in time to splash her with his spend, groaning and shaking all the while behind her, and he had been full, too - he went on and on, rope after rope, until he too was weak with the force of his pleasure.

Lenneth lay back against him, trembling. Solas barely held her up. He was panting. Lenneth was sore, and exhausted - and alive, so alive, and in love, so in love. She did not ever want to move or think again.

“Are you well?” Solas asked some time later. Lenneth wondered if she had dozed off and worried him. But, then again, he was like that - solicitous, caring, aware of her needs, perhaps even to the detriment of his own.

“I am perfect,” she said. He hummed and kissed her shoulder in response.

“Shall I clean you off?”

“After you worked so hard to make a mess of me?”

He laughed. She burrowed against him, determined not to let him move her off of him. She could not see his face this way, but she could feel every part of him - could feel him softening against her thigh, could feel the rhythm of his heart - and that mattered far more.

“Oh, Lenneth,” he said, absently. Maybe he was falling asleep, too.

“Are you well?” she asked, no mockery in her repetition of his question.

Solas was quiet a moment before answering. She wondered if it disconcerted him when she pushed him to lose control, or even if it just drained him. She waited for his answer, attentive.

“I am more than well,” he said. “As always, vhenan, you - transport me.”

She wondered what he meant by that. It was an odd choice of words. A careful one.

“I hope I transport you somewhere good,” she said. “Especially when we play like this.”

This time she had to turn around to see his face, to be sure. She flopped over inelegantly, so that she was still lying on top of him, but face to face this time. He was more flushed than she expected, but his face had a dreamy relaxation.

Solas cupped her face in both his hands, like she was something precious.

“Always,” he said, kissing each of her cheeks. “Except, perhaps, when you refuse to clean up, and then roll over on top of me, and make a mess of me too.”

Lenneth laughed, and that made her more sore, but once again it was the best kind of soreness - the kind that came from connection, from happiness. From feelings that overwhelmed.

#beach does commissions #lenneth lavellan #lauren-draws-things #solavellan fanfic #smutty literature #lemon #i can't believe we are using that tag again #ahhhh i really enjoyed working on thissss #beach writes

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dafheannaig13-blog · 5 years ago

Text

About the Muse

i snatched it off @heraldofwho who is very cool! 😃

Your muse’s name:

Maxwell Seumas Trevelyan, but he prefers Max

A favourite picture / faceclaim of your muse:

*casually drops a cropped version of an older drawing bc i have nothing better at the moment*

Two headcanons you have for your muse:

-Max absolutely despises templars and would happily slaughter the lot of them rrgh fuCKING CULLEN, because he has Issues. The most he ever killed by himself in one go? Fourteen templars in the Ostwick circle, after he found out what they did to his sister. The pent-up rage and despair and feelings of helplessness of the twenty-one years leading up to that point caused him to snap. Max went into a berserker-like state and slew fourteen templars, including the knight-captain, and nearly the first enchanter as well. After that, he began training as a proper reaver, because he knew that he needed to learn to control and direct his emotions, or else they'd overtake him.

Max does not regret his actions, though. He’s not proud of it, or that he escaped the gallows due to his family name, and he doesn’t talk about it. But he would do it again. He doesn't care what that says about him.

- Max knows how to juggle. He has a flask of whisky in a not-so-secret pocket at all times, and carries several knives concealed about his person for the purposes of eating, stabbing, throwing, etc. He abhors the chantry and frequently insults it, so he and Cassandra fight like cats and dogs. He’s actually fond of her, though. She probably hates him, bc when she and Leliana first called Max the ‘herald of Andraste’, Max laughed so hard he nearly pissed himself. He almost caused a Diplomatic Incident bc he refuses to bow to anyone--even the Empress of Orlais. Max hates being called the herald or ‘your worship’ etc and fucks with the boot-lickers who try and curry favour with him. Dorian finds it hilarious. The only time he ever used his position to get his way was with that prick who had Dorian’s amulet--and it was a good fucking bluff, bc he’s not of the main family, just a branch of ‘impoverished gentry’ (like, they have land, but the family home is in a right state and the vault is...empty. And they’ve no staff. And Bann Trevelyan is a special individual.)

Three things that your muse likes doing in their free time:

-Music! Max is made of music (mostly bagpipes), he loves singing and knows how to play the lute. Sometimes he steals the one from Dorian's nook and uses it to ~serenade~ him. (Max knows SO MANY sappy love songs and laments.) He has also been known to provide lullabies to the dying, even out in the field (bc how are these people dying for this cause he’s not sure he’s even on board with, they fucking die in his name how is he ever going to live with himself if he isn’t killed horribly by Coryphe-tits), to perform classic Free Marches tavern songs with Blackwall, and even occasionally rope the entirety of the Herald's Rest (or just the travelling party) into waulking songs (u know the ones they used to do when they were waulking wool, and one person sings the verses and everyone joins in the bit with just nonsense words or whatever?? Chuir m'athair mise dhan taigh charraideach, or hè mo leannan, hò mo leannan, ones like that?? good shite, cracking songs).

Only when he's drunk, though.

(He's drunk a lot.)

-Max has a soft spot for children. Having spent so much time in the role of caregiver, it's only too easy to fall back into old habits, especially with the number of orphans the inquisition...acquired after Haven. He plays with the kids when he gets the chance, and can often be found making them laugh by sassing the chantry sisters and shouting various obscenities.

-Max is an excellent horseman. He took to riding like a duck to water, and has always had a way with horses. The only horse he's ever met that didn't like him is the Ferelden Forder he got from Master Dennet--and he suspects it's because the horse somehow knows that Max was a jerk to its master. As revenge, Max calls the horse 'Sweet Roll'; as revenge for that, Sweet Roll has eaten several of Max's gloves and bitten a hole in more than one pair of Max's trousers. The cycle of vengeance is never-ending. (Let it be known that his own horse at home, Rowan, is a sturdy Free Marches Ranger that loves him and doesn't eat his clothes.)

Seven people your muse loves / likes:

-Elinor, nicknamed Eilidh (u say it like 'ae-lee') -- She is Max's middle sister, about five years younger than he is. She has dark hair and blue eyes like her brother, but she is slight whilst he is tall. Elinor was a mage, made tranquil at the age of sixteen under suspicious circumstances. She was very shy and quiet, but also very compassionate, as well as the best musician in the family before she was magically castrated. Since returning home, she has cultivated a large garden which she tends devotedly, and also has a small army of cats. They are all named after berries. Max fought like a wild-cat to protect her when the templars came to take Elinor away to the circle, even tried shielding her with his body, which is how he got the scar on his face. He adores her and would do anything for her.

-Catrìona, nicknamed Ceit (sounds just like 'Kate') is Max's youngest sister. She is ten years his junior, so he more or less raised her, even tutoring her in swordsmanship, horsemanship, archery (though she's a better shot), etc. She is a sprightly ginger-haired lass with blue eyes and loads of freckles, who talks very loudly and laughs very loudly and wILL CHALLENGE U TO A FIGHT IF U INSULT HER BROTHER OR SISTER, THANKS! She's nearly fearless, very kind, and her best friend is her own horse, an ornery beast called Storm. (Storm bites. So does Ceit.) She and Max play-fight and jokingly call each other names, but they adore each other.

So basically she's sort of Merida. I REGRET NOTHING FIGHT MEEEEEE

-Blackwall! Max is very fond of Blackwall. Top lad. Good set of pipes on him, right good for tavern songs. U know what they call an Ostwick tavern? Taigh-seinnse.

-Varric! Max is convinced that Varric is one of the best people to ever exist. If Varric knew how sincerely he means that, he would laugh. Also maybe cry.

-Dorian! Max is completely and utterly in love with Dorian. They’re both hopeless romantics and also bad at emotions, so it’s a mess. But a good mess? 😃

-Josephine! She is the source of all goodness in the universe, and probably the actual leader of the entire inquisition. She does all the real work, anyway. Max just kills shite. And rescues lost animals.

-Sera! They pull pranks together. She reminds him a bit of Ceit, as well, so he loves her.

-Honourable mentions: Solas (he knows so much, and talks about his Fade Travels in that lovely story-teller voice), Harritt (best. blacksmith. evER.), Dagna (she’s fucking delightful), Master Dennet (adorably grumpy old bastard), Helisma (reminds him of Elinor, he looks out for her in case anyone gives her trouble), Fiona (a bad-ass motherfucker if there ever was one), Krem (fun to spar with), Cassandra (fun to spar with), and Grim (a good listener)

Phobia (well, fear, anyway) your muse has:

Himself. After what he did at the Ostwick circle, Max knows that he is capable not just of killing, but of slaughter. He does not regret his actions there (justified or not, right or wrong, he doesn't give a shite, he will sacrifice anything for his sisters) but he does worry that one day, the rage will overtake him. That he'll hurt somebody he loves, that he might lose his friends, his family, his lover. That he might lose himself. Being the only son, the eldest, he was supposed to look after the girls. He'd promised his mother--his dying mother--that he'd always protect them and look after them and just look at how that ended. Look what he's done--look what he's let happen. This is what happens when anyone trusts him to do anything--he fucks it up, because he's a selfish, lazy coward who can't do anything right. He wants so badly to be good, but he's fucking terrible at it, so he mostly stopped trying--enough that everyone else thinks he has a devil-a-bit-do-I-care attitude, that he's loud and irreverent and brash and impulsive and angry and mercurial and careless.

But he does care. He cares too much.

That’s his downfall. Every single time.

Tags:

I TAG YOU! u know who u are

also @m1lkcl0uds come onnn show off Persephone, she’s adorable ❤

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lavellane · 5 years ago

Note

6 9 10 27 52 53 for Ashara and Winston

u always send such good questions <33333 thank u blue !!

ASHARA LAVELLAN - DAI

6. What is one word you would use to describe your OC’s appearances?

well at the risk of sounding very Dramatic i would probably say ��formidable” is the first word that comes to mind ! everything about her, her facial expressions (typically frowning, lips pursed, brows furrowed) to her posture (always very upright, trying to make herself taller, shoulders squared and head held up high) to her natural body language (usually closed, with her arms crossed or behind her back) gives u the impression she’s a very severe person. she dresses in dark, practical but decadent clothing, too, so it only adds to the facade (and it is a facade, she knows exactly what she’s doing and what impressions she’s making on others.)

9. What does your OC’s bedroom look like? His/her living area?

post da4, ashara moves to val royeaux and buys a little townhouse by the ocean! it’s very small but she soon FILLS it with strange artifacts from her travels, and hundreds upon hundreds of books and tomes on anything she can get her hands on. her house is very cluttered, mostly because she can FINALLY actually hold onto all the things she finds (something she could never practically do while living with her clan), but it’s always neat, ykno. like she still hates mess, so everything has it’s designated Place in her house and its not allowed anywhere else lmao

10. What does your OC keep in a special drawer?

ohhh :)))) well ! she keeps solas’ necklace in her bedside draw for a long time post dai, and sometimes would take it out and just. look at it and remember him. think about him :( and she would never let herself cry or dwell on it too much because she hates dwelling on the past, but there were days when she couldn’t help but have him creep into her thoughts, and she’d spend a few minutes alone in her tower just, holding it and tracing the shape of the bone, and remember what they had :)))))))))))))))))))))

WINSTON GRIER - FNV

27. What are some things your OC admires about his/her soulmate?

yknow i still haven’t quite figured out who his endgame romance is gonna be with, but he really values kindness and love for one’s family in ANYBODY. i think consciously, he would want someone who didn’t want to fight, someone who he could just have a peaceful, quiet life with. BUT i think deep down he would value someone who would fight despite not wanting to, because they knew it was the right thing to do? because someone like that would be consistently encouraging him to be better, be braver, and try harder every day, which is something he does want even though he might not realize due to his own fear. anyway, aside from that, intelligence and compassion are Big things for him too.

52. What are some of your OC’s motivations?

winston is primarily motivated by family and the idea of Security - he wants to be safe, and he wants his family to be safe and want for nothing, ykno. so he accepts the courier position, knowing the risks, because he hopes that the money will help protect his family so he DOESNT have to risk his life anymore. it’s also why he has such a drastic hatred for the legion - winston is essentially a pacifist, but meeting the legion in person really took him to a dark, violent place because he realized just how much of a threat they were to him and his. it was one of the only monstrosities in the mojave that he ever felt had TRULY changed him as a person, and he spent a lot of time awol from his courier work just.... hunting legionaries with boone, hoping if he killed enough he would feel better.

53. What is the health of your OC?

physically winston is perfectly healthy ! at least for wasteland standards lmao. he’s underweight for his age and height, but he eats well and his mother is a doctor so he’s pretty well versed on how to take care of himself and keep safe!

emotionally, winston has very severe anxiety and is selectively mute, so he prefers to use sign language as his main form of communication. he has a severe stutter as well, bought on from a childhood trauma, so it’s an ongoing obstacle that he works hard to overcome !

#oc: ashara #oc: winston #everyone in the wasteland uses ASL and u can pry that unrealistic hc out of my cold dead hands !!#anyway thanks again for the q's blue !#i missed talkin about winston :333 #vaughn-the-bandit-king #asks

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writingreactsandwords · 7 years ago

Note

Could I pretty please request descriptions of how the Inquisition romances would be as parents?

How could I deny a please as pretty as that? I’ve invented kiddos for this so it’s less an overview of the companions as parents and more snapshots of their life. For the straight characters, the child happens how children generally happen for straight couples. For gay characters, I’ve gone for adoption. For bisexual characters, I’ve gone for a mixture. If it’s their biological child but you’re picturing a same-sex couple, picturing a surrogacy/sperm donation should fit perfectly fine! I also left out Sera because for all I tried, I could not picture her as a mother/speaking to a child she didn’t constantly refer to as some variant of ‘snot goblin’.

Cullen:

Twins.

“TWINS!”Cullen shouts, the rug sliding beneath his feet as he sprints after hisdaughters. They’re a flash of blonde hair and freckled skin, his children, andhe likes to joke that he couldn’t describe them for all the running they do.

He coulddescribe them right now.

It wouldhave few nice words in it.

He hearstheir mischievous, chirping giggles somewhere, turns, and- yes, there. He grins despite himself and his ill-disciplinedtroublemakers.

“They’reheading for the back door!” He yells and hears his wife’s faint reply and thesound of her footsteps. Still light on her feet even 6 months pregnant. But then, he supposes to himself as he sprints after the slower of hisdaughters, she needs to be with this rabble.

Tiny legs aretheir downfall, only 5, and he snatches one up by the waist and jostles herunder his arm. She shrieks, ‘DADDY!’,squirming and laughing and screeching for her sister to keep running. The blondeblur turns the corner and he skids after her, tossing the one he has over hisshoulder as he-

Nearlyslams right into his wife, who held the squirming blur tightly by theshoulders.

“Where is it?” She snaps, her angered expressionmaking him flatten his grin into a look of equal disapproval.

“We werejust-”

“You andpapa are so-”

“Give it.Now.”

Sheproduces the bemused, wagging Mabari pup with a pout.

“The sixthtime this week, girls. Honestly.”

Solas:

His son has his eyes. His son has chubby cheeks. His son has the Inquisitor’s nose. His son is red and bawling and slick and his tiny, pointed ears wiggle as he shoves his fists out, his curling little toes alive, alive, alive.

He has a son.

The birth was not beautiful. His vhenan screamed with pain, panted shallow breaths and pushed. There was blood and hurting and terror, so much nonsensical terror as he held her clenching hand. I won’t let anything happen to you, vhenan, breathe, deep breaths, he had whispered gentle encouragements in her ear and they were honest but it would also be honest to say he was scared.

Scared for her, for their child, and for himself. For the change this would bring. At times the pregnancy felt like a sunrise and like hope. Others, it felt like a storm coming over the horizon.

Now it felt like neither.

The trees that shot from the earth around them felt like sentinels in the somehow quiet, panting rest. The Keeper -she had insisted, tradition- lifted their son away from sight for a moment. Solas lifted the Inquisitor’s hand, pressing the back of it to his forehead, to his lips.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice shaking, and she looked at him with eyes he felt must have been like his. Tired, scared, oddly surprised. Glazed with love.

Their son -their son- is handed back to them clean and wrapped in soft green cloth and she takes him with wobbly, strong arms against her chest. He watches her press a gentle, awe-filled kiss against his forehead and he does the same for her.

Their son looks like them. He has never felt so much love.

Cassandra:

8 years after the birth of their first son (and only son, they had said after the birth, filled with love and an overwhelming sense that this would be a one time thing), Cassandra and the Inquisitor pretty much had silent communication down.

When he was a baby, it was the silent thank-you when he brought the wailing infant to her in bed to feed. As a toddler, the quick darting eye contact to signal ‘he’s headed for the back door!’. And when he grew into a child -a wonderfully smart, beautiful, kind child (she specified this in her head, to not feel so guilty when she added on ‘little bastard’)- it was the shared contedeness in moments like this.

The sole source of light came from the fire, basking only their little sofa and Cassandra’s armchair in heat. It was harder to read her book like this, without a steady candle beside her, but there she wouldn’t break the peace for anything.

“Mama,” their son mumbled, his face pressed against the Inquisitor’s shoulder. “Mama?”

She would never tire of hearing that. She smiled and shifted, leaning over the gap to brush her hand through the young boy’s hair, smoothing out the lines in his forehead.

“Right here, little one. Go back to sleep,” she whispered. He was always worried about her, where she was, whether she loved him. Even his incessant pranks were softer on her. The Inquisitor said he worried about her almost as much as his father did.

She waited and watched his sleepy eyes close again, content, before she went to pull pack. The Inquisitor caught her hand gently, and she raised an eyebrow to him as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. He stared at her openly, and it took her only a moment to understand.

Another?

It took her only another to answer.

Yes.

Iron Bull:

“Alright,” Iron Bull sighed, placing the elfroot-infused water on the table. “Do I want to know?”

His daughter raised her chin, exposing a thick bleeding scrape that dragged down her neck, and raised her eyebrows at him.

“You mean, do they?” She asked, her tone entirely unapologetic for anything about the situation. But he admitted it was accurate. She could handle herself (they’d both made sure of it), and her fights were usually well justified. It was the Inquisitor who hated them. But still, her sassiness had grown excessively over the last year.

Pfft. Teens.

He crouched in front of her, dipping the rag in the water, and started cleaning off the cut on her forehead.

“Do I need to kill anyone?” He asked instead, making her snort. She flinched when the rough fabric pressed harder. He remembered when she was 5 and scratched her knee. The first time he’d had to do this. Her little face scrunching up, tears welling in her eyes and even though he explained gently that it might sting, that the medicinal herbs wouldn’t feel good, the guilt felt like a rock in his stomach.

“Nah, not this time,” she said. Her smile faded gently as the silence grew on, the only sound being the repetitive drag of the rag against her skin, the drip of water as he resoaked and wrung it out again. She rubbed her arms.

“They were saying shit-” she froze for a second, like the Inquisitor were about to burst in with a firm ‘language!’ “-saying shit about you. About Qunari.”

“They?”

“Three of them.”

“Haven’t we taught you enough about not taking on stuff you-”

“That doesn’t matter!” She snapped, and her eyes were glossy with tears and she looked like his 5 year old little dragon again. “It doesn’t matter how many there were! They were saying- they were saying such horrible shit- I couldn’t-” Her words were stumbling over themselves, frustrated. “Don’t you care?”

Iron Bull tossed the rag on the table and rubbed a stray tear from her cheek gently.

“Do I look like I give a fuck what a bunch of snot nosed kids think about me?”

Her lips twitched and she sniffed.

“You give a fuck what I think.”

His eyes softened and he grinned, tugging her head forward so he could kiss her forehead.

“Only you, though.”

Josephine:

Her desk was used to being littered with papers. Notes, plans, letters and, irritatingly, the occasional marriage proposal for the Inquisitor. All written in steady black ink, the only colour being the occasional burst of red from a wax stamps.

Now it was a rainbow of paints and pigments. For every serious document that rested there, there was one covered in the thick squiggly art of a 6 year old. Coloured charcoal sketches of a smiling woman with tied up black hair dressed in gold and blue, holding hands with a much smaller little elven girl, who in turn held hands with a careful depiction of the Inquisitor.

Other times it would be a charmingly dressed, princely Cullen or a flock of crows who rested on a grinning Leliana’s outstretched arms.

She could never bring herself to feel even a little annoyed at it, even when her important papers were home to the artistic ventures. It filled her with gratefulness- it made her remember their daughter’s first drawings. Back when she refused to even speak. Of a monstrous, crackling rift and a broken, burning house. Monsters she should never have been exposed to. Of people in armour with sharp, gnashing teeth. Of a crying little girl surrounded with slumped stick men.

It made her remember the night when she had first called Josephine ‘mama’, when she had tucked her face into the crook of the Inquisitor’s neck. When she had whispered with all the assuredness of a small child who was tired of being scared and alone that she knew her before mama and papa had sent her them.

And when Josephine had began to cry, she’d asked shyly if they didn’t want to her to be their daughter. The Inquisitor had laughed, and dragged her into a hug and told her they wanted nothing more. They’d fallen asleep like that, wrapped around their new precious gift.

She sighed, smiled, and sighed again as she lifted up the latest gift. ‘i looove you mamma’, scrawled across her entire, extremely important, clipboard. At least it was cursive.

Dorian:

The Inquisitor made him want silly things. Sex, love, happiness, to make things better, to do better things. He supposed, though he cursed his brain for this brief lack of individuality, the natural progression was a child.

Some grubby, overly energetic little tyke to teach and train and send off into the world as his legacy. Their contribution to the next generation, trying to promise the world another good person. Awfully trite. Awfully appealing.

The Inquisitor was bound to notice- he always did. The way Dorian softened at the sight of him with children, his odd sentimentality at the subject. Not that he tried desperately to hide it. He was not the same man that was ashamed of his wants.

Of course, he never allowed himself to truly think of it. It was impractical. These were not times to start a family, not the place- not the people either, perhaps. He was hardly raised by stable parents, hardly had the types that one looks to for tips.

These were all things that Dorian had thought- and now they had a son. Nearly four years old now, abandoned at two by a young woman terrified by a flash of sparking lights he had created while playing. Handed over to the Inquisition in a moment of desperation, knowing of its mage sympathising leader.

Not, of course, knowing that her son would be adopted by him. By them.

“You’re thinking too much again,” the Inquisitor said gently, shifting the sleeping toddler that was napping between them to lift a hand up to fix Dorian’s hair.

“Only of good things, I promise you,” he said, pressing an absent minded kiss to his wrist.

For once, it was true.

Blackwall:

Blackwall liked simple things. He liked waking up in a bed. He liked the feeling of a horse’s hot, huffing breath on his hand as it searched for treats. He liked good bread, and good cheese.

Yet a lot of the things Blackwall loved were complicated.

He loved waking up to the light filtering across sheets that were the opposite of empty. Sheets that held the curled, sleeping form of the Inquisitor. Or even better; her eyes would open, still heavy with sleep. And she’d look at him, smiling, press in closer and tell him to sleep while they had time. He never would. He’d lay there and watch her breathe in, out, in, out and thank the Maker with each inhale.

He loved holding their daughter’s hand as she balanced atop her pony, grinning at him toothily while he led Hero (unprompted, the Inquisitor had insisted, though he had his doubts) around the pen by the reigns. You’re a natural, he’d say, watching her glow under the praise. He treasured every second, never let himself take a fraction of it for granted, because the possibility of her was so small, so thin…

He loved sitting outside with his wife and child, trousers rolled up so he could enjoy the sun warmed grass on his legs as they ate the small picnic of rosemary bread, butter and cheese. He loved the sound of their laughter. He loved their conditional love, that he had earned it, that they believed he earned it even if he didn’t believe himself.

There was little time for self flagellation anymore. Even less when she greets him one morning not in their bed, but beside it, hand pressed to her belly and cheeks bright.

He is so lucky.

Sera:

“A baby? A motherfucking roly-poly, chubby cheeked shit machine? Are you kidding me?”

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yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy · 6 years ago

Text

Relationship Tag - Dorian x Da’Fen

Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice? Da’Fen, but he raises his voice whether he’s happy or angry. Dorian prefers to get quiet. Who threatens to leave but never actually does? Neither, because they feel it is an “unworthy” threat to make Who actually keeps their word and leaves? N/A Do either of them get physical? If really pressed, Dorian may grab at his own hair or grab Da’Fen by the arm, but other than that, no. How often do they argue/disagree? Rarely Who is the first to apologise? Dorian, but that’s because he says it immediately after stepping out of line. He’s conscientious of himself and his more venomous side and tries not to let it touch Da’Fen if at all possible.

Sex:

Who is on top? I headcanon Dorian as a vers, but with Da’Fen he’s a top 90% of the time Who is on the bottom? Da’Fen is an enthusiastic bottom. Who has the strangest desires? Da’Fen is really fixated on Dorian’s nipples for some reason. He likes to suckle them long enough for it to seem a bit obsessive, like “Okay, darling? As far as I’m aware, I haven’t begun lactating. Could you j-u-u-u-s-t --” *pries Da’Fen’s head from chest with a POP* “--Ah! There we are.” Any kinks? Dorian mentioned in-game that he looks good in rope, so there’s that...Both are really into praise kink, whether it’s themselves or each other. Da’Fen loves/hates tease & denial. Dorian likes making Da’Fen beg and overstimulating him. Dorian also likes worshipping Da’Fen’s body because he is a lithe little thing reminiscent of the nude busts found in Tevinter (Roman youth sculpture reference!) Who’s dominant in bed? Dorian Is head ever in the equation? Almost always If so, who is better at performing it? Dorian, only because of age and practice. Da’Fen has so much fun he often ends up giggling and has to stop. Ever had sex in public? No. Dorian doesn’t want to ruin Da’Fen’s reputation any more than he has. Who moans the most? Da’Fen. Who leaves the most marks? Dorian Who screams the loudest? Da’Fen Who is the more experienced of the two? Dorian by far Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’? Da’Fen views all sex with Dorian as making love but for Dorian himself he is coming to terms with the fact that this relationship with Da’Fen is different from what ever affairs he managed to snag in bath houses and taverns as a young man Rough or soft? Da’Fen allows Dorian to pound him into the mattress once in awhile because “primal” is usually what Dorian wants, but Dorian understands that Da’Fen is a bit more delicate and needs something a bit more … touchy-feely. He’s totally fine with supplying that, and he likes being able to love a lover in all the ways that word entails. How long do they usually last? Foreplay varies between just a few kisses and lube to really drawing it out – 5 – 20 minutes. Is protection used? No. Shame shame shame. Does it ever get boring? Da’Fen treats every round of sex like a new adventure so even the most tried and true maneuvers and techniques are still made fresh with Da’Fen’s bright eyes and eagerness. Where is the strangest place they’d have sex? A small nook in the Archives, if it was at all possible.

Affection:

Who likes to cuddle? Da’Fen so so so so much. Who is the little spoon? Da’Fen. Yes, I hug you and now you must cuddle ME in return. Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? Dorian, honestly. Who struggles to keep their hands to themself? Da’Fen. He must. Hug. Everyone. How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? Da’Fen can cuddle indefinitely. Dorian can go for an hour or so and then needs to move around. Who gives the most kisses? Da’Fen gives the most friendly kisses. Dorian gives the most loving, deeply emotional kisses. What is their favourite non-sexual activity? For Da’Fen it’s hunting and exploring the forest. For Dorian it’s research and drinking. Where is their favourite place to cuddle? For Dorian it’s in bed, naturally. For Da’Fen it’s literally any place where there’s a warm body. Who is more likely to playfully grope the other? Dorian, but he does it discreetly

Sleeping:

Who snores? Dorian, but only if he’s drunk a lot that night. Do they share a bed or sleep separately? Da’Fen can’t conceive of sleeping alone. He has always slept with someone, whether his mother or another clan member, very close by. If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart? Da’Fen is glued to Dorian like a koala

Who talks in their sleep? Da’Fen. It never used to happen but ever since he and Solas gained a connection in the Fade, snippets of their conversations can be heard spoken by Da’Fen in the waking world. What do they wear to bed? Dorian goes nude in the summer time or wears a tunic in winter. Da’Fen wears a makeshift fundoshi sort of deal. Dorian was floored to learn it was in fact his sleepwear and not some gimmick to try to seduce him. Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? The day Dorian doesn’t wrap his arms around Da’Fen to hold him close while they sleep is the day Da’Fen figures they’ve stopped loving each other. Who wakes up with bed hair? Dorian. It’s always styled before breakfast, though. Who wakes up first? Depends. Da’Fen is used to waking up at 5 AM (7 AM at the latest) to help his clan with chores and that didn’t stop when he became part of the Inquisition. But since becoming Inquisitor he’s had some run-ins with some dangerous and harmful entities that have put him to sleep on numerous occasions. Essentially, unless it knocks him out cold and puts him out of commission, he is getting up before Dorian. Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? Da’Fen tries his best. What is their favourite sleeping position? On their own: Da’Fen sleeps on his side hugging a pillow. Dorian sleeps on his stomach with his arms bent upwards. Who hogs the sheets? Da’Fen Who has nightmares? Dorian sometimes has recurring dreams of that night he left his family estate. He also has dreams of Da’Fen becoming seriously injured and being helpless to stop it. Who has ridiculous dreams? Da’Fen dreams up a lot of weird shit, mostly harmless, but very bizarre in trying to explain it. Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? Dorian, sometimes. Who makes the bed? Neither, but if it has to be done, then both will make it because they figure that holding each other accountable is better than holding one person to do the job. What time is bed time? 11 PM, but for Dorian it could be 2 AM Any routines/rituals before bed? Teeth brushing, Da’Fen writing down any lingering thoughts he has that ‘can be answered tomorrow, amatus—please, come to bed’ just so he won’t forget them. Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Dorian, especially if it’s before 10 AM (which it always is)

Home:

Who does the washing? Da’Fen for his own clothes (out of habit). Dorian has a maid do his clothes cuz Da’Fen still doesn’t quite understand “dry clean only” Who takes out the trash? Da’Fen Who does the ironing? Da’Fen: ??? You just let it dry and put it on? Dorian: Maid Who does the cooking? Da’Fen Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying? Da’Fen Who is messier? Da’Fen Who leaves the toilet roll empty? Da’Fen Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? Da’Fen Who forgets to flush the toilet? Da’Fen Who is the prankster around the house? Da’Fen Who does the groceries? Both of them together. They know what they themselves want to eat and they always only remember their half of the shopping list. Who takes the longest to shower? Dorian. Double time if Da’Fen decides to hop in. Who spends the most time in the bathroom? Dorian. Gotta make that hair look luscious.

Miscellaneous:

What do they do when they’re away from each other? Dorian drinks, researches, attends get-togethers with his fellow snobs, listens to Classical, Disco, and Salsa records. Da’Fen is somewhere in the brush climbing trees or anything climbable or visiting family out in the boonies. Who spends the most money when out shopping? Dorian. He has very expensive tastes Who’s more likely to flash their assets? Dorian (purposely), Da’Fen (innocently) Who finds it amusing when the other trips over? Dorian Any mental issues? Dorian is a borderline alcoholic. Da’Fen has major ADD Who’s terrified of bugs? Neither are terrified, but Dorian is a bit more unnerved by large ones. Da’Fen just thinks they’re interesting. Who kills the spiders around the house? Dorian kills them, Da’Fen sets them free outside Their favourite place? One of the numerous cafes in Val Royeaux Do they have any fears for their future? Dorian wants the relationship to last forever and fears it’s just a temporary thing. Da’Fen worries about Dorian worrying. Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? Dorian Who uses up all of the hot water? Dorian Who’s the tallest? Dorian Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? Da’Fen Who wanders around in their underwear? Dorian rarely wears it except when he knows company is around. Da’Fen spends the first hour of the day making multiple trips everywhere trying to get ready, putting pants on last cuz he always forgets those. Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Da’Fen What do they tease each other about? Da’Fen teases Dorian about worrying about things like his hair and clothes not looking right. Dorian teases Da’Fen about being a baby because he’s much shorter, younger, and childish than him Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? Dorian does not understand Da’Fen’s insistence on “comfort over couture.” Excuse me, what? Do they have mutual friends? Both consider Sera to be mutual friends. Who crushed first? Dorian Any alcohol or substance related problems? Dorian has a problem with alcohol. He’s a functioning borderline alcoholic, the kind that is acceptable and expected in high society, but when he’s depressed he really lets himself go. Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? Dorian Who swears the most? Dorian. Da’Fen can swear, it’s just he doesn’t feel the need to.

#Da'Fen #da oc x companion #dorian #my ocs #DA:I #dragon age: inquisition #pavellan

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ellstersmash · 6 years ago

Text

Three: Nine

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (Modern!AU) / Minor Cullen x f!Lavellan

Rating: T for Teen

Cullen stares at her open palm.

“That’s none of your business.”

“None of my business?” She laughs mirthlessly. “Uh, unless you’ve got another girlfriend stashed somewhere, I damn well think it is my business.”

He snatches the box from her hand, snaps it shut with a heavy click, tosses it in with his things.

“Let it go,” he says.

“Right,” she hisses. “Sure. Let’s forget about the engagement ring you had wrapped up in your boxers. Let’s just not talk about that.”

“Why not?” he asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “We can put it with all the other things we don’t talk about.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means exactly what I said: we don’t talk about things.”

“About what?”

“About anything! About us, and this, where it’s going, if you’re happy, and every time I try, you shut down or deflect.”

“So, what, you bought a ring just to make me talk about it?”

“No, Athi, I didn’t.”

“Oh gods,” she groans. “Tell me this isn’t like, your grandmother’s or something.”

He folds his arms in front of his chest like a shield, and does not answer.

“Fuck.” She’s pacing now, stomping over sleeping bags. “Fuck, Cullen, you can’t just shove this into the fast lane! I don’t even know if I want to be with—”

Cullen’s eyes narrow and go a little cold as she cuts herself off.

“Care to finish that sentence?” he asks.

She does not. “Quit turning this around on me, it’s not about me.”

“That’s funny,” but he isn’t laughing. “See, because you always make it about you. Even this, which really, truly is not about you, you've made about you.” Even this close to a whisper, his words cut like a blade, sharp and pointed and made to hurt.

“Fine, then,” she says and crosses her arms. “By all means, enlighten me. What's this really about?”

He closes his eyes, inhales slow, exhales through pursed lips.

“I’ve been waiting,” he finally says. Softly, and after all his harshness, it feels like a trap. “Pretty damn patiently, I think, for you to give me something. Anything. Some part of you. Something real, some . . . I don’t know, indication that you want this. Want me.”

“It’s a pretty big jump to—”

“Maker’s balls, woman. I’m trying to be honest here. Could you quit talking at me for a damn second?”

She snaps her jaw shut.

“I’m sorry, just—” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “What do you want from me? Because I can’t figure it out to save my life. You didn’t have to call me, but you did. You didn’t have to stay with me, but you did. Now we’re together, playing the happy couple, but I have no idea how you feel about me. I thought this”—he gestures around the tent walls—“meant something. Your family’s far away, I understand that, and I don’t want to rush you. But meeting your friends? That’s something.”

He fishes the velvet box out from his pile of clothes, thumb rubbing against the lid but he doesn’t open it.

“This was . . . this belonged to someone else. She loved me, and she said yes, and we planned our life together. And then she died. A few weeks before our wedding.”

It comes out of nowhere. Feels like a sucker punch, and she’s reeling.

“Creators, Cullen.”

“I tried to sell it, but couldn’t imagine it on someone else’s hand. Her parents wouldn’t take it. So I figured I’d hold onto it until maybe I could let it go. Then some years passed, and I healed, and then you came along and . . . ” He shrugs. “Anyway, I thought this was something.”

Her stomach sinks. “You were going to let it go.”

All of her words—her assumptions, her accusations, her almost-admissions—still hang in the air, a deafening miasma that burns when she breathes it back in.

“Clearly, I was mistaken, because I still don’t know why I’m here. I still don’t know what you want.” He drops the box back in his bag with his shirts and socks and deodorant. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

Cullen shakes his head, and a slew of emotions flicker across his face like slides of an old film. “I am not a man who settles for half-measures, Athi, and I am tired of this one. So tell me. What do you want?”

Her mouth falls open, but she has no answer for him.

“No, you know what?” His voice is icy now, his gaze unyielding steel. “It doesn’t matter. What you want doesn’t matter. Because I’m done.”

Athi chokes back something—not a sob, not really—and he kneels to pack his things. He’s neat, tidy, and there isn’t much to gather; it doesn’t take him more than a minute.

“I’m sorry, Cullen. I tried to—”

“You tried.” He laughs, cold and harsh. “Tried, what, to love me?”

The shame burns all the way to the tips of her ears. It sounds ridiculous, said out loud. Said like that. She cries, then, but it feels like begging and she scrubs the wet from her face with the back of her hand.

He hoists his bag onto his shoulder. Looks around the emptier tent.

“Kind of wish you hadn’t.”

She stares at the shifting circle of light as he leaves her. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t draw it out. Shoves past her, slams the car door, and drives away hating her.

The smoke from off her skin stings her eyes.

When the sound of his engine fades into cricket mating calls and a crackling fire, she grabs a bottle of something from the stash by Sera’s tent and takes it to the lake. Doesn’t look at Solas, though she sees him, illuminated, from the corner of her eye.

Knees hugged close, she drinks too-sweet rum by the water like a godsdamned pirate, and she cries and she drinks and she plays back all those months. All those half-truths. All those excuses. All those choices she got wrong. All those things she shouldn’t have said before he left, and all the things she should have.

She cries and she drinks and she thinks and she feels.

Sick. Empty. Guilty. Lonely. Foolish. Frightened.

Free.

“Hey.”

Sera’s voice brings the sun in with it. Cruel and sudden, a flash of red on the backs of her eyelids, and Athi groans. She doesn’t remember coming back to her tent, or really much of anything past a quarter-bottle. Something hovers just out of reach, faint and wavering, and the harder she tries, the less certain it feels. Something about her head tipped back, watching the stars below the water from upside down.

She lets it go, for now. It doesn’t make enough sense and the sharp pain gripping her skull makes remembering seem a lot less important.

“You okay?” Sera asks. “Need anything?”

“Fuck off,” she says into her pillow.

Sera sighs, sounds like the sweet spot of the scissors catching on wrapping paper. One long clean cut. “Don’t be an assface,” she says.

Athi huffs, and it hurts. “Thirsty.”

“Behind you.”

She turns, no small effort, and peeks one eye open. That hurts, too. Sure enough, though, there’s a clear plastic bottle, half-hidden by the blanket she’d thrown off at some point. She gulps down half its tepid contents and caps it tight.

A rustling sound, and then a warm body presses in close behind her, arm tight around her middle and a raspberry blown on the back of her neck. She flinches away from the unexpected contact, but Sera gathers her back in.

“Sera what the—”

“I’m being here, stupid. For you.”

“For me.”

“But Cullen’s the stupid one, you know. For leaving. You’re a catch, and the fish are in the sea, and all that.”

“Um. Thanks.”

Fucking void. They hadn’t been that loud, but then . . . Solas had been right there.

She really hadn’t pegged him as the type to run his mouth, though.

Whatever. That’s a problem for later. Athi shifts in Sera’s arms and rolls her neck with a series of cracks that sound a whole lot more satisfying than they are. Straightens her spine, curls up tighter. Then she gives in to the discomfort with a whimper.

Everything hurts.

“What if I wanted to be the big spoon?” she grumbles.

“Psh, you’re teeny. Got to be big for that . . .”

Got to be big. It’s fading fast, fraying at the edges, flashes of moving horizontal under the trees. And something about her father? But again, the memory unravels even as she grasps at it, until she’s not sure she remembers it at all.

“Might make a decent backpack, though,” Sera continues. “Now shut up and sleep while I still can.”

Sleep she can do. So they doze until it gets too hot, sun on canvas and bodies and blankets.

The second waking is almost worse. Sera goes looking for lunch while Athi changes. It's slow going; her muscles are stiff and sore, and this is why she doesn’t drink rum. If it weren't so stifling, she’d consider never moving. Never leaving this tent. Never facing what Solas does or does not know, shared or did not share. Never telling them why she’s alone.

A person can go more than three weeks without food. What’s one day?

But her teeth feel gritty and her stomach grumbles and the heat makes her head pound. So she forces her chin up and emerges into the light.

They’re scattered around the cluster of campsites, all of her friends and their faces full of pity. Except Leliana, who sets her hands on Athi’s shoulders and offers to kill him.

She is probably kidding.

“So, Cullen really just left?” Josie says gently. “Are you certain it’s over? Perhaps there was a misunderstanding.”

There was.

Cassandra answers for her. “It does not sound that way, Josephine. Ugh, and he seemed so genuine.”

He is.

“Do you want me to write him into my book?” offers Varric. “I think there’s room for one more dastardly villain.”

Dorian tsks him. “He is, at best, a lowly scoundrel. By the by, is there perchance any room for a handsome, yet also quite brilliant hero?”

Everyone’s around except Solas, and Athi’s not sure if she’s relieved or annoyed. By his absence, by their attention, by everything and anything and nothing at all. By the gnawing in her gut as they crucify Cullen’s character, and as she lets them, using their distraction to sidle away unnoticed.

The table is spread with food, chips and bread and meats and cheeses, fruit, a tray of brownies and crumbs, but it might as well be empty. None of it looks appetizing. She settles for an apple, yellow-green and freckled with brown. Supposedly, they’re almost as good for energy as coffee, which sounds like a load of halla shit.

Feels better in her mouth, though. Less like earth, more like air.

She sits, hunched over the table, and carves off slices with a knife, focused in on the shapes of crisp white flesh rimmed in gold.

Bull steps over the bench, holding a sandwich the size of his face on a comically small plate.

“Scoot.”

She does, and he sits, and the table wobbles backward.

“Sure, make me look selfish,” she says, waiting to see how he's going to fit it in his mouth.

He doesn't try, though.

“You know, I didn't really like the guy much anyway,” he says, more to the sandwich than to her.

“It wasn't him,” she admits. Then, because Bull has a way of getting more information than he asks for, adds: “I think I was an ass.”

“Oh yeah? Good, because I was lying.”

She laughs, just a huff of amusement, but it feels good. Her head, on the other hand, is killing her.

The apple’s too much; she leaves it to brown and buries her head in her folded arms. A reprieve from all the brightness and a satisfying stretch along her back.

Bull lays one huge, heavy hand over the ache of it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I really, really don't.”

The pad of his thumb presses into her skin, digs a broad line along the curve of her neck and rubs small circles into the knot he finds where her neck meets her shoulder. He increases the pressure and she grimaces as he bores in toward her bones, but then he slides it away down her spine, and a guttural, broken moan escapes her.

His hand doesn’t stop, even as she tenses at the primal sound.

“Uh . . . do you want to talk about that? ” he teases.

Athi giggles despite herself. Then freezes, feeling a different sort of twisting in her gut.

Her stomach lurches, threatening, and she tumbles back over the bench, runs to the woods. Waits, pulling fresh air into her lungs, anchored by her hand on the rough bark of a tree, trying to ease her churning insides back from their precarious ledge.

It’s no use; she empties the meager contents of her stomach into the weeds.

She deeply regrets the apple.

A rustle ahead and she glances up, pressing the back of one hand to her mouth. It’s Solas, because of course it is, eyes shifting uncomfortably toward her, then away, then back. She’s not sure if she’d rather use her last dregs of effort to glare at him or compose herself.

“Oh. Hello. I was just—” He points back the way he came with a thumb over his shoulder, which means less than he apparently thinks it does. “I did not realize you were awake.”

There is no room in her head for witty one-liners. It’s all don’t throw up, so she only answers: “Yep.”

“Well, are you . . . Is there anything I can do?”

“No, I think you”—she stops to take a slow breath, deep and even, don’t throw up, don’t throw up—“you’ve done enough.”

“Excuse me?”

“What you heard last night was—” Another wave of nausea hits, and she leans her forehead against the young bark. “That was private, Solas . ”

A long silence from him, followed by a heavy sigh. She’s not in the mood to argue anyway, just spits into the grass, turns away with a dismissive wave.

“Athi, I—”

“Gotta go,” she tosses back.

Brush my teeth.

For, like, an hour.

The rest of the day flies by.

She bums some coffee off Varric, which helps immensely with her headache. Then she packs up Cullen’s tent, moves all her stuff into Sera’s, goes swimming again, and again gets too much sun.

Solas keeps his distance, even after her head stops hurting and she wishes maybe he wouldn’t. And when he is finally forced into proximity by the promise of dinner, there’s nothing remorseful about it. He is silent, brooding, chatting privately with Varric until she makes some joke about an ancient ritual.

Should have known it would be a hot-button topic for him.

“I am pleased to hear the Dalish have at least recalled its existence,” he says. “Even if only for the sake of crude remarks.”

It surprises her, the bite of his words. The venom behind them. The arrogance in his voice and the hard, angry look in his eyes.

As if he has the fucking right. She leans forward, elbows on her knees.

“What,” she taunts, “am I not respectful enough for you, Solas? Too casual with my own people’s culture?”

His calm is unflappable. “That is one way of putting it.”

“Here’s another,” she says, and coolly flips up her middle finger.

Bull and Sera chuckle beside her, but Solas scoffs. “Forgive me, but your intent is unclear. Are you attempting to debate my point, or make it for me?”

Athi seethes. And wonders why she ever yearned for his unattainable approval.

Varric, bless him, swiftly recovers the mood, and the collective sense of relief is palpable. Not for her, though. Cullen’s anger didn’t hurt this much.

Solas remains aloof until he retreats to bed after dinner.

Good riddance, then, she tells herself and stays up with the others. Playing cards by the lantern light and trying to keep her eyes on her hand and off his little blue tent. Trying not to think of the way he looked at her last night. Trying not to think about him at all.

He’s gone when she wakes up. No little blue tent, no rust-eaten sedan, no goodbye.

Not that she was really expecting one.

The others are packing up as well; all except Sera, who’s wandering around looking just as dazed as Athi feels.

Varric, bless him twice, left the last of his coffee behind him. It’s good stuff, too, if a bit lighter than she’d like, and she and Sera sit and sip it on the dock in the late-morning quiet.

Toes in the water, but this time there’s no wind. The lake is placid, mirror-like, peaceful. She’ll miss it when she’s gone.

“So,” Sera says, “that Solas is an interesting one, yeah? Lots of teeth when it comes to old elves and stuff.”

“Apparently, he has a lot to say about a lot of things.”

“Yeah. Wait, what?”

“Forget it.”

Athi takes a long draw of coffee, just barely on the near side of too hot.

“I mean,” she continues, “it was none of his business.”

“Right. Still what?”

“Cullen! Solas was still up. I guess he heard us fighting, and then he fucking told everyone! I mean, what the fuck?”

Sera stiffens, stares into the sky with her face twisted all funny.

“Yeah,” she says. “Right. What the fuck, him.”

But her discomfort is telling. No, Athi thinks. Pleads. No.

“Sera.”

“Mhm,” she says into her mug.

“Sera.”

“Okay! Okay. It was me.”

Athi groans. “Sera!”

“Oh come on, it’s not like they weren’t going to notice his fancy wheels had up and rolled off! I was just preparing the room, is all.”

“And who told you?”

“What, like I can’t work it out for myself?”

“Did you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Well I could have.”

“Sera,” Athi sets down her mug, like somehow that means she’s serious. “What did he say?”

“Ugh, fine. Elfy told me that Cullen left, and you had gotten wasted, but he didn’t say wasted, he said something all fancy. Think he used the word ‘imbibed.’ Said you might be confused about where you were, and he asked me to check on you.”

“And that’s when you told everyone else.”

“More or less,” Sera mumbles.

“So I yelled at him for nothing.”

“I mean, he was acting kind of up-there.”

“No, no that.”

Athi shakes her head, hard, and something clicks.

She remembers, just a little. A soothing voice—“Are you all right?” —as the sky rippled above her. Her feet, swept sideways as he lifted her in his arms. The bottle of water he placed next to her bed, tucked in with a reminder to drink it in the morning. Those unraveled pieces, pulled back into focus by one common thread.

He was there.

Oh, she is absolutely, undeniably, unequivocally, an ass.

#ellster writes #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #solas #solavellan #dragon age fic #athi lavellan #solathi #modern!au #three #and it only took me two months!#dear cullen i am sorry my child is such an asshole

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