#da fanfiction

[treviso-nights]

✨ rookanis drabble/mini-fic about gifts & acts of service :') ✨ ✨ read on AO3 ✨

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

At first, it began with coffee.

Specifically, coffees, plural. Just the way Rook liked it, with enough milk and sugar to kickstart them into their morning routine. The coffees would appear wherever the Crow thought Rook would look first upon awakening—beside the candles in their meditation room, then on the ground beside the couch. Later, the coffees would migrate to the ledge bordering the aquarium, so Rook could not in fact, miss them. Eventually, Rook took to leaving the empty mugs on the desk beside the dresser, so the Crow would see this and stop worrying about his gifts not being received.

When the Crow decided morning coffee was no longer enough, he took to sharpening Rook’s daggers whenever time and sticky fingers would allow. These, too, were lovingly placed beside the morning mugs of coffee, the room’s lowlight launching mysterious, irregular glints of light against the wall. When Rook attempted to tell the Crow that it was fine, that they’d service their own weapons (and thank you very much), the Crow had half-heartedly cursed at them before pushing another mug of something hot and sweet into their calloused hands.

Then came the poison. (And their corresponding anti-venoms. Just in case.) The Crow took particular care to place these a further distance away on the desk, not desiring to see Rook sleepily, and in spite of all their Antivan Crow training, mix a lethal dose into their morning mug. Truth be told, Rook had been neglecting their poison studies, so these occurrences were especially welcome—as was the new, uniform collection of tiny vials. Glass-made, of course, for easy shattering, with a peculiar sigil stamped into each of the curved bodies. Crow wings, spread from side to side.

A second mug soon joined the first, appearing each morning in tandem. “I’ve noticed you don’t eat breakfast,” the Crow said during a sparring match. Rook, explaining that they get stomach aches from eating too soon after getting up for the day, had only been able to feel sheepish when the Crow glared their way. “Fine,” he’d grumbled. The mugs of bone broth began appearing the day after, complementing Rook’s proclivity for a sweetened breakfast coffee blend. Knowing that the Crow was just trying to take care of them, Rook made sure to drain the broth too, painting the wooden desk in a fresh maze of mug rings which spoke of sustenance and love.

It all came to a head when Rook got sick. A fever—nothing more worrisome than the muscle aches and full-body sweat often associated with such. Rook, stirring in the haze of this illness, lifted their head off the futon in their meditation chamber to see if the Crow had delivered more coffee, daggers, poisons, and bone broth, because tradition now mattered. But it was the Crow himself they did not expect delivered, kneeling beside the futon. “What are you doing?” Rook hissed, scowling as the Crow lightly dappled the sweat from their brow. “Dellamortes don’t kneel! Not for me.” The Crow only smiled when Rook attempted to shove him away, batting their hands back with one of his own. “If you insist on throwing a tantrum, then it’s my responsibility to point out that Rooks do not tell Dellamortes what to do,” he grumbled happily, returning to his work. And what was there to say beyond ‘thank you’? Beyond ‘thank you for all of it, and thank you for you, too?’ So, Rook did. And then Rook slept, the Crow’s tender hands on her face like a flowered beak.

°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❆⋆.ೃ࿔:･°

[oftachancer]

Thank you, @maxkennedy24, for this incredible portrait of Anders, Karl Thekla, and Cecily Hawke, from Aisles of Memory and Regret!

Also reposting for the fans of @tranquilweek!

[covertleathers]

Pulling Cords (Rookanis Fanfiction)

Chapter 4: The Verdant Wyvern

Title: Pulling Cords

AO3 Link

Rating: 18+, Explicit, Gradually intensifying sexual tension, nudity, etc etc

Relationships: Lucanis Dellamorte/m!Rook (They/Them pronouns)

Key words: Yearning, teasing, jealousy (if i get there)

The cup had grown cold.

There was also a growing pain in his left side that was begging to be addressed, it is likely Lucanis has broken a rib from his last excursion to the Anderfels a week before. Very rarely did pain linger for him, however, getting hit with a meter long club from an ogre had clearly left its mark. Harding should have some elfroot in her garden that he could use. First thing in the morning he will have to catch her before Rook leaves again.

He was alone, as usual when the rest of his comrades excused themselves for the night after dinner. At the table, he sat in his normal place at the right hand of the head chair. An old, yellowing book and various scrolls splayed out before him. Focus was slipping through his fingers.

A small part of Lucanis had expected Rook to make their normal appearance; gliding into the kitchen as if suspended in air. In anticipation, he had prepared the drink he knew they usually craved at the small hours of the night. 

However, it was the second time since their return from the Wetlands that they didn’t show. He disliked wasting chocolate, it was slightly more difficult to get with the Antaam leaching from Treviso’s ports. Though, throw in a few more sovereigns and there is always a shipyard hand eager to assist. They always remember who pays. Perhaps it was for the best to have this time to research alone. Rook could be…distracting from time to time. 

The quiet was eating at him. Even the murmuring fireplace had become soothing white noise. Crackling, simmering, and the occasional sound of the logs splitting under the intense heat. It was lulling him into a state of quietude that felt dangerous. 

Nevarran scholars didn’t have to complicate their writing with unnecessary details, but of course he had to chew through two hundred pages detailing the deviating familial Pentaghast lineage to learn about some poor possessed bastard of a mage who was locked away in a dungeon under his family’s estate. His end was a drawn out and painful transformation.

NOT. DONE.

Abruptly, he stood. Push it down. Not tonight. He wasn’t going to lose time again.

Another cup of the steaming black. Down the throat. He clutched the coffee counter with shaking hands. A splitting headache traveled from the back of his neck to his temple as if a giant’s cleaver came down on his skull. His eyes, dry from lack of sleep, ached. Spite was pushing against his psyche like mad.

LET. ME. OUT.

“No prep tonight?”

“Rook.” Lucanis let out an inaudible sigh of…relief? And straightened, rolling his neck coolly. Again, he was unsure how he never heard their arrival. He hummed, “You’re late.”

“Ah, well, I got caught up in some reading,” They said with a small laugh, a salve to his mind. “I’m sorry.”

 A balm seemed to settle in the air. He turned to Rook, in their usual night robes, standing at the open doors of the kitchen, a green book cradled against their hip, and a gentle breeze following close behind them. Without hesitation, Rook strode to his side and grasped the cold mug of chioccolata calda, then swiftly shook their head to stop him before he could protest it.

“It’s Bellara’s turn to cook tomorrow. I’m doing research instead.” The assassin poured himself another helping of coffee, trying to ignore that Rook had closed the distance between them. Though, he did not step away, either. 

“Whatever you’re reading, it’s better than that.” He gestured to the book and scrolls he had spread out on the table. Lucanis moved back to his seat, running a hand through his hair to check it wasn’t as disheveled as he felt. Eyes up. Breathe. Rook waited for a brief moment, as if they knew following closely behind would put him on edge. Then, they followed with silent, delicate footsteps to stand beside his chair.

Lucanis tried to ignore that his face was about the same height as Rook's navel. He also tried to ignore that they had draped a golden chain around their waist, intertwined with the Mourn Watch green sash.

“Oh, The Drakon Manuscripts on Demonic Dominions Volume Seven,” Rook mused as they leaned over his shoulder to get a closer look. The chain clattered against the armrest. Lucanis took another gulp of his drink. “I was forced to read that as an apprentice. Horrible to get through. I will never understand nobles and their obsession with pedigree.”

“We can agree on that,” he replied with a grunting laugh. 

Rook’s skin smelled like cinnamon and charcoal. Smokey plum hair fell around their shoulders like storm clouds. Lucanis could tell they had recently washed it with the way a vanilla scent breezed his way when they moved. Always overwhelming the senses. They pulled out the chair to his right and sat, looking at him excitedly with the book propped up before them.

“I was hoping to keep you company while you worked,” They ventured with a steady gaze. “Oh well, we can read together anyway, if you don't mind company. There’s a story in here that I think you would like.”

Lucanis raised an eyebrow as he met their eyes over the rim of his cup. “What’s this about?”

“Wyverns,” The young mage said affably, crossing their legs with an electric look in their lavender eyes. A jolt of excitement made Lucanis nearly drop his coffee. Rook laughed, “I knew that would get your attention.”

“Why wouldn’t it? I love wyverns.” Now curious, he tried to peak over the edge of the book as Rook opened it, who tutted and pressed it against their partially exposed chest.

They had placed one of Assan’s feathers as a bookmark, the tuft of grey peeking from about a third-way into the pages. Rook placed it aside amongst the many scrolls on the table. 

“This story is called The Verdant Wyvern. It’s Nevarran.” They continued with a one-sided smile Lucanis knew too well. “You should know we have a great appreciation for them culturally. Can I read it to you?”

“Of course.” He sat forward a bit.

Rook mirrored him, leaning over the book like a lover.

“A daughter of the great King Witoslav was born under a sapphire moon. In celebration of her birth, he gathered all the highest beings to his High Court to celebrate her naming. Elves, Dwarves, Kossith, and even Spirits danced among crystalline lights in peace,” Rook rested their head in their hand as they read, a look of serenity painted their features. “All was not in amity, however. The King and the Queen had neglected to invite the powerful yet wicked Meredite, Witch of the Chaparral—”

“Rook, you said this was about wyverns,” Lucanis muttered. He was beginning to wonder if this was some kind of ruse to get him to listen to one of Bellara’s writings. 

The young mage hissed defensively, “If you’d let me bloody get to it.” Clearly, this meant quite a bit to them. Lucanis sighed into his drink, realizing that it would soon be empty. 

“Anyway, where was I…right. Meredite arrived in a burst of emerald smoke, so all encompassing, the jubilant attendees fainted from it. In her fury for being overlooked, she cursed the baby girl with poisonous touch.” Lucanis’ ears perked at this. “Every human that would try to touch her bare skin would surely perish by sunset, the witch declared, before disappearing the same way she came. The Queen rushed to calm her crying babe, but just as the witch said, quickly fell ill with plague. She passed before the night was over. 

“With great sorrow, the King sent the babe, Oteria, to live and grow in a tower at the edge of the world. This way, she would be no danger to anyone else. Oteria grew well-read, but isolated and lonely. One day, she is roaming in the fields outside her tower when she comes across…” They paused, looking at Lucanis excitedly. 

“A wyvern?”

They chuckled. “A wyvern. Tall as a man, long as a rowboat with glittering verdant scales. It was curious about her. Oteria cried in terror at its glistening venomous teeth. She fled to the ocean, where she nearly drowned, refusing the wyvern’s offers of help as it swam behind her—”

“Wyvern’s don’t swim. They both would have drowned.”

Rook’s lilac gaze turned almost deadly for the second interruption. He smirked, feeling their irritation delight him a bit. Lucanis swore he could feel a certain something snicker at the back of his mind. 

“You’re impossible,” they said. For what it was worth, Rook could never stay mad for long. They matched his grin, rolling their eyes before they continued: “Oteria wakes in a lavish suite in a castle far away from her tower. Little did she know, the wyvern who rescued her was King Stanimir, a once beautiful man who was cursed by none other than Meredite…”

Black.

Lucanis’ eyes snapped open with a tense breath. Coming back felt like coming up for air after being held underwater. It was too similar to being waterboarded at the Ossuary. Blinking the darkness away, his head was swimming. He was in the pantry, sitting up with his back against the wall. Candles still lit. Where was Rook? Had they seen…?

“Spite finally gave you up, did he?” A silky voice asked from the doorway. Rook was leaning against the doorframe watching Lucanis with soft care. 

Lucanis had to stand. Frustration boiled in his chest. “How long was I gone?” 

“A couple of hours,” They mused. “He really seemed into the story. I told him he couldn’t be out of your room and could only hear the rest if he stayed in the pantry.” 

Rook, for whatever reason, didn’t seem fazed by what had happened. Maybe it was because of their Mourn Watch experience? They took a few steps inside. The book was still in their hand. 

Looking them in the eye was suddenly very difficult. The question came out as a low rumble, “He didn’t do anything to you did he?”

“Ha, no. A little resistant, but for whatever reason he listens to me.”

Lucanis crossed his arms, trying to blink away the pain in his eyes. For whatever reason, it was lingering more and more. He rolled one shoulder, then the other. “I missed the rest of the story. It was just getting interesting.”

They laughed. Like honey to his senses. 

“I am going back to my room,” They said as they stretched and yawned. Lucanis turned his gaze to the stone floor. They paused and he could feel their gaze singe his skin. 

“I wouldn’t mind reading it again. Just don’t fall asleep next time.”

[jb-nonsense]

Extra Dessert

Summary: After making a hazelnut torte for him, Ogden wants to show Lucanis just how much he appreciates him. They spend their first time, Lucanis's first time ever, together, and Ogden wants to make it as perfect as he can. Characters: Lucanis Dellamorte, Ogden Thorne (Rook) Ship: Rookanis Word Count: 5,061 Rating: Explicit AO3 Tags: Smut Fluff and Smut Intercrural Sex First Time Lucanis gets a nice first time with support and love thank u

[heylavellan]

Happy Friday!How about "tripping, but being caught in the arms of the other" from your RomCom tropes for Emmrich x Rook?

it is time for barry to reveal himself. to be absolutely shit at comprehending his feelings. veilguard ahead! @dadrunkwriting

tell me there's a chance!

rating: m

words: 621

additional notes: referenced sex acts (not in detail), rook being terribly bad at feelings. barry uses he/him!

qReally, Barry should have been paying more attention. Everyone knows that in a foreign place, paying attention to your surroundings is paramount. A dwarven warrior should know that. A former Proving champion should know that. And, especially, a Grey Warden should know that.

Still, the Grand Necropolis is a place of wonder. The skeletons are very strange, after all they were once inside people and used to have tendons and blood vessels surrounding them. Their bones are very clean and a fine grey colour, no black or yellow discolouration. Many of them are digging tunnels, clearing away debris, and generally tending to the maintenance of the necropolis. A bit like the few working golems in Orzammar. But far more macabre. Oghren would shit his pants.

Bellara leads him through a few winding passageways, and spies a well-dressed skeleton. Well, compared to the other working skeletons at least. A hardy pair of goggles, a well-worn leather backpack and a waterskin tucked in his ribcage. The care and attention to that skeleton is actually kind of adorable. Like a freaky little cat.

He misses whatever Bellara says, and immediately trips over something. Barry didn't quite have time to see what caused him to trip. Instead, he careens into a broad chest, hidden behind fine fabrics. A green velvet waistcoat adorns a pin-tucked shirt with two rows of pearly buttons now pressing into the dwarf's cheek. A thick leather coat presses in on either side of his face as lithe arms wrap around his body.

Truly, a phenomenal entrance. "Are you alright?" asks the smoothest Nevarran voice He's ever heard. Right. Not a problem. Just a nice voice.

He leans back and finally gets a decent eyeful of the man who caught him and bronto shit. In that moment, Barry Thorne learns a few new things about him. First, he is a sucker for a refined sounding voice. His previous two wives spoke like filthy dusters. At the time, that was what he wanted. A strong woman who knew how to make even a proud warrior like him feel small. This man, whoever he is, presents him with a new experience. He hopes he gets to hear more of that voice.

Second, he learns he likes men. He always knew it was a possibility that his preferences might change. His second wife didn't need any gadgets to peg him, she had her own prick to use on him. Never bothered him much. After joining the Legion and then the Grey Wardens? Not much attraction at all. But looking at this fine specimen reminds him of more youthful days, when he brought home plenty of women after winning a Proving match. The longing he felt for this spindly man is as intense a passion as he had twenty years prior.

The third is that he doesn't know how to react to this. Hello? After so many years of accepting that he is dead to Orzammar and quite literally dying to the Blight in his veins, Thorne figured there would never be time for anything more. Or finding someone who would willingly help him tend to his needs at 53. He knows he's gone through the wringer. He doesn't keep up with his grooming as he should. Paragons know he hasn't-

"Rook?" asks Bellara interrupting his thoughts.

"Nothing stops this old dwarf," Barry responds with a half smile to the girl.

The fourth thing he realises is that the man he tripped into is looking at him with concern. Rook properly introduces himself, and shakes the necromancer's hand.

"Professor Emmrich Volkarin, of the Mourn Watch," the mage chirps.

The fifth thing hits Barry harder than he can swing his hammer: there might actually be a chance.

[isk4649]

Fuck it, I’m drunk. I’m working on a modern AU set in December 1936 that has Rook (a Greek college boy returning to a dictatorship) and Lucanis (a Spaniard going to fight in the Civil War) meet, debate modern politics (i.e. slowly rolling toward an unimaginable apocalypse), and fall in love-ish on a train from London. Who’s interested?

I am, and you’re getting it. Because I��m trauma dumping on all y’all.

[arlathanxchange]

Arlathan eXchange is returning!

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[juneiper-art]

“You’re kind,” she said. It was put so simply it stunned him. Lucanis would not have picked out the word ‘kind’ for himself. Was that how she truly thought of him, stripped of all the irony and pettiness of her moods? She thought he was kind. He had thought himself forever changed, twisted into something detestable. But she had never thought of him that way, had she? Even when they first met, she hadn’t thought of him that way. She hadn’t pitied what he had become. She had envied him for what he hadn’t lost.

happy american thanksgiving. fanfic be upon you

[damallarky]

Veilguard Prologue, Part 2: Aisling

Guess who finally finished the second of her pre-Veilguard prologue fics? It's Part 2: Solavellan Bugaloo, and by Bugaloo, I mean an emotional rollercoaster. Things need to get worse before they get better, but don't worry, guys; things will get better. I promise.

Also, my Inquisitor, Aisling, has a stutter. I based it on my own experiences with my (admittedly very mild) stutter and the research I did, but if anyone has any suggestions on how to improve or more accurately represent stuttering, please let me know.

If you prefer, this fic is also on AO3. Check it out!

Summary:

Solas's plans will soon come to fruition, but before he can be free of his debt owed to the People, he must ensure the safety of those he loves most. That is how he finds himself at the home of his heart, the former Inquisitor Aisling Lavellan and her (and his) children.

AKA Solas and Aisling have their first honest conversation in a decade. Like I said, it's a rollercoaster. Buckle up, folks.

Mentions of my Inquisitor's children Ren and Neria.

-

Solas stood out on former Inquisitor Aisling Lavellan’s balcony, staring at the dazzling blue of the Rivaini coastline below. The Inquisitor and her family had moved to Rivain a year or two ago, ostensibly to be closer to Aisling’s older brother Arin, who was currently living with a certain Tevinter Magister, but also to get away from the ruins of their former home after the demon incident at Skyhold had nearly leveled the place.

Another one of Solas’s many, many failings.

However, Solas quite liked the new home Aisling had built for herself. It was a stone cottage that seemed to be built into the very cliffside it stood on, with stone steps leading directly to the beach and ocean below. Inside, it was homely, with plush carpets and furs, plants in the windows, and books scattered about the place. Momentos from Aisling’s time as the Inquisitor filled the various nooks and crannies, and nearly every wall had some example of art made by her children over the years.

Solas had wished he could have explored further and delved into the life Aisling had led the past decade. But he thought better of it, content to wait in her bedroom until she returned, as she had asked him to do.

Solas had informed Aisling of his arrival, of course. He had sought her out in the Fade and asked her permission to speak with her and see her. His plans were approaching fruition. In fact, they needed to be expedited if he was correct in his assumption on the strength of the Evunaris’s prison. He had taken the necessary precautions. Ran countless calculations to ensure the minimum amount of damage, but…

Solas’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening and closing. Slowly, he turned around and, for the first time since the Qunari invasion, he saw her. 

At thirty-four, former Inquisitor Aisling Lavellan looked much the same as she had the last time he had seen her, except, of course, for the prosthetic arm, a strange contraption of gears and lyrium that had the markings of a Dagna creation. Her hair was perhaps a bit longer, currently out of her usual braided updo and hanging in loose curls down her back. Her face, too, was perhaps a bit more worn, age and duty just barely beginning to etch fine lines onto her freckled skin. To Solas, however, she was just as beautiful now as she was when he first saw her in Haven all those years ago… a perfect creature in an imperfect world.

He and his kin had once claimed divinity, but before him was a true goddess. She with her soul that shone bright enough to pierce even the darkest parts of his ancient and wretched heart. His fire-haired lady, with her boundless compassion and endless curiosity. The top of her head just barely reached the bottom of Solas’s chin (perfect, he remembered, for tucking her close to him and breathing in the wool and amber scent of her hair), but still, Solas felt small underneath her gaze. He had to fight every instinct not to throw himself at her feet and declare himself her supplicant. To grovel and plead for her forgiveness for being the penitent sinner that he was.

He could not, however. Not while his people still suffered. Not while he still had to fix the mistakes of his past. A sinner he was indeed and there was penance still to be paid… the price of which was the loss of his heart.

He had only wished that he did not have to take her down with him.

Solas had hoped against hope that Aisling would forget him. That she would move on to someone else, someone younger and more worthy of her love. But as the years went on, she had only doubled down on her efforts to find him and bring him home to her. He had read the reports from his agents about how she would work herself to the point of exhaustion. Had listened to her desperate pleas and disparaging cries from the Fade.

He had wanted her so desperately to live, but instead, she was slowly killing herself, bit by bit. His plan to bring down the Veil would only be the final nail in her coffin.

Then, of course, there was Neria… And Ren.

Neria was, much like her mother, a complication he had not foreseen but, also like her mother, could not bring himself to regret. Solas had made so, so many mistakes in his life, but never would he consider Neria among them. Not when his heart swelled with pride as he read reports from his spies that mentioned her cleverness or nearly burst with love as he watched her from a distance while she played and explored the Fade with spirits of Joy and Curiosity.

Each night, Solas wanted desperately to reach out, to talk to her. To close the gap between himself and his daughter that he had unknowingly carved out nearly twelve years ago, and that only seemed to grow with each passing day.

He knew so little about his own child, and what details he did know were shallow things he knew only through his network of spies (and whatever Joy and Curiosity would share with him). He knew that she loved reading, but he did not know what her favorite books were. He knew she had inherited his sweet tooth, but he did not know which sweets she preferred. He knew that she had a love of animals, but which ones Solas could not say.

His child was practically a stranger to him as he was to her, and oh, did that make him want to weep.

Ren was similar, but different. Unlike Neria, Ren wasn’t Solas’s child by blood, but rather the child of Aisling’s late bond mate who had died before the little boy was even born. Though not related by blood, Solas still felt attached to him. Protective of him, even. He remembered fondly showing the then two-year-old how to build snowmen in Haven, or the shrieks of joy as Solas summoned wisps of light to play with him, or how the boy would toddle after him while he painted in the rotunda of Skyhold. Then, as he and Aisling grew closer, how he would help her put him to bed, telling him stories in Elvhen until the toddler drifted off into the Fade.

After Solas had left, he had felt his loss as keenly as he did Aisling’s and then, later, Neria’s. Regretted the pain he caused just as deeply. In the Fade, he watched as the boy grew into a kind, thoughtful young man, with a spirit much like his mother’s. Ren did not shy away from the denizens of the Fade (Curiosity was particularly attached to him and was often seen in his company if they weren’t entertaining Neria) but engaged with them as well. It was the same in the waking world, if Solas’s agents were to be believed. In their reports, which Solas had started to think were filled with such details for some ulterior motive, they would mention how mature Ren was for his age. How kind and thoughtful he could be.

Solas would have been proud to call him his son, if Ren and Aisling would have let him have that honor.

Yes, he had a duty to his people and a duty to every modern Elf in Thedas. Still, he could not deny that he had a duty to his children as well and, of course, their mother.

Which, Solas had to remind himself, was why he was here. To warn them.

That, and to see them one last time.

“Inquisitor.” He said, voice gruff. “You look… well.”

That was when he heard the growling. From behind Aisling leapt a large mabari, it’s coat a bluish silver hue in the evening light. The war hound put itself between Solas and the Inquisitor, fangs bared and growling warningly. Solas stood his ground, staring directly into the mabari’s eyes in challenge, his own figurative hackles raised. The mabari, to its credit, merely flinched but did not back down from what it now realized was no mere man.

“Sathan, Fenan,” Aisling said, grabbing the dog by its massive collar. It was so large she had to use both hands. “Atish dur!”

The mabari, Fenan, stopped growling at once, though he seemed reluctant to retreat entirely.

“Is ju teldin nuem,” she promised, rubbing the dog’s neck. Satisfied, the great beast trotted off, choosing to sit by the door where he continued to watch Solas like a hawk.

“I’m…” Aisling began, “I’m s-sorry. He isn’t n-n-no-normally like this…”

Solas noticed her stammer, which was usually worse when she was excited or tense. Or frightened. He hoped that it wasn’t the latter.

“When did you get a mabari?” Solas asked, desperately trying to keep his voice casual.

“He was a gift for Neria. Cullen’s mabari had puppies, and he let her and Ren p-pick one each.”

“A fine gift. I have heard that there is no better a companion than a mabari.”

“He and Neria are normally attached at the hip, but he wouldn’t leave my side this evening. He must have sensed s-something was off, and unlike Ren’s mabari, Fenan can be stubborn.

“…Ah.”

“Indeed.”

“Inq-“ he began but stopped himself. They were beyond titles now. “Aisling. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

Aisling nodded curtly.

“P-p-pl-ple-“ she gave a frustrated sigh, shoulders slumping as her mouth refused to form the words. She tried again. “P-please sit,” she said, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace before sitting down in the one opposite it. Solas sat down, perhaps a bit reluctantly. He felt a sudden onslaught of nervousness overcome him, being in her presence again after so long.

“You said that you needed to speak with me?” Aisling asked.

Solas took in a deep breath. Exhaled.

“I will be bringing down the Veil soon,” he said. The silence that followed nearly made him wince.

Solas watched as Aisling’s expression went from shocked to furious to exhausted in mere seconds before she turned and stared into the fire, face unreadable once more.

“Aisling, I-“

“When?” she asked, cutting him off.

 Solas sighed.

“Less than a year,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Possibly sooner, he thought, if the Evunaris keep chipping away at their prison.

He could feel Aisling’s penetrating gaze on him now, but he could not bring himself to look her in the eye. When he finally worked up the courage to lift his head, he saw Aisling with her chin resting in her hand, her real hand, as she stared pensively into the fireplace.

They sat there in silence, the only noises being the sound of the waves being carried through the open window and the crackling of the fireplace before them.

“Neria will be turning twelve this year,” Aisling intoned, almost casually, before fixing Solas with a penetrating stare, “will… will she even live to see it? What about Ren?”

Solas felt as if the rug had been pulled out from underneath him.

“That is…” he swallowed hard. “That is why I wished to speak with you. I am doing my utmost to minimize the damage bringing down the Veil will cause,” he explained, his words tumbling out of him faster and faster as he went on. “And while I believe I am close to a solution that I believe will benefit the most amount of people in the long run-“

Aisling stared at him slack jawed and in disbelief. She looked at Solas as if he had sprouted a second head.

“-I cannot guarantee Ren or Neria’s safety, unless…

“…Unless what, Solas?” Aisling asked, the apprehension clear in her voice.

“…Unless the three of you go into hiding. I have a few locations, safe houses where I believe the three of you can wade out the worst of what is to come.”

The silence that followed then was nearly deafening. It was deadly quiet; no noise seemed to pierce through whatever spell befell the two of them, not the fire dancing in the fireplace or the waves outside of the window, or even the whining of the mabari still at Aisling’s door.

Aisling stood up from her chair, slowly, as if possessed.

“What?” she asked, her voice colder than ice. Her tone cut right to Solas’s core, and he winced. Aisling then began to pace erratically, back and forth in front of the fireplace like a caged animal.

“Aisling,” he pleaded as he watched her pace, “if you never believe another word I say, please believe this: I promise that I will do everything in my power to keep the three of you safe.”

Aisling stopped her pacing to swing around and face him.

“Everything, except stopping this madness!” She exclaimed, throwing her arms up in frustration.

“Do you think I take joy in this?” Solas snapped. “Do you think I want to bring destruction upon the people of this world?”

“So you c-claim, and yet you still continue with a plan to do just that!”

Solas wanted to scream. Why couldn’t Aisling see? Why couldn’t she understand?

“What I do,” he said through clenched teeth, “I do for the betterment of the People. By bringing down the Veil, the lives of Ren and Neria, and Elven children across Thedas would be improved!”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT, SOLAS!” Aisling yelled. “BY BRINGING DOWN THE VEIL YOU CAN JUST AS EASILY GET THEM KILLED!”

Something deep inside Solas, something that he kept carefully buried away for eons, snapped. He leaped from his chair as if burned.

“I HAVE ALREADY KILLED THEM!” he yelled back. “AS I HAVE ALREADY KILLED YOU AND EVERY OTHER ELF IN THEDAS!”

Solas’s ears began to ring, and his legs felt like jelly. Then they gave out completely, and he fell to his knees before the former Inquisitor.

“Do you not see?” He cried, pleadingly, silently begging her to understand. “By creating the Veil, I have already condemned you, condemned both of our children, to death. I have destroyed…”

Solas felt himself trail off, unable to finish his sentence as he struggled to breathe. He felt the guilt of thousands upon thousands of deaths wrap around his neck like a hangman’s noose. Elf or spirit- at this point it hardly mattered. He could feel the weight of all the races of Thedas, every living soul that ever was and would ever be, as they cried out for justice. He could feel their spectral hands grab at the noose around his neck and pull and pull and pull…

“…I have destroyed everything.” He choked out.

Aisling knelt beside him. She took him into her arms and held him tightly, rubbing circles into his back in a soothing gesture. He buried his face into her shoulder, heedless of the snot and the tears he was surely getting all over her as he wept like he hadn’t wept in an age, thousands of years' worth of grief pouring out of him in waves that would have pulled him under were it not for Aisling’s anchoring presence.

“Ar lath ma,” he wept, “ma vhenan, ma ghi’lal elen. Ar lath ma sul bellanaris, i ir abelas.” 

“Tel abelas,” Aisling muttered, her own tears spilling down her cheeks and dripping onto the back of Solas’s head while he continued to sob onto her shoulder.

“I am trapped. Trapped on a path I no longer wish to walk.”

“You need not walk it alone, Solas, if you must walk it at all,” she grabbed him by the face, stared at him with wide, pleading eyes. “P-p-pl-please ma lath, if this is something you must do, then let us find a way to do it together. Safely.”

“I…”

For one brief, shining moment, Solas considered it. Aisling had done the impossible before. But this…

No. He couldn’t do that. Not to her. Never to her.

“I cannot,” he said, fervently shaking his head, “I cannot do that to you, Aisling. Please do not ask that of me.”

Aisling let go of him and sat there on the floor in front of her fireplace, looking as broken and defeated as Solas had ever seen her. He hated that he was the cause of it. Solas needed to leave… Leave before he broke her heart even further. With great effort, he hauled himself to his feet.

“I will send word,” he said, his voice hoarse and hallow, “when I have found a suitable location to keep you and the children safe from the worst of the fallout. I am sorry, Aisling.”

Slowly, Solas made his way towards the door, each step a struggle. He hadn’t made it far, however, when he heard Aisling call out for him.

“Solas, wait,” she said. “P-please don’t leave. Not yet.”

He shut his eyes tightly, knowing that, deep down, he should leave before he did any more damage. However, the part of him that was more impulsive and reckless, that was more wolf than man and that kissed her back in the Fade over a decade ago, demanded that he stay. Stay and bask in her presence for as long as he could before he would no longer have the chance to.

Solas turned around and sat back down in the chair. In the end, he didn’t stand a chance.

The silence that followed was painful. Aisling seemed just as surprised that he had chosen to stay as he was.

“How is Ren?” He asked, eventually wanting to keep things civil while also learning as much about the children he abandoned as he could while he could.

“Tall,” she said, “taller than me now,” Aisling smiled softly and stared into the distance, looking at something only she could see. “Ren’s been doing well here in Rivain, though he misses Skyhold t-terribly. He’s been learning magic from myself and Dorian, when he has the time. He’s picking it up fast; I’m proud of him. Dorian even has Ren help him with his research sometimes.”

Solas wanted to ask about what they were researching, but he kept it to himself. It wasn’t his business.

“Ren has also taken quite a liking to p-painting over the last few years. He wants to try a fresco at some point…”

“A fresco?” Solas asked, feeling his heart skip a beat.

“A fresco,” she said with a nod and a knowing smile. “He’s been mostly sticking to canvas, but if he is serious about it, and I believe he is, I can think of a few places here he c-could try it out on.”

“I…” Solas faltered, unsure if he was about to cross some sort of boundary, “…I could send for the type of paint he would need. Brushes as well.”

His fears were unfounded, however. Aisling beamed, clearly happy with the idea.

“He would like that,” she said.

The room delved into awkward silence once more.

“Have you b-been well?” She asked.

Solas couldn’t help the huff that escaped him.

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I have been… well enough.”

Aisling quirked an eyebrow, doubt written plainly on her face before she burst into raucous laughter.

“Sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes, “it’s just… Neria does the exact same thing, you know? When she’s been c-caught in a lie and doesn’t want to answer. She evades the question.”

“I was not evading the question.”

“Neria says the exact same thing.”

He snorted. Then frowned.

“Neria lies?” he asked, not at all liking the implications, whispers of traitor, harellen, echoing in his skull. Aisling gave him a sympathetic look.

“She’s eleven, Solas.” She said, fondness in her voice. Whether it was for him or for Neria, Solas could not say. “She’s eleven and she has a t-tendency to sneak live animals into her room when she thinks no one is watching.”  

“…live animals?”

“Oh yes… You should have seen the snake brood she incubated.”

“Does she have any preference when it comes to animals?” Solas asked, eager for any scrap of information he could gather on his little girl. His da’vhenan.

“Well, she loves wolves,” said Aisling. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she added, “No idea where that came from…”

“A coincidence, I’m sure,” said Solas, unable to stop himself from grinning.

“Of course,” Aisling replied, a small smirk on her face. “She also loves reptiles. And that one, truly, is a mystery to me.”

“She likes… reptiles?”

“Yes. Lizards, snakes, turtles. We see them all the time here in Rivain. She and Ren will spend hours down by the shore looking for them.”

“And does she find any?”

“Usually. She’ll often sketch the ones she finds in her notebook and show them to me. She’s gotten quite g-g-g-goo…” Aisling let out another frustrated sigh, “…she draws very well, too. You would be proud.”

“I am,” Solas declared. “Proud of her, that is. Proud of both of them… even though I know I have no right to be.”

Hastily, he swiped the moisture from his eyes. If Aisling noticed, she didn’t comment on it, merely stared at him sadly. There was so much he had missed because of his duties. First words and steps. Their first sparks of magic. He should have been there for all of it. Should have been there to watch them learn and grow and…

You should be there for them now, a voice in his head hissed.

And he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to… To give up on his wretched goals and go hunt for lizards on the beach with Neria and teach Ren how to paint frescos.

He felt himself spiraling once more, dangling on the edge of some dark precipice, when Aisling gently touched his hand, bringing him back to himself with a start.

“I-“ he began, “Forgive me, I-“

“Solas, would you like to learn more about her? Ren as well?” Aisling asked kindly.

It was not often that Solas found himself at a loss for words. This time, however, he couldn’t seem to be able to get any past the lump firmly lodged in his throat. He could only nod enthusiastically.

And that was how, hours later, the two of them ended up on the rug in front of Aisling’s fireplace. She had regaled him with as many stories of Neria and Ren as she could. Many of them were tiny, inconsequential things, but to Solas, each little tidbit of information was as precious to him as any jewel.

He laughed right along with Aisling as she told him of the time Neria brought a toad she found to her Aunt Vivienne’s fancy dinner party. Both Neria and Ren had tried to catch it, but the frog was apparently evasive and had landed right on the lap of one of the Orlesian noblemen. He was also surprised, pleasantly so, to find out that Vivienne had apparently found it just as hilarious and had a habit of serving that particular Orlesian frog legs whenever she hosted him.

He marveled at the tale of how the children discovered their respective magic; Ren apparently summoned wisps of light one night when he woke up to find his room frighteningly dark, only to excitedly show off his new trick to his mother the very next morning. Neria and Solas couldn’t help the bark of laughter that came from him when he heard the tale, he had accidentally summoned fire. Apparently, her Uncle Dorian had been showing the little girl magic tricks involving small flames, only for Neria to decide she wanted to try it herself. It was a surprise to them both when she summoned her own flames, and luckily, the only damage done was to Dorian’s mustache... And, perhaps, his pride.

He felt a spike of righteous fury when he learned that the Iron Bull had apparently promised both children to take them dragon hunting and only calmed once Aisling told him that she herself had promised the Qunari that she would turn the Iron Bull into the Iron Steer if he ever dared pull such a stunt. Solas couldn’t help but laugh a little at that. Apparently, the subject had never been brought up since.

So caught up in absorbing as much information about the children as he could, he didn’t notice how the two of them were slowly inching their way closer and closer to one another until they had both subconsciously reached for the other’s hand, entwining their fingers together like that was where they belonged. Solas was the first to notice, looking down at his long, slender hand as it engulfed her much smaller one. Aisling followed his gaze and blushed furiously.

She didn’t, Solas noticed, remove her hand.

“You still haven’t answered my question, Solas,” she said, giving him a pointed look, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

“Ah. She is privy to my ways, it seems…”

Solas thought of how best to answer her. The simple answer was that he was painfully lonely, scared, and unsure. But he didn’t want to tell her that. Not after everything else, he laid at her feet. He had already burdened her with enough worries for one night.

 He didn’t want to tell her of the nightmares that came more and more frequently as of late. Of the Evunaris breaking free from their prison and hunting him down, hunting Aisling and the children down. Images of their corpses haunted his dreams, and many nights, he would wake up with a scream, so panicked, so unwilling to return to the Fade that was once his home, that he would simply stare at the ceiling until dawn came.

 Nor did it feel right to complain about how isolated he felt. How his home, the Lighthouse, that was once a place of refuge, had become something of a prison. How alone he felt as he ate after sharing so many meals with the Inquisition… With his friends... With her… How he had simply started skipping meals, just so he wouldn’t have to eat alone at his long table, meant for more than one single, solitary old fool.

He couldn’t tell her those things. Those were his burdens to bear. Problems of his own doing that he could do nothing but endure alone. He could, however, give her one simple truth.

“I’ve missed you,” he said, finally. “Terribly, in fact.”

At that, Aisling leaned forward, her large green eyes sparkling in the firelight. She was very close to him now, close enough that he could have easily run his thumb across her cheek or tuck a lock of bright red hair behind her ear. For a moment, Solas could have sworn he could smell the scent of wool and amber.

“Truly?” she asked.

“Truly,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Truly, madly, and deeply.”

“Sweet talker,” she replied, and before he knew what was happening, Aisling grabbed him by the collar and kissed him passionately. Then she pulled back, her eyelashes fluttering, and Solas knew if she had asked him at that very moment to give up his mission, he would have done it. Laid down his arms and throw himself at her mercy.

(Months later, trapped in a prison of his own making, Solas would replay this scene in his head over and over again, silently wishing Aisling had asked him and that he wasn’t such a coward so he could have made that decision himself.)

“Stay with me tonight,” Aisling said in a breathless voice that sent shivers down Solas’s spine. “Just for tonight. Please…”

“Vhenan,” he growled.

“Let us pretend. Just for tonight…”

“We shouldn’t,” Solas said even as he went in for a kiss of his own, his hands finding their favorite spot right above the small of her back.

It was a token resistance, and he knew it.

They barely made it off the rug before they were laughing and tossing aside their clothes (or, in Solas’s case, armor) without a care in the world. Aisling yelped, then laughed brightly as Solas scooped her up, bridal style, and carried her off to her bed, laying her down as gently as he could. He crawled over top of her, and as he did, he lavished her body with kisses, worshiping her.

“Ar lath ma,” he whispered with each kiss pressed against her skin. “Ar lath ma. Ar lath ma. Ar lath ma.”

Finally, as he slid inside of her, his body fitting with hers perfectly as if it had been made that way, he did as Aisling bid him to do and allowed himself to pretend. Pretend that Fen’harel and all his terrible duties were dead and buried with the rest of the Elvhen empire and that he was allowed to be simply Solas, the wandering Elven apostate.

In his mind’s eye, he saw it. The life this Solas led.

Solas, with his clever daughter and thoughtful stepson, whom he would be teaching everything he knew. Magic, the Fade, the Elvhen language, painting, chess… it didn’t matter what. If they were interested, he would teach them. If he didn’t know, then he would learn with them.

And, of course, he would help Neria hunt for lizards by the beach and teach Ren how to bind paint to plaster.

He imagined that they would have more brothers and sisters… as many as Aisling was willing to give him. Multiple sets of tiny, pointed ears surrounded by bright red hair. Multiple little voices all calling him “Papae.”

Solas’s nights would be spent much like this one, with Aisling in his arms. He would card his fingers through her long, red hair. Whisper words of endearment against her skin as they made love, slowly, languidly, and without the baggage from before. There would be no secrets, no duties or guilt to come between them, and he would be free to love the woman who became his heart as she deserved to be loved.

Truly, madly, and deeply.

And each morning, he would wake up to soft, freckled skin against his own and to a smile that was brighter than any sun. Some mornings, he imagined, would start later than others, as he would struggle to keep his hands off her… but eventually, they would make their way down to a long table meant to sit their entire family. Breakfasts would be chaotic, but there would be light and laughter and so, so much love…

He wanted it all so badly.

In the real world, Solas buried his face into Aisling’s shoulder as he continued to thrust desperately into her. He tried not to think about how this might be the last time he would ever see her in person. He tried not to think about how he would be gone before she woke up, how she would reach out for him only to find a cold space where he once lay.

“Var lath vir suledin,” Aisling whispered in his ear as if she sensed his growing despair. She probably did.

Var lath vir suledin. It was a promise that she had made before, and it was a promise that she would keep until the bitter end.

Var lath vir suledin. He didn’t know how. But, at least for tonight anyway, he could pretend that it could.

With that, Solas closed his eyes and allowed himself, just this once, to worry neither about the past nor the future and to let himself simply be lost in the sensation of loving this incredible woman and being loved in turn.

[amaryllis-sagitta]

Writing masterpost (2015-)

This list contains all my Dragon Age related published writing so far. Some of it I was proud of when still fresh out of university but wouldn't do again (looking mostly at the old character meta that makes liberal use of psychoanalysis), some helped me trudge through a toxic job, some I have orphaned in a creative crisis overthinking rage.

The list is also available under my blog's public address:

So, here it is:

🤔Cursed ancient meta straight from the Void that stink of Solas’s socks and I would not do them today (2015-2016)

A Glimpse Into Dorian Pavus’s Psyche

How easily can iron break? - A meta on the Bull

😱Ancient fics from Carastes Scrolls (2015-2016)

If I Ever Return to Minrathous (M!Trevelyan x Dorian. multichapter, discontinued)

Bloodline. A Tevinter Fiction (Gen, Dorian-centered, multichapter, post-Trespasser, discontinued)

Cracky Senshi Sailor Bull (Gen, Iron Bull-centered, DAI & Sailor Moon crossover, crack)

Eluviesta Fool’s Day Special (Gen, DAI & WH40K crossover, crack)

💀Reposts from @cheapertevinterglam era (2018-2023)

Speculative Timeline (up to The Missing)

Succession of the Evanuris and symbolic eras in the elvhen history

Some thoughts about Ghilan’nain’s and Fen’Harel’s apotheosis

Hesiod’s Theogony and Yes, Ancient Thedas (AO3)

Awkward PSA (Metaphysics of Thedas pt. 1, 2 & 3, now orphaned - AO3)

18-sign Astrology for Thedas (GDocs)

🌟Tag: By Magister Asinius Vivellius (2024-) - MAY CONTAIN DATV SPOILERS

😱What was I even thinking - a Lenormand reading on The Veilguard

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[treviso-nights]

what the fuck color are solas's eyes? i'm trying to write another fanfic but i can't keep calling them gray-violet lmao

[imakemywings]

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: f!Cadash/Blackwall

AN: De-anon of a kink meme fill from a while back for Blackwall getting pegged.

AO3

__________________________________________________

            There had been a time not long ago when Blackwall had thought to never see the inside of Inquisitor Cadash’s private quarters again. But for Cadash, there had never been a question about that. Even before his revelation, Blackwall had known some of the things she had done which made her inclined to forgive him even a crime of the severity to which he confessed, but after pardoning him—after affirming she meant to keep him in her life—she had coughed up the rest: All of the things she’d been afraid to lay out for him, once she began to care about his good opinion. The fingers crushed under forge hammers, the families threatened, the parties thrown just to slit the throat of a specific target—all of it.

            So now it was all on the table. No more secrets, they said. No more lies. No more cowardice.

            “You make me a better person,” Cadash had confided in him once, after. “You make me want to be better.”

            “That’s funny,” Blackwall said. “I was thinking the same about you.” But she could hear in his voice how much it meant to think that even someone like him—the real him—could inspire someone to something good. It was something he wished for so desperately.

            And so Blackwall spent many more nights in Cadash’s quarters. In fact, they had all but officially become his quarters as well—she had given him a small dresser of his own for his things, and he never overnighted in his own bed anymore, even if he was sliding in beside a sleeping Cadash after a late training or scouting session.

            Neither of them was the rosy image they wanted to present to the world—but maybe that was alright. Maybe it mattered just that they were trying.

            When Blackwall held her on his lap, the mountain moonlight beaming cold against the thick black hair on the back of his head, the candlelight indoors wreathing her in yellow-gold, she believed they could live up to their new ideals.

            She dug her fingers into his beard and tipped his head back to seal her mouth over his, grinning as she felt the bulge in his trousers when she rolled her hips against his. There had been a powerful level of decorum and courtesy in Blackwall’s initial treatment of her, and Cadash had simply delighted in getting underneath that to know how much he lusted for her.

            “Are you ready to feel the firm hand of the Inquisition?” she teased when she drew back, her lips slick with their mingled saliva, her pupils wide.

            “I was under the impression it would be more than a hand,” Blackwall said, though she detected a thread of nervousness in him. She laughed.

            “I’ll take care of you, baby,” she promised in her twangy, drawling accent, leaning in to kiss his neck, pressing her hips down against his lap. “As much as you want.” For a moment, she occupied herself nibbling at his neck until he said:

            “Are you trying to leave a mark? That’s a bit childish, isn’t it?” He sounded amused.

            “Tch, no one will even see it with your collar,” she said. “Besides…” She dug her nails into his scalp at the back his head, “You know how I feel about making clear what’s mine.” She heard Blackwall’s intake of breath and grinned again, kissing him softly against the tendons in his neck. He was always weak for her flashes of possessiveness.

            “You’re sure?” she asked then, sitting back on his knees to look him full in the face. “Do you want to see it first?”

            “I…yes, perhaps that would be best,” Blackwall allowed. Cadash, with some reluctance, slid off his lap and pranced across the room to where she’d stowed the toy. It was her own—she felt the inquisitor deserved some proper stress relief, though Josephine had not looked her in the eyes when confronting her about the expense—and she enjoyed the idea of putting her own toy to use on her lover.

            She’d even bought a new harness for this.

            Nearly preening, she presented him with the dildo and let him look it over.

            “It’s rather, er—large, isn’t it?” he said. Cadash shrugged.

            “I’ve had bigger. Yours is bigger by a stretch,” she added with a cheeky look. For a moment, Blackwall hesitated, second-guessing his request, but then she saw that resolute look enter his eyes.

            “Let’s do it,” he said.

            “Bully,” said Cadash, taking it back. She set the dildo and the harness aside and sat on the edge of the bed, stretching her legs out to invite Blackwall to remove what remained of her clothing, which he did with that same combination of fervent desire and awed reverence that never failed to get her wet.

            When he’d tugged her shorts off at last, she grabbed the loose front of his shirt and pulled him forward into a heated kiss, wriggling until her knees bracketed his hips.

            “Someday I’m going to invite my exes to Skyhold,” Cadash announced.

            “Why’s that?” Blackwall asked, his voice gone low and rough as it did when she was really having a go at him.

            “So they can be jealous.” Her eyes twinkled and she jerked loose the ties on his shirt until it began to slip from his thick shoulders, and he straightened up to pull it off and toss it aside.

            “Is that so?” he said, placing his hands on the bed and leaning in to catch her mouth with his.

            “Mhm!” she replied enthusiastically without breaking the kiss. Her hands slid eagerly down through the coarse hair over his chest and belly to his belt, which she could not get off fast enough. “They’ll all be perfectly green, I’m sure!”

            “I think you maybe just a bit biased,” Blackwall replied, entertained as ever when Cadash suggested he was a prize of any stripe.

            “Well, there’s one way to test that,” she said, yanking the belt free of its loops and turning her attention to the laces on his trousers. “You’re making this rather difficult, by the by,” she added, referencing his cock straining against the closed pants opening.

            “I rather think that’s your fault, isn’t it?” he replied, making Cadash simply elated with how much bolder and more confident and open he had grown with her since they began this.

            “It sure is!” she said proudly, managing just fine with the laces despite her complaint. Blackwall lowered his head to kiss at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, and one of his calloused hands slid up her broad thigh.

            “Do you want me to get you first?” he murmured.

            It was sorely tempting, especially with his sturdy fingers so close to where she’d want them, but Cadash rather wanted the foreplay of seeing him come undone first.

            “No, tonight it’s you first,” she decided, sliding a hand down the front of his shorts to palm against his aching cock. Blackwall gasped, his hips bucking thoughtlessly into her hand. “Now, let’s get you ready, hm?”

            Cadash had used toys like this on her female lovers, but not before on a male, or at least not one with Blackwall’s set-up, so to speak, so she’d asked Bull about it, and he’d given her a few tips. He’d also been grinning ear to ear when she left.

            She’d bought the most expensive oil she could find—one that purported to warm quicker than others—and used her fingers to spread and relax Blackwall’s muscles in preparation. She could see that he was flushed under his beard, embarrassed to be getting this kind of attention, so she kissed his muscular thighs and smiled at him, cooing about how pleased she was to do this. And she was—it wasn’t something she’d considered with him before, but when he mentioned it, she’d been more than happy to agree to give it a try.

            Blackwall had never done this either.

            “There…how’s that now?” she said. “Does it feel more comfortable? No pain?”

            “Yes,” he panted. “It feels…well, still odd, truly, but not painful.”

            “Do you feel ready to try the toy now?” He was the one who was going to get fucked, but Cadash felt her cunt thrill at the thought of doing it to him.

            “Yes. I think we should try now,” he agreed.

            “Swell!” She hopped off the bed and started battling her way into the harness, thinking she really ought to have given this a practice run before showtime.

            “Do you need some help with that?” When she looked up at the bed, Blackwall was propped up on his elbows, his lips twitching.

            “Are you suggesting the inquisitor isn’t capable of putting on a strap harness alone?” Cadash asked.

            “I heard the inquisitor can put on a strap harness one-handed in the dark with a blindfold,” said Blackwall. It was a game of theirs, to make jokes about the ridiculous rumors that circulated about her. Cadash snorted.

            “Just you wait, and soon she will!” When it was all in place, she gave the phallus a tug to make sure it was secure, and then climbed back onto the mammoth bed with which Josephine had seen fit to equip her rooms.

            Blackwall was eyeing the thing between her legs with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, which Cadash tried to soothe with a long open-mouthed kiss.

            “All good to go?” she asked gently when she drew back.

            “I trust you,” he said, nodding.

            “Just let me know if it’s not working,” she reminded him, settling back between his legs. Regrettably, he was so tall that from here she could no longer kiss higher than his pillowy belly, but she could make do with that.

            She spread his legs a little further apart and positioned the toy.

            “I’m used to a bigger hole,” she joked, but Blackwall was too on edge to make a response before she began to wiggle the toy into him, pushing carefully to give him plenty of time to cry uncle if it was too much. “Doing alright?” she asked when the thing was halfway in, looking up. Blackwall was as red as she’d ever seen him, biting at his lower lip, but one thing she was sure of was that things were quite alright.

            “Yes, that’s—it’s—you can keep going,” he babbled. Cadash grinned and pressed further, sticking with the slow initial pace she’d set.

            “There we go,” she said quietly as she eased the toy in to the hilt. “You’re doing beautifully, sugar,” she said. “That’s it, that’s all there is. How’s that feel?”

            “That’s it?” he said.

            “Not enough, already?” Cadash laughed.

            “No, I just…I was expecting it would…hurt a little, I suppose, even if we did everything right.”

            “But the inquisitor—” Blackwall snorted. “It feels good, though?” she asked, light concern lacing her voice. She stroked his leg with one hand.

            “Still a little strange,” he admitted. “But certainly not bad.”

            “Are you ready for me to get fucking?” She tried not to sound too eager.

            “Let’s…give it a moment,” he suggested. Cadash nodded. She reached forward and gripped his cock lightly, sliding her hand up and down casually, until he grew impatient and gave her the go-ahead to start.

            “I’ll start slow,” she promised, and she did. She had to make him lay his legs flat, so she could reach to brace her hands against the bed on either side of his hips. Carefully, she shifted back, drawing the toy out. In the past, she’d drawn back too far at this moment and had to reinsert the toy, but this time she managed to keep it in, and thrust back in with just a bit more speed. The movement drew a soft groan from Blackwall, and Cadash felt a zing of triumph.

            “You just let me know if we need a break,” she told him, picking up just a bit of speed as she drew out and pushed back in.

            “I think we’re good,” Blackwall panted. It took only a handful of thrusts before he seemed to forget the discomfort and strangeness of the position, and Cadash moved faster, delighted with the look of thoughtless, helpless arousal on his face. “Oh, fuck, yes,” he groaned as she hit him again. “Maker, do you really have a natural talent for this?”

            “You’ll have to try with Josephine and then tell me,” said Cadash, but Blackwall choked on whatever he was going to say about that when she jerked her hips against him, shoving the toy smoothly back in. “I think you may be just a bit biased, though.”

            She could feel him trembling and when his cock began to leak precum, she moved faster still, until she was grateful being inquisitor was such an athletic position, because it took effort to do this.

            “That’s it,” she panted, trying to move closer, to make sure she was getting all of the toy in him with each thrust. “There it is, that’s it. Is that good? Is it what you wanted?”

            Blackwall just moaned, his head tipped back, his cock flushed and rigid amidst the nest of wiry black hair between his legs, and then he was gushing, spilling thick white release over himself, his muscles convulsing, and Cadash thought she must be dripping wet. As he began to come, she pushed the toy in one last time, and kept it there until he slumped limp onto the bed.

            “How was that?” she asked, chipper. Feebly, Blackwall flashed her a thumbs-up without lifting his head.

            “Bully!” Cadash snickered and slid off the bed to squirm out of the harness, which she left on the floor. She rejoined him quickly, laying down alongside him and snuggling up close. “You liked it?” she purred, resting a hand on his chest. Blackwall turned his head towards her, gripped the back of her red head with one hand, and dragged her forward for a wet, sloppy kiss which Cadash eagerly returned.

            “You are wonderful,” he said.

            “You really think?”

            “I think I owe you,” he replied, and into his eyes came that look which made fireworks go off in Cadash’s belly, when he wanted to show her a good time. One of his hands was already working between her thighs, up to the place where she was damp. He paused and smirked at her, but Cadash was unabashed.

            “I had a nice time too,” she said pointedly. Leaning in to kiss her again, Blackwall went on with his fingers, wasting no time in pressing them between her slick folds and into the core of her heat. Cadash moaned, bucking her hips, when he pressed his thumb against the root of her clit. They were tangled together, Cadash somewhat trying to hump his leg at the same time he fingered her, but the thrust of his thick fingers quickly had her too senseless to do much but lay there and take her pleasure.

            “How’s this, my lady?” Blackwall murmured, sliding a third finger into her cunt, flexing them so she could feel the spread.

            “Oh, fuck, yes,” Cadash gasped, almost whimpering as she rutted against his hand. “Yes, yes, yes, that’s good, that’s good!” Blackwall’s fingers were in up to the third knuckle when Cadash’s muscles tensed and she cried out, spasming against him as she came, digging her nails into his chest. Blackwall kept his fingers in her through her orgasm so that she came around his hand, gasping when she realized she’d been holding her breath.

            Only when she was quite finished did Blackwall withdraw his hand.

            “Well,” he said, as Cadash was still catching her breath, “I think we can consider that a successful experiment. Don’t you?”

            “Perfectly,” Cadash agreed, a dizzy note in her voice. She gathered herself back together and sat up to look at him. “So you liked it, then? Want to do it again?”

            “I would…certainly be amenable to that,” Blackwall said. “If you enjoyed it as much as it seems you did.” Cadash grinned.

            “I had great fun,” she said. “I’d fuck you anytime, sugar.”

            “I am an undeservedly lucky man,” Blackwall declared.

[covertleathers]

Fanfic snippet I've been working on for a post weisshaupt chapter of pulling cords

“I had her,” he growled. Suddenly, his face felt very warm. “She should have never gotten away from me.”

The lyrium blade rang hot when it grazed Ghilan'nain’s blighted face. It reverberated down to his bones as if he were a lyre string. It woke old injuries like a siren. Painful, but familiar. It was a powerful weapon, definitely something that was created and once wielded by a god. And yet. And yet. And yet…

He had missed. The one contract he took after getting out of the Ossuary. The last contract Caterina ever made. His back ached at the memory of an expertly wielded cane.

“This was our contract Rook,” Lucanis insisted. “I don’t fail my contracts.”

Rook’s face changed. It was a look he had seen before. It was their affection coming through. How they didn't have the instinct to hide it would forever elude him. Those eyes. Warm spotlights on his pain. “Forget about Ghilan'nain.”

They must be drunk.

“That’s why I’m here!” He implored, appalled. Are they crazy? Rook what are you saying?

“I know, but...I’m just happy you didn’t get killed out there.”

They’re crazy. Lucanis pressed, “You shouldn’t go easy on me. Mistakes get people killed.” This is how you lose people. This is how you get sloppy. He had to make them understand. He couldn't lean in.

That trademark sideways smile, teeth sharp and white, “You’re an assassin, so do successes.”

Mierda, they were impossible. Always caught him right before he could get away.

[jb-nonsense]

Below, you will find a list with links to my fanfictions featuring Ogden Thorne. Basic information about Ogden is as follows:

He is around 37 years of age during Veilguard. He was a Circle Mage in the Ansburg Circle before he was recruited to the Wardens by the Hero of Ferelden. He has served as a Warden for 17 years, but due to his ability and skill, has jealous enemies of higher rank which end up causing him to be where he is at the start of the game. His romance is with Lucanis Dellamorte.

I have split the lists in various ways based on what people may have a preference in reading.

Chronological

These are listed timeline chronology.

Spilled Wine (Explicit)

The Song

What Shapes a Warden

The Matter of Sleep

Bedside Vigil

Extra Dessert (Explicit)

Background

These delve into Ogden's character background

Spilled Wine (Explicit)

What Shapes a Warden

Character Study

These dig into his thoughts and character during the game

The Song

Ship Centric

These focus more on the ship aspect with Lucanis

The Matter of Sleep

Bedside Vigil

Extra Dessert (Explicit)

[heylavellan]

Happy DADWC! For your Rook/Lucanis, if it inspires you, how about this from the burning love list:

Don’t go into this lightly. If you’re mine, you need to understand I will burn the fucking world to the ground for you.

Happy writing!

hello hello thank u for this little gift. im going to make lucanis think about his feelings far too much. also, it gives me a chance to revisit the interest scene.

veilguard spoilers ahead!

@seigephoenix | @dadrunkwriting

do you understand?

rating: g

words: 593

additional notes: antonio de riva is qunari, uses they/them pronouns!!

-------

Lucanis slumped in the chair, sipping his third coffee since the disaster with Antonio just moments before. Spite crouched before the fireplace, staring at the flames as they danced and crackled.

Rook crept out of the dining room some ten minutes ago, when he made his second coffee. He tried not to dwell too much on that whole debacle, but it was still too fresh in his mind. His mind twisted itself into knots trying to comprehend what exactly happened there.

Like a fool, he ruined a perfectly romantic moment because he panicked. It was like a scene from the Dueling Hearts series. He'd even used a line from the second book: "You like to walk a little too close to the edge." He'd always wanted to use that one when he found the right person.

By all means, Antonio could be that person. Steadfast, reliable. They cared for Treviso as he did and stuck by his side even when Spite was at his worst.

»Why didn't you kiss them?« Spite asked, laying on the rug and dtaring at the ceiling. He had been asking himself the same question really. He should have. They both wanted it, so why didn't he?

"I don't know," he told Spite, taking a long sip of his coffee. He furrowed his brow, taking another sip. This cup was far more bitter than it should be. Lucanis was horrendously distracted pondering the whole situation, but he hadn't messed up coffee like this in a while.

But he lacked the energy to make a new cup, so he settled into his chair further and resolved to finish the drink. »You know. Don't want to say it,« Spite insisted.

Lucanis blinked a few times. That was probably true. It was far easier to bury those emotions, safe away from where they could be used against him.

Antonio's pointed ears poked out of their long dark hair, down for once instead of the bun they wore throughout the day. For once, they looked relaxed and it looked absolutely stunning on them. He'd purred the lines he'd always wanted to from his books, slowly backing them against the wall. He leaned casually against the wall, trying to frame them in with his forearm.

Their face was dusted with a blush, keeping up with clever repartee. This was the point at which he should kiss them. He wanted to. Maker, did he! But that was the problem. As he leaned in, his mind warned him. Or maybe it was Spite. These days it was difficult to distuinguish between the two.

"They don't want you like you want them. They take it lightly, when you'd burn the world to the ground for them." Just a few finger widths away from kissing them, he excused himself.

From what he saw, Antonio's affections were spread around amongst the crew. He wasn't a sweet girl like Harding or a powerful warrior like Taash. Lucanis was the Demon of Vyrantium, once. But he was captured by Venatori and came out the other side an abomination. As intense as his affections were, Antonio would be better with one of them. Hopefully, they would see that and move on.

"Thinking about it doesn't make it better," he grumbled, taking another long sip of his coffee. Unbidden, the memory of their scent, of rain and vitaar, assailed his nose. Lucanis scowled, trying to drown his senses in far too bitter coffee.

Spite considered him for a moment. »They will come back. They will see,« he asserted. »Like spark fanned into flame.«

[isk4649]

18 December 1936

In the Night Ferry from London Victoria heading to Paris Gare du Nord via Dover and Dunkirk, an excerpt.

With a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, the waiter explained, “My apologies, sir, but the kitchen is currently closed. It will open for breakfast service once we reach Dunkirk. I can offer you a nightcap if you desire.” Caleos did not want food, not when he was this tired. But a nightcap did sound appealing, and he asked, “Whisky on the rocks?” “Of course. We carry Johnnie Walker Red Label and King George IV.” Caleos nodded with approval before leaning back. “King George IV should do. Thank you.” “Very good, sir.” With a deferential bow, the waiter turned and headed toward the kitchen car. His nightcap showed up after a paragraph of Veblen. Caleos lifted the crystal glass and took a long sip. The whisky blend was silky in spite of its assertive taste. He savoured the woody scent and licorice. The aftertaste was sour and thick but not unpleasant. The tingling warmth spread through the esophagus to the rest of his body. Caleos was not much of a drinker – another failure in his Greek family’s eyes –, but Neve taught him to appreciate a good whisky. In fact, the abundance of quality whiskies was one of the two attributes of England he would actually miss, the other being Neve. Where he was heading, even the most lowbrow whisky would be hard to come by. After another sip, he closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. He let the glass hit the table with a muffled thud. “You make that look good,” a deep, smoky voice sibilated. When Caleos opened his eyes, a soft smile entered his vision. A bearded man on a seat across the corridor peered at him with crinkled eyes. He seemed to have appeared out of thin air, an apparition made real. The man was striking. Dark and handsome, a Hollywood leading man to swoon to. As melodramatic as it would sound if Caleos were to say it out loud, that was his first thought. This realization startled him, and he forced his eyes downward. Instinctively, he reopened his book but remembered he never responded to the other man.

Have a Rook (Caleos) x Lucanis gay meet-cute. Wanted to be over the English Channel by now, but nope. Still writing scenes from fucking home counties.