#dragon age oneshot

[100jewels-between-teeth]

Oneshot Wordcount: 2541 AO3 ¤ Ko-Fi ~

CW: Angst, pure angst, with a sprinkle of violence

Pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte x F!Rook de Riva

Summary: In a moment of weakness, where Spite seems to be ensnaring Lucanis more and more, Avantika "Rook" de Riva helps bring Lucanis back, reminding him he is far more than the demon in his mind.

The calm was unsettling. The hum of the Fade, the Lighthouse, providing what could only be heard as some sort of thrumming heartbeat in the air around Rook. As much as the others swore there was a serenity to this place, Rook could only see something that was stagnant. Like the air around them, the magic refused to move on past its time. It lingered, clung to the edifice of the Lighthouse like a memory desperately not wanting to be forgotten

It made Avantika restless, standing there like she really did not belong in such a place. It made her miss the streets of Treviso. The streets filled with spiced conversation and hushed whispers. The lively streets of the people coming and going with their lives. 

Rook couldn't help but smile at the memories of perching herself upon the high roofs, staring out to the expansive ocean as she listened to secrets be traded in alleys below. It was almost the exact opposite of the Lighthouse in everything. 

Staring into the deep blue of the aquarium before her, Rook asserted in her mind that she did, indeed, dislike it here. 

‘Maybe he would have enjoyed it…’ 

Her thoughts of sharp handwriting and even sharper quips on parchment were quickly shattered, a thump resounding in the room. It was muffled, easily missed by most not paying close attention. But to a Crow, one whose life is about listening to every quiet whisper and subtle sound, it was nothing if not obvious.

 Quickly setting down the letter in her hand, Rook wrapping her robe around herself snuggly as she took  her leave. This place still felt like such a maze to Avantika, yet she made sure to commit to memory the most important rooms. Where her companions felt safe, shadowed corners and alcoves that would provide some sort of strategic advantage if they were to ever be sieged. Hiding spots for herself to just have a moment away from all this chaos. 

Yet as much as she tried to familiarize herself with such a place, there was always some kind of secret kept away, a hidden truth that still made this entire structure seem incapable of understanding. Again, another thump sounded off in the hall, this time much clearer to Avantika. A thump that was not one to be associated with a gentle movement of furniture. This one sounded far more aggressive, borderline panicked. Her feet picked up the pace, doing her best to try and track down the sound and its location. When the third thump resounded through the hall, Avantika could feel her heart stop in a panic, turning to the door she could very clearly trace it to. Bursting through the doors, she could see that the entirety of the dining room had been thrown into chaos. Chairs strewn about, some broken, others nothing but splinters at this point. The only light illuminating the room being the now embered fireplace, and the light pouring from the askew door leading to the kitchens and- “Fuck!”

Rook could not move fast enough, racing towards the door, just in time to have to dodge out of the way of a glass flying towards her face, glass shattering against the frame. Avantika could feel a shard just graze against her cheek, unable to completely avoid the remnants of the shrapnel flying. Ava hugged the wall for a moment, catching the breath that was stolen from the shock of entry, only for her eyes to lock onto those familiar brown, wide from the terror of being seen, or nearly hitting her, she was not entirely sure. But the man looked mortified, and it strangled Avantika's heart to a point where she found it hard to breathe. Before Rook could open her mouth to speak, Lucanis hunched over, arms bracing himself against the wooden shelves of the pantry as he grunted out in pain. Avantika had only seen him like this in much more subtle bouts, not wanting to let her or the other’s panic from Spite’s influence. But Avantika knew something was very wrong, that this was far more serious than Lucanis would ever care to admit. Slowly, Avantika took a step forward, not wanting to startle the poor man. She already knew that coming into such a dangerous and volatile situation would already put Lucanis in a panic, she did not want to accelerate his fear. When she could see he had not taken notice yet, Rook steeled herself to take another step forward. “Lucanis? Lucanis… can you look at me, please?” Avantika did her best to try and keep her voice gentle and calm, wanting to try and de-escalate this whole situation in any way she could. Yet the shake in her voice that slipped through was enough to disintegrate that chance. She knew exactly what…who would cling to it.

“Ava, you have to go, please, before-” Another cry out had Lucanis covering his ears, clutching onto his head as if it would explode. 

Something in the air seemed to shift then, like the energy had become far too thin. The hair on Avantika’s arms rose, a familiar feeling in her veins pricked her. She had felt this before, it was a near familiar feeling always. That magic pulsing through her very blood, now manifesting before the two. Before Lucanis could even attempt to react in his state, Avantika raced toward him, her own patterned hands finding his, now cradling his face as her amber eyes grew far more serious. “Lucanis… listen to me… I need you to listen to me.” For a moment, she felt Lucanis respond to her, eyes flickering before something changed. Avantika could feel something pulse within him, those brown eyes she would always lose herself in to a blackness that, when the dim firelight caught, showed that purple sheen that made Avantika's stomach drop. Before she could react quickly enough, she felt herself lifted, her body colliding with the wooden shelves above. All air was forced out of her lungs, the wicked smile beneath her letting out a warped sinister laugh before she was haphazardly tossed to the ground. 

“So do you think…. With enough delusion…. He will amount to what you see in him?” That sickening voice ripped through Lucanis's lips, goosebumps of disgust risking on Avantika's skin as she collected herself to stand. 

“Lucanis…” Avantika could only make out a breathless whisper. “I need you to come back.” 

“WHY SPEAK TO THAT PATHETIC WRETCH WHEN I AM RIGHT-” Spite's roar was cut short by another loud cry, his body curling in on itself as Lucanis's shaking form fell to his knees. 

To hear those pained whimpers come from the man, it made everything in Avantika want to rip apart Spite, to unleash complete magical brutality upon it. 

But Avantika knew better. She knew that the only thing that would feed Spite, make it more powerful, was to feed into it. To give it the attention it craved. Seeing the pained form of Lucanis before her, all urge to acknowledge the demon was smothered. 

Sinking to her knees before Lucanis, Rook's patterned hands slowly reached for Lucanis's own, her own body tensed and ready for any kind of outburst Spite could cause. But as she grasped onto Lucanis’s hands, she could feel that flinch, a squeeze of recognition that only made her heart squeeze tighter and her body move a little closer.

 It was scary for her, but she could only imagine how terrifying this was for him. To feel your mind slipping out of your control. To be a spectator in your own body as some demon piloted your skin, speaking in your voice, all the while you're screaming to stop. All Avantika wanted was to take it away from him, to go into his mind and rip Spite away like the tumor that demon was. 

But for now, all she could do was be here for Lucanis, to do anything possible to anchor him here in reality. “Lucanis… I need you to listen and come back. You are safe… I am right here and I'm not going anywhere.” Rook did everything possible to make sure her voice was steady, that her body was steady. “R-Rook… I-I don't want to hurt you again I-” 

Avantika’s hand left his, gently placing it beneath his chin so those brown eyes could look into her own amber. “No, you did not hurt me, Lucanis. That was not you.” She held his gaze right there, refusing to have his own spirit break from something he could not control. 

It had chipped away at him over this year, and both knew that there was not much left to chip at anymore. But at least he could now have someone there. Someone to be a shield, no matter how much he would deny that. Her other hand reached to cup his cheek, the man’s brown eyes fluttering closed for a moment. A moment both just sat there, letting the silence slowly come over them, smothering the chaos that had taken place like a blanket of snow. “It will happen again, pequeña cuervo.” “And when it does, I will be right here to call you back. Just you. You are not your demon.” “The things I have done, though, Rook. Everything that has happened since-” “No, Lucanis.” Her hands grasped the sides of his head tighter, making sure his eyes couldn't run. “You will not blame yourself for Spite. You will not fall on that sword. The man that I admire, that I want to help, is not what Spite has manipulated. It is not what you think you are. It is you and only you. Just Lucanis. This.” Her hand rested on his heart, feeling the hammering beats of panic and fear. For a moment, Lucanis just sat there, searching Rook’s face for something. Doubt, a lie that did not exist. All he could see was the woman who refused to go, that refused to see the demon that poisoned his brain and body. The woman that only saw the man. His own hand enveloped hers, keeping it tight against his chest as their foreheads leant against one another. “I’m tired, Rook… I’m tired… but I’m here.” ~~•~~ Avantika gave a soft smile and sigh, spiced and honeyed breath caressing his face that elicited a deep breath from the crow. It was something that anchored him. He realised in that moment, that Spite had gone for the moment. His mind was quiet, his body, however sore, was his own. So he just let the moment sit, wanting to cling onto the peace this woman brought as much as possible.

Maker’s breath, he was ruined by her.

“If you’re feeling up to it… how would a coffee sound? I have an old recipe that could help. Don't worry, nothing too sweet I promise.” Moving back a little, Avantika had a small smile on her lips, moving to stand and help Lucanis to his feet. The invitation did seem to perk something up in Lucanis as his own weary smile came back. “Honestly, that would sound like the best thing in the world. Though a recipe for coffee does sound a little odd. Not many recipes I've heard other than-” “Oh no this one, after you drink it, you will think it is the best in the fucking world.” There was that vulgar mouth again that amused him so much. 

Honestly, it was refreshing to hear someone with so little filter. It reminded him of his little bird, the one from the letters. He found himself wondering about them more, how all this chaos was affecting them, but again, Avantika brought him back to reality. “It is the spices that help. Even without the milk and sugar it still gives it something. If I remember it was…” Avantika began rummaging through the pantry shelf near the door, sifting things out of her way as she blindly tossed what she needed to the man still collecting his bearings behind her. How this woman could snap from one situation into something completely different was baffling to him. 

Lucanis,  of course, felt terrible for what she had seen, a moment of weakness he would never want to show. Even as he looked at his hands for a brief moment, knowing that they just moments before had caused her harm, had those regrets blown gently away with the sound of Avantika's voice. Her wide amber eyes sparkling as she searched, a smile on her face as she kept looking between the shelves and what was ending up in Lucanis's hands. 

Without magic, Avantika had brought Lucanis back from the brink. And instead of wallowing in the event, having the two dwell on the subject, she somehow immediately brought light back in. A smile on her face, her voice filled with energy. It was contagious and he couldn't help but remember someone from before all this. “Cinnamon yes…. “ A stick of the spice flew back, Lucanis catching it with ease. “Clove… cardamom… and… shit was was it? I know it's something!” 

As Avantika tried to remember, Lucanis felt as if he was doused in ice cold water, standing behind Rook with an expression that could only be seen as awe. Something in his mind clicked, and for a moment, Lucanis felt like the biggest idiot alive. 

Moving behind Avantika, he reached up, plucking a small jar from the shelf before handing it to her, his chest nearly touching Avantika’s back. “Nutmeg.” His voice was low and gentle, placing the spice in her hand as Avantika let out a groan before slapping her head. “Fuck, nutmeg of course I feel like an idiot!” Gathering the spices that Lucanis was holding, she began to make her leave, though stopping at the door with a curious expression. “Wait, how did you know that? You’ve always drank your coffee black. I don't remember telling you-” “A little bird told me once. But that was a while ago. No need to worry.” 

Avantika frowned for a moment but seemed to shrug it off, making her leave as she began to tell Lucanis of how she once made it for Viago and accidently added too much clove, the man swearing up and down that Avantika was testing a poison on him. And the First Talon listened, even though in his head, as he watched Avantika fuss herself over Lucanis and their coffee, he knew how the story ended. He knew that Viago would spend hours after that trying his best to replicate some poison that worked the same as Rook’s, only for him to finally come to the realization that Avantika was just terrible at eyeballing measurements. She still was, Lucanis noticing how she added more than enough nutmeg to her own cup. His little bird had found him again. The little bird who, for the year before his imprisonment, had gifted him with these stories. He felt stupid for not realizing who she truly was sooner. Lucanis could only hope that, at some point, she would be able to see him for who he was before this. Before the war and before Spite. For her to see Lucanis as him, just him.

 Only him.

[mythals-whore]

If i had the power to draw i would draw Davrin in regency wear with his fancy tie undone and his shirt all unlaced/unbuttoned okay bye

[emmg]

At nineteen, Emmrich proposed to a fellow student, a boy with hair so dark it drank the light. The age itself was incidental; a number, an illusion, a neat division imposed upon a life that did not yet know how to divide itself. But still, nineteen was good. Good because it allowed for certainty, for decisions made with the heedless bravado of someone who has not yet learned how time can warp them.  

He remembered family in the way one remembers the texture of a childhood blanket: warmth not as an abstraction but as a sensation, something real enough to be retrieved at will, kneaded, reshaped, pressed into new forms. It was this warmth, this phantom of closeness, that he sought to recreate in the tender spaces of early love. No one stopped him. Nineteen was the age of indulgence, of watching without intervening, of murmured allowances. Let him. He will learn. He will unlearn. The world granted him this folly.

"Let’s wait until we’re no longer apprentices," the lovely boy said, and so they did. 

Then Minrathous for one, Ferelden for the other. Cities that, on maps, seemed no more distant than the span of a hand but, in practice, required whole journeys to cross. The change was slow. Small gaps in the correspondence, a hesitation in the ink, an unfamiliar concision where once there had been excess. 

The letters continued. At first, swollen with sentiment, words pressing against the margins, impatient, tumbling over themselves in their need to be read. Then, the same flourishes, the same intricate loops, but now with the care of one writing an alibi. The words became beautiful in a way that beauty becomes a substitute for feeling. Then, in the end, not at all. 

At thirty, he tried again, though this time without the formalities of a question. A gesture here, a remark left to linger, an invitation just vague enough to be ignored or accepted without consequence. The art was in the waiting: nets cast, lines slack, the delicate balance between reeling in and letting the current decide.

Gifts, unobtrusive at first, then a shade too particular, too attuned. Plans, not for next week but for some fogged-over point just far enough ahead to suggest permanence. A quiet test, a way of observing whether the word we would slip into conversation naturally or require a pause, a conscious effort.

Some entanglements stretched across years, some unraveled in mere months, some never took shape at all. But the process remained the same, a practiced routine, less an act of pursuit than a habit of expectancy, of waiting to see who would mistake the drift for direction. 

With Johanna, it had almost seemed possible. They were young, clever, bright enough to blind themselves. Where she rushed forward, he held back; where she burned bridges, he traced blueprints for new ones. They fit together, he thought. She chose him to fight with, to kiss, to mock, to fuck, to abandon, to retrieve, to champion when it suited her and dismiss when it did not. Out of all the others—so many others, so many better ones—it was him she turned to, and that was beyond exhilarating.

"You're a fucking idiot," she would tell him. 

"Perhaps," he would agree, adjusting his sleeves, "but you still should not do this, Johanna." Or that. Or the next thing. 

They did not balance each other. Balance suggested symmetry, some reciprocal give-and-take. Johanna was a force of nature; he, at best, a gust of wind. But in those days, he let himself believe they came close enough. 

"I could stay with you forever," he confessed to her once, drunk on sentiment, on whatever else had been in his glass. 

"Love. Romance," Johanna muttered, barely looking up from her notes. "Convenient, isn’t it? Always there when it suits you. Always such a lovely little supplement to whatever grand, important thing you’re doing. We could go anywhere, you and I. Climb every ladder, scale every rung. Publish together, argue in print, scandalize conferences, carve our names so deep into the spine of academia they’d have to chisel us out. For a while, it could even be fun." 

Tap-tap-tap. Her cigarette met its end against his desk. 

"And then, of-fucking-course, you'll be wanting more. Because you're a sentimental twat. It'll start with something small. A home, maybe. A study with matching desks. How adorable. Before I know it, I’ll be spending more time with you than without, and suddenly ‘we’ have ‘traditions.’ ‘We’ have ‘a life together.’ And the next thing out of your mouth will be that cursed, saccharine stupid word: family."

A wave of the hand, cutting off whatever nonsense he had been about to say. 

"Tell me, Volkarin, when that moment comes, when the great balancing act begins, who do you think will tip the scales? Who will step back? Who will compromise, just a bit, just a fraction, just enough that it becomes a habit? It certainly won’t be you." 

In the aftermath, he stopped collecting people—they had a way of slipping through, of vanishing between seasons—and turned to objects instead. Objects had the decency to remain where they were placed. Objects, too, could be tender. A frayed ribbon, a cufflink left behind in a hurry, the curve of a wine glass still faintly smudged. If flowers could be pressed between pages, why not the remnants of former closeness?  

For a while, it sufficed. Once-beens do not grow cold. They do not tire of a familiar voice. They do not wake to discover that passion has gone. 

Then, one day, sudden as a fairytale, a little thing followed. A little thing made entirely of curiosity, of unguarded wonder. It assembled itself from air and light, slipped into its chosen shape, donned a backpack, adjusted its goggles, and, most importantly, selected him. It let itself be named. It let itself become. First an it, then a he, then a wisp no longer but This is Manfred. And once again, he thought: this is enough. More than enough. Did he really need more? Did he really dare ask for it? To ask was to tempt, and he had lived long enough to know that nothing is punished more swiftly than wanting.

It is a graveyard, he thinks now, standing in the Lighthouse, frowning at the accumulated debris of a life, at the weight of what he has chosen to drag with him. The artifacts of his years; the trifles, the curiosities gathered not for use but for the fact of their gathering. Books he cherishes and books he detests, bought because, once, someone he desired mentioned them in passing. His grave gold has been carefully curated. Each piece first chosen for its shape and luster, its particular delight, but also bright enough, costly enough, to be seen. Gold so pure it warps under a careless grip, so soft that teeth would leave crescent-shaped wounds in its surface if one were to bite. 

He wonders if Rook—whom he loves, though he will not tell her, not yet, not when love, spoken too soon, has the peculiar effect of making things disappear—might find some use for them. If she would accept one without knowing it was an offering. If she would take a second. If she would take them all. Books she cannot read, books she can set alight. If the gesture would amuse her, if it would tilt her just a hair closer, if, in some small, unnoticed way, it would make her stay after all is said and done and the gods are dead. 

He is vain, naturally. If the wind disarranges his hair, he will pause before a reflective surface to smooth it down. He will scent the pulse points of his throat, darken his lashes, adjust the folds of his collar. But vanity, like intelligence, like charm, is an instrument. He has wielded it since youth, when prettiness earned him gifts, indulgences, the interest of those old enough to give what he could not take. In his prime, handsomeness made students linger too long at his desk, made colleagues tilt their heads toward his in the candlelit hush of evening. And now, past fifty, he is something else altogether. 

Now he looks like a man who can provide. It is a new sort of attention, neither unpleasant nor pleasurable, merely a shift in expectation. He can no longer offer the prettiness of youth—fine, let it go. But there are other currencies. Stability, for one. A steady hand, a still point, a place to land when Rook, inevitably, falls. Because she will fall. It is in her nature to leap, just as it is in his to remain still, just as it was in Johanna’s to trespass. 

He is tired. Not old, not yet, though the distinction is beginning to blur. A little past his prime, a few paces beyond what once felt limitless. Still, the weight of it settles; a fatigue not of the body but of anticipation, of wanting, of that feverish, grasping giddiness that used to propel him forward and now only leaves him breathless. He isn’t sure when it happened, when the thrill sharpened into something sweeter, something he dared to call love. 

All he knows is that the Lighthouse has no hours, no division between night and day, only the endless lull of the in-between. And that in this strange, untethered time, he would very much like to kiss Rook for every second of it. 

"You look very good there," she says, watching him rearrange his books. 

Another night, when a tome slips, edges itself beneath his desk, and he is forced onto hands and knees to fish it out, she remarks, "I don’t like reading, but I like it when you read to me." 

"I like this, and I like that, and I like this even more." Her voice is drowsy as she traces the lines of his face in the dark. He doesn’t know what this or that are, only that she is saying it, only that it undoes something in him. He turns his face slightly, breathes in, and without meaning to, without even noticing at first, he cries.

"Oh," she says, and then, "Hm." A pause. A brief assessment. Finally, a careless shrug. "It’s fine. That’s fine. I like this too." 

Rook, Rook, Rook, he wants to say, you don’t need Rivain, you don’t need the sun. The sun burns you, always has, always will; your skin is too pale for it, you freckle, you scald. But Nevarra— 

Nevarra is softer. Nevarra has clouds, long grey stretches of them, merciful and cool. Nevarra has catacombs and tombs, stone corridors humming with history, names carved so deep they outlast memory. And everywhere—flowers. Tangled over crypts, spilling down staircases, curling at the hinges of forgotten doors. He has seen them all. He's collected them, commissioned their likeness in ink, dried them between pages so they would keep, so he could say: look, here, this one, still perfect, still intact. You don’t need the sun because they don't either. 

He feels selfish, but after all this time, surely, he is allowed. He is not certain if this is the love, grand and operatic, but it has the right proportions, the right density.

Then let him be selfish. Because one way or another, he will go before her. She is young; he is not. He will leave her everything—what he has made, what they will make together—let her wade through the excess of it, scatter it, burn it, gild herself in its remnants. Or perhaps it will be the other way around. Perhaps she will die first, and he will remain, the eternal, patient custodian of the Necropolis, throat slit in the name of lichdom. 

He will visit her bones, speak to her as he speaks to his parents, his voice flattening against stone, words meant for no one but himself. He will not whisper. Not to her. Not the way he does to the others, not in the hush reserved for the dead. Because what if she does not answer? Worse—what if she cannot? What if there is nothing at all on the other side, just a severance so complete that every Rook-shaped, Rook-possessed, Rook-claimed thing is erased, like a hand wiping chalk from a slate? And he, undying, would remain to witness it. So no, he will not whisper. But he will talk. 

He wants it, but he doesn’t want it, because he wants too much, all at once, all overlapping, all pulling in different directions. He wants to live, but he does not want to die. He wants to live with Rook, wants to kiss her, undress her, drag her down onto the floor of the Lighthouse, press her against familiar sheets in Nevarra, in Rivain, in places they have never been, in places that do not yet exist. He wants to pull her so close that the seam between them dissolves. 

More than that, he wants to buy her grave gold, not just because she would relish it—because she is a dragon, a creature drawn to glittering things—but because when she wears it, when her wrists flash with bangles, when her ears are burdened with gold, when her fingers are swallowed in rings, people will see. They will see and know. Know that every piece was placed there, deliberately, by someone who cares for her in the way that gold cares for fire—devotedly, completely, until it melts.

"I love you so much," he tells her one night, after a sip of whiskey too many, after something in his chest has tipped over and spilled. "I love you so, so much, and perhaps, oh, just perhaps, we do not need to die." 

She kisses his cheek, absently. She looks tired. "Not now?" she asks. 

"Not ever," he insists, giddy again, grasping her hands, pressing his lips against her knuckles. 

She exhales, leans back, undoes her braid, fingers brushing through. Inquires again, "How?" Not with disbelief, but with that particular indulgence she reserves for him. She humors, but she listens. She likes to listen. And so he will talk. 

"Me, in lichdom. You... I do not know. Not yet. Not entirely. But I will. Through artifice, perhaps." 

"Artifice?"

"You like gold, do you not?" 

"I suppose."

"Then gold it shall be," he concedes. "Fed into your veins, threaded through capillaries, chaperoned along the corridors of your body. A patient infusion, drop by drop, until the filigree of your arteries is lined with metal, until the marrow of your bones drinks it in like water. When your heart beats—" he presses his fingers to the pulse at her wrist, measuring it, counting. "It will push gold through you, coil it around your sinew, stain your blood the color of amber. It will settle in the soft places, the hidden ones. Behind your ribs, along your spine, between the cords of your throat. You will be a reliquary, a thing preserved, untouchable." His grip tightens slightly, just for a moment, before he releases her, watching the light catch at the faint blue of her veins. "And if your skin were ever cut," he murmurs, "nothing would spill. No ruin, no red, no proof of mortality. Only the gleam of permanence seeping through." 

Rook watches him for a long time, long enough that she seems older, the angles of her face sharpened by something he cannot name. Then he blinks, and suddenly she is younger; too young, younger than memory allows, younger than she has ever been. Paler, too. 

She takes his glass, finishes it without hesitation, grimaces slightly. Still wordless, she cradles his face in her hands, presses a kiss to one cheek, then the other. Her lips brush his eyelids, and he closes them for her, yielding. She lingers there, warm and silent, mouth against the thin skin, long enough that the room begins to shift, long enough that he thinks, drowsily, that he might simply drift into sleep. 

"I love you too," she murmurs, very quietly. Then, softer still, her lips moving against his temple, "But don’t speak like that again." Another kiss, this time to his jaw. "I will come to the Necropolis with you, if you like. In the next few days. You are not doomed, nor transcendent, nor anything half so tragic. You are homesick. That is all. You are simply homesick." 

He knows himself to be a man of excess: of reaching too far, of wanting beyond reason, of pressing his hands too deeply into whatever is offered. That was why the others left, wasn’t it? But Rook, Rook is different. Rook takes. Rook wants. Rook gives, recklessly, and he, in turn, cannot help but take. 

Bad jests, confessions that start careful and end careless. A first time beneath the covers, blood on the sheets, a kiss, the way her mouth moves against his, the way she lets herself be known in increments, in silences, in the cool of her palm against his cheek. Her favorite spot behind the waterfall. Because love, if it is anything at all, is the act of giving. Not just anything, not just for the sake of it, but precisely what the other cannot reach for themselves. 

And so, he wants to give her gold. 

In the morning, he will apologize. Will run a hand over his face, will mutter something about whiskey, about tiredness, about speaking without thinking. He will dismiss himself before she can. Will say that he does not know what possessed him. 

But tonight, he will think of her throat gleaming with gold. He will dream, as he always does, in metal. 

[ttrevelyan]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63465307

Rook broached the subject of her House one day at dinner, her own curiosity getting the better of her judgement. Teia, Viago, Lucanis and herself were gathered for their weekly dinner at the Dellamorte Estate. Rook had been living with Lucanis for almost a month. In that time, she had much to think about - but one question nagged at her. She hadn’t taken on any jobs since her initial contract on Solas, well over a year ago.

“Am I still a de Riva?” she said, using her fork to stab at her dinner. Lucanis and Viago both seemed to choke on their food, and a late warning sounded off in her mind. But it was too late to stop herself. The implications of her question had not been a consideration: she was only thinking of her work as a Crow. Was she meant to take contracts under House Dellamorte?

Lucanis pounded on his chest for a second, then stared at her. “Rook-” he coughed.

“It’s fine, actually,” she said quickly, embarrassed by their reactions. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I imagine you would be a de Riva until Lucanis marries you,” Teia said, seemingly pleased by the turn in conversation. She pushed her plate forward and leaned on the table, beaming at Lucanis. Rook vaguely remembered that they all have knives.

“Teia!” Viago snapped. Rook winced, realizing the mess she had started.

“It’s uncommon to change it before marriage,” Teia said, ignoring Viago’s angry sputtering. “But he is the First Talon. Switching Houses is not unheard of. Think of Jacobus.”

“I said nothing of marriage,” Rook muttered under her breath, regretting speaking at all. Her hand twitched at her side. A small fire at the table could end this.

“Rook is a de Riva,” Viago announced, perhaps unnecessarily, his voice rising. “Rook is a de Riva until I say otherwise, and that day-”

“So you’re saying you’d give her away at the wedding,” Teia interrupted, her grin stupidly large. The Seventh Talon leaned back in her chair. Viago choked again. “That’s very kind of you, Vi.”

Rook covered her face with her hands. “This was a bad idea,” she said, her voice muffled.

“I didn’t realize we were discussing marriage, Teia,” Lucanis said, and Rook was gratified that he sounded relatively calm. She, on the other hand, felt like her body was going to erupt into flames. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying to be anywhere else.

“You are lucky Caterina hasn’t started on you about babies,” Teia said, and at that, Rook dropped her hands and stared at the other woman, betrayed.

“Teia!” Lucanis cried out. “Enough!” There goes him being calm, Rook thought absently.

Rook wondered if she had ever blushed so much in her entire life. She certainly couldn’t remember another incident where she felt so mortified - and this was an incident of her own doing. She wished, rather desperately, that she could crawl underneath the table, or that the whole room would just go dark. I could use magic to put out all the candles?

Teia held her hands up in the air, a mockery of a surrender. “A blind man could see that these two are going to get married,” she said. “It’s a matter of when, not if, she becomes a Dellamorte.”

After that, there was no way to wrestle control of the situation. Viago was standing, chest puffed, spouting at all of them about the work it took to make Rook a de Riva, let alone the headaches she had caused him. He rattled off the various incidents - almost a lifetime of them - wherein she had made his life difficult. Lucanis seemed aghast at Viago’s outburst, listening with a horrified look on his face. Teia was laughing so hard that Rook was sure she was going to pass out.

Rook stared down at her plate and did her best impression of a statue. Viago’s tirade was sure to end soon - she had, after all, done some good things in her time as a de Riva. And of course she wanted to marry Lucanis. That went without saying. But she had been very, very careful about not showing any indication of that to him. Rumours could spiral; Crows loved to talk. She has heard what they say about her - the things they insinuated, the way they spoke about her relationship with Lucanis.

Crows wished for complicated intentions: for drama. She remembered what her fellow fledglings used to say about Teia and Viago; about Teia and Dante. The Crows, though famous for their work, operated a spinning wheel of rumours and gossip throughout Antiva.

Lucanis stood, and walked behind her chair, smiling down at her. He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. Her anxiety melted away at his touch, as it always did.

“I would like it to be clear,” Lucanis said, composed again, “that I would marry Rook tomorrow.” Rook’s cheeks flared. “But she is still a de Riva.”

“Not for long,” Viago grumbled. Rook wanted to strangle him. “Teia is trying to strong-arm you into a proposal.” Viago crossed his arms and stared at Teia. “Not very subtly.”

Teia, the woman of the hour, only shrugged. “I’m sure he’s already bought a ring. I bet you it’s in his pockets, right now.”

Right - under the table I go. Rook sunk deeper into her chair and groaned when Lucanis’ grip on her shoulder stopped her from ducking her head below the table. “Rook,” he said, still laughing. “Relax. I am not going to propose to you in front of Teia and Viago.”

“I wish I believed you,” she muttered. “I really do."

Viago and Teia stood at Teia’s insistence, her arm tugging at Viago’s until he groaned and got up from his seat. “A lovely dinner,” Teia said, “as always, Lucanis.” Viago just nodded his head. Teia pushed him forward; Rook could almost see the smoke coming from Viago’s ears. She cringed as they walked out the door - she was going to get an earful from Viago when she saw him next.

Lucanis let loose a long, large breath. The tension in her body melted as he slowly massaged her shoulders; she leaned into his touch.

“That was a lot,” Rook said, sighing.

Lucanis murmured a low agreement. “Let’s go to bed,” he urged, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Rook groaned, but stood. She followed him back to their room, stomach churning as her mind worked through the dinner. Viago had been livid; Teia had said some things she didn't know how to think about. He noticed how quiet she was, but he didn't press her.

She stayed quiet as they slowly readied themselves for bed. He kissed both of her eyelids when her face was washed; he helped braid her hair in silence. It wasn't until she was in his arms, in their bed, her leg thrown over his own, that she finally said, “I would like to marry you.”

She was rewarded with a delighted, hungry kiss. He kissed her like their first night; he kissed her like he was drowning and she was air. The weight of his love felt undeserved; it was too much for her. She said as much, letting her insecurities tumble out of her mouth.

He was outraged - not at her, but himself - that she would ever doubt her place at his side. He spent the rest of the night murmuring sweet nothings, his voice thick and heavy with veneration. He promised her the rest of his life - Rook responded that he would never be able to get rid of her, not now, not ever.

It turned quickly into frantic and desperate hands on skin - Rook straddling him, Lucanis guiding her with his hands on her hips - and ended with silent, reverent cries; a kiss on her neck; her hands tangled in his hair.

Lucanis whispered, right before she fell asleep, “I meant what I said. I would marry you tomorrow.”

Rook barely managed to reply, her eyes closed, bliss morphing rapidly into sleep. “Then let's get married tomorrow,” she murmured, and promptly fell asleep.

[mydearviserra]

Start counting

╰┈➤ ❝ [Tywin Lannister x Fem!Reader]

Warning: NSFW, short story. one-shot, hair pulling, spanking(paddle), Blowjob, brat/brat tamer, names(whore, slut) mouth fucking.

“my lord apologies for barging in but we can’t find lady Lannister she-“ the ladies in waiting spoke frantically as they came into his study, Tywin raised his hand to stop them as he sat on his desk. His expression held a stern look though he looked slight uneasy

“stop, I know where she is no need to panic your dismissed for the day” he spoke with his stern, authoritative tone though now his hands grip on the edge of the desk as he shifted uncomfortably as he nudged something under his desk. He took a shaky breath as he glared at them “leave now, lock the door”

The ladies looked at each other in confusion, not wanting to argue further they quickly locked and closed the door.

Tywin then push his chair back slightly, looking down at his lap he let go of the table his hands grab a fist full of my hair forcing you to look straight at him your eyes widened in excitement and fear, it didn’t stop the pool running down my legs as you stared directly at his burning glare

“what did I say about biting you brat” he snapped his voice low and rough, his eyes dark with irritation and desire tugging on my hair again as i mumble with my mouth still full of his cock, my tongue swirls around his cock one last time to tease him before i pull away his shaft leaving a popping echo

You smirked slyly, you loved it when he threaten me. "Oh really? And how do you plan on punishing me, my lord" there was a hint of challenge in my tone. It was my favorite game, seeing how far I could push him before he would snap. I mocked him further as I faked pouted, my cheek rested on the side of his shaft to rub it slightly “I’m trembling in fear”

"I said no biting" he repeated, his tone growing even more dangerous. I could feel the tension in the air, the charged energy that had always existed between the two of us. Despite his harsh words, there was a hint of something else in his voice, something that suggested he enjoyed this game just as much as you did “You'll find out, my little whore. And let me tell you, you won't enjoy it one bit. Whores like you need to be punished”

He letting go of your hair he grip the side of your face, before you could even process he shoved his cock through your mouth with such force my eyes rolled back each thrust was rougher then the last

“My whore- my naughty whore “ he muttered breathlessly, feeling my soft lips and hearing the lewd sounds I was making as he thrusts into my mouth sent him mover the edge “look at me- don’t you dare look away slut”

Once our eyes meet, I felt his cock throbbing against my tongue, with a hard thrust his seed filling my mouth to the brim I couldn’t stop my moans as it slip through the cracks and began spilling out my mouth

“Don’t you dare waste it- take it” he hissed, but i couldn’t help stop the flow. His warm seed pumping down my throat. Once he finished he pulled away. My mouth left wide open as I tried to catch my breath “good girl, such a good girl- but your not off the hook”

He lifted my chin using his fingers to wipe away the mess of my mouth and chin. Then sticking his fingers inside my mouth, I closed my mouth my tongue swirling around his fingers. Once it was wiped clean his fingers left my mouth with a ‘pop’

“That’s all you got?” I spoke smug tone with a smirk on your face, I giggled once he gripped my chin again. I batted my lashes as I give him my big doe eyes he loves so much. This time he scoffed at my chances, forcing myself on my feet, his rough hands grip around my neck his nails digging into my skin

“Don’t test me - I will fuck this disobedience out of you but first..grab the pabble and crawl on your knees like whore you are” he then shoved me away, I stumbled back a bit before I bit my lip.

I was almost to happy to walk towards the drawers across the room once it was in my hands I turn to him slowly down on my knees, he smirked as he sat on his chair watching slowly as I crawled towards him once I reach his side he took the paddle from me, then grip onto my arm lifted me up to lay on his lap. He was almost to eager to rip off my small clothes to reveal my bottom, one the cold air bit me as he lifted my dress i couldn’t have a chance to react, without warning he swatted with full strength



“Start counting”

AKWKANSB I LOVE TYWIN!!

just testing the waters of how I’d write nsfw I’m still working on it haha

[yandere-sins]

Yandere!Lucanis who tries so hard not to let the "urges" get out of control. He's been fighting his inner demon so long, he thinks he got them perfectly wrapped up, even though he has to bury his nails in his palms until they draw blood just to be able to talk to you fairly normal.

Yandere!Spite who is absolutely not having it. Who the fuck is Lucanis to deprive Spite of being with you? Spite wants to talk to you, be seen by you, touch you—and he'll pull all the strings to get just that. Lucanis can't hold him back forever. Spite knows the way Lucanis holds himself back and if Spite just keeps chipping away at that resistance, he's sure he can get his way sooner rather than later.

In short, I am not that far yet with these two, but the thought had to come out after seeing Spite being a bit obsessed intrigued with Rook.

[eunsuri]

The Lighthouse

Pairing: Solas x Lavellan

Summary: Lavellan explores The Lighthouse and reunites with her heart.

Word Count: 6,608

Warnings: ANGST. Lots of emotions. Lots of love. VEILGUARD SPOILERS.

A/N: Hi everyone! Happy 2 weeks until Veilguard! This has taken me way longer to write than I'd hoped, but I MADE IT! This was inspired by a beautiful piece of art by @pani-artz, I couldn't resist! I've kept Lavellan's description vague for those who would like to keep their own Lavellan in mind while reading! Also posted on AO3!

“We’re here.”

A cold breeze swept through the crossroads, cooling Lavellan’s skin as she stepped up the stairs, Harding, and Leliana flanking her from behind. The three stood before the Eluvian, the shimmering surface glowing faintly. The ancient mirror reflected the crumbled pieces of the ruins floating within the crossroads, flickering with ancient magic and ready to draw them into another world.

Anticipation stirred in Lavellan’s stomach, her senses heightened and glaring at her warped reflection. The faint glow of the mirror’s surface cast a strange light across the stone floor through the overgrown foliage around its frame, and the chill in the air seemed to seep into her bones. 

Harding and Leliana exchanged glances behind her, but she hardly noticed, her heart thudding rapidly in her chest like a wild creature trying to escape its cage. Harding had seen this Lighthouse before, She knew what lay behind the Eluvian, all the memories hidden in Solas’ base of operations.

Lavellan knew Solas wouldn’t be waiting for her on the other side. Instead, what awaited was everything he had left behind—his memories, his isolation, the echoes of a life spent in the shadows. The thought of stepping into his world, of facing the remnants of his past and the pieces he had chosen to keep hidden, sent a wave of dread through her. She wasn’t sure she was ready for what she might see—for how deeply his loneliness would be etched into every corner of this place

He had stopped appearing in her dreams, no matter how hard she searched the endless distance where he once stood, always watching over her from afar. Even when she reached out, he’d slip away like a shadow, yet his presence had brought her comfort. Night after night, she would speak to him—tell him how much she missed him, how she longed to change his heart. The wolf never answered, but the sorrow in his eyes cut deeper each time, and her desperation to find him only grew over the years.

Now, her dreams were empty, filled with nothing but the ache of waiting for a love that never came. Sleepless nights blurred together as she wondered if he had forgotten her, or if something terrible had happened to him. When Harding had brought news that Solas was alive but trapped in the Fade, it brought a measure of relief, yet doubt still gnawed at her. Would she find any sign that he remembered her in this place, or had she been lost to him as well?

Harding broke the silence, her voice gentle but laced with tension. “It’s… a lot to take in, but I thought you might want to see it.” She paused, then added, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Lavellan’s breath caught in her throat, a fresh wave of anxiety washing over her. Ready? She didn’t think she ever could be. How could anyone prepare to see the deepest, most private parts of someone they loved, but had lost so long ago? 

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She needed to do this, no matter how much it hurt. She needed to understand him in a way she hadn’t before, to see his world, his pain, and his purpose. Where he had been all this time, if he remembered her. Even if he wasn’t there to explain it himself.

Lavellan took a shaky, deep breath and stepped toward the mirror, the surface rippling as she neared. With a final glance back at Harding and Leliana, she stepped through and the two followed.

Emerging on the other side, her breath caught in her chest. The three stepped into a realm bathed in a warm, golden glow, as if suspended in the sky. Floating islands hovered in the distance, each dotted with autumn-hued trees as if kissed by sunlight, gently swaying in an unseen breeze. Ancient elven ruins, crumbled yet graceful, drifted among them, suspended in the air like forgotten dreams.

Before them stood a weathered statue of Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, positioned in the heart of the courtyard. It was a figure of a protector—his posture calm, watching over the space with an almost serene presence. Cracks ran through the stone, softened by patches of moss that had claimed him over time, as though nature itself had embraced him. The statue seemed ancient, yet resilient, a symbol of an age long past, guarding the Lighthouse like a silent sentinel.

Beyond the statue, the Lighthouse rose, stretching impossibly high into the sky, its top crowned by a bright magical light encased in a spinning golden roof. The beacon pulsed with an ethereal glow, guiding not only the lost but also wandering spirits seeking refuge. The golden accents that decorated the Lighthouse shimmered in the sunlight, long streams of green fabric dancing in the wind.

Lavellan marvelled at the beauty and serenity of the place as she continued towards the entrance of the Lighthouse, carefully stepping down the broken staircase. The large door opened as the three approached, allowing them to enter the towering building.

Her breath caught in her throat as she glanced at the faded murals stretching along the pathway, their muted colours leading into the centre of the Lighthouse. Each one told a story—Solas’ time in Arlathan, his stories of rebellion, and the ancient history of the elves, including the tale of the Evanuris' downfall.The images on the walls, the stories painted into the stone, all reflected the weight of millennia. 

Murals she had seen variations of before caught her eye, depicting Fen’Harel freeing slaves and removing their Vallaslin, as he had once done for her. Another told the story of the Evanuris’ rise to power and their tyrannical ways, with Fen’Harel’s outstretched arms attempting to show them they were not truly gods.

The Dalish legends she had grown up with had taught her to fear the Dread Wolf, to tread lightly lest the trickster god hear her footsteps. But now, knowing him as she did—not as the villain in their stories, but as the man who had fought to free his people, the man she loved—her heart was torn. The fear remained, lingering like an old scar, but it was now tangled with love, understanding, and sorrow for what he had become.

Lavellan wandered through the Lighthouse, her steps slow as she absorbed the surroundings. Relics of a world long lost lay scattered around, each one steeped in both history and longing. The air felt thick with memories—some sorrowful, others sacred—echoes of a time far beyond reach.

She found herself in a large room that appeared to be underwater, giant framed glass windows as a barrier between the water, with many schools of fish swimming through the depths. A lone green leather sofa was situated in the middle of the room, stuffed bookshelves lined the walls, and an array of candles scattered across the floor creating a cosy warmth that drew her in. 

It was then that a soft flicker of candlelight against brilliant colours drew her gaze to a mural, its glow pulling at her like a distant memory. A set of candles was arranged on either side of the mural, almost as though it were a shrine. As she made her way towards the artwork, her heart sank deep into her stomach, a heavy weight settling in her chest.

The painting depicted a woman—one hand raised high, a radiant burst of green light pouring from her palm, the other clutching a sword close to her chest. Below the hilt, the familiar mark of the Inquisition gleamed. It was her.

The weight of this realisation struck her in an instant, chest tightening with disbelief, an ache settling deep as sorrow wrapped itself around her heart. Her likeness, immortalised in these ancient halls, was a reminder of what she once stood for, of the time they shared and the distance between them now. 

Her fingers traced along the lines of the mural, imagining the strokes Solas had made, his hand dragging the brush across the stone with care. Every detail, every line, told her this was more than a mere addition to his collection of stories. This was crafted with love. He had painted her not just to remember her, but to hold onto her presence, as though each stroke was a vow to never let her fade from his memory.

Tears pooled along her eyelashes. She didn’t know whether to feel honoured, heartbroken, or both. Every detail of the mural seemed to call out to her, each brushstroke a whisper of what had been, what was lost. Slowly, Lavellan’s gaze fell to a small wooden box resting beneath the mural, its presence unassuming, as though it had always been waiting for her.

Hands trembling, she reached for the box, dragging her fingertips along the warmed wood, and gently lifted the lid. Inside, nestled among the old wood, lay Solas' jawbone necklace. The one he had always worn. Lavellan paused, inspecting the familiar necklace before  reaching to lift it from the box. The sensation of the cold bone and thick rope looped around it was almost foreign, yet the weight of its meaning was still heavy.

As the jawbone rested in her palm, memories surged through her mind—fragments of what they once had. She recalled how she’d often tug him closer by the necklace, his lips moving against hers, fervent and desperate, as though her touch were the very air he breathed. She remembered idly tracing the rigid texture of the necklace as she lay against his chest, listening to the gentle rise and fall of his breath as he shared quiet stories of the Fade. Each moment felt as tangible as the cool bone now in her grasp.

She could no longer hold it with the same warmth she once had, but the connection to him, to their shared past, lingered still. The weight of the jawbone in her hand felt like a lifeline to the man she had been hunting for all these years. Desperate to keep that feeling close, she gently lifted the necklace over her head, letting the familiar curve of bone rest against her chest. It settled there, and for a brief moment, she felt as though she had him with her again.

Lavellan clutched the bone in her hand while blinking away the lingering tears which threatened to fall at any moment. As she moved forward, every step felt heavier, unable to shake the palpable sense of solitude that hung in the air. This place, with all its beauty, was not just a refuge for spirits. It was a place of mourning—a sanctuary for Solas’ lost hopes, where his memories whispered through every crack in the stone, and his loneliness lingered like a shadow.

Further in, a large dining table sat in the centre of the room. The long wooden surface stretched out before her, grand and ancient, yet only a single place setting lay at its head—a lone plate, a single cup, and neatly arranged cutlery beside them. An ache squeezed in her chest at the sight. This table, large enough for a gathering, bore only the quiet signs of one man’s solitary meals. Solas had sat here alone, day after day, surrounded by memories and ghosts of his old ambitions. 

She couldn’t bear the thought of him there, sitting quietly, the vast emptiness echoing through the room as he contemplated the burden of his mission. He had been so steadfast, so determined, yet the loneliness had seeped into every corner of his existence. How many nights had he sat here in silence, the weight of his choices pressing down on him, thinking that this was the only choice he had.

The simple setting was a stark reminder of everything he had left behind for his mission—companionship, love, the simple joys of shared moments. The pain choked at Lavellan's throat and the tears she had fought streamed down her skin as she took in the sight. She rested a hand on the back of the chair, picturing him there, staring into the distance across the table, as he grappled with the weight of millennia. He had shut everyone out, even those who would have fought beside him, and in doing so, had consigned himself to this eternal isolation.

Lavellan stood still by the table, the weight of her thoughts pushing down on her shoulders like a storm cloud on the verge of breaking. Her sadness gave way to a simmering anger that twisted deep in her chest. How could he have left her—left them—like this?  If only Solas had confided in her—trusted her with his truths. If only he had let her share the burden that had twisted his path into something unrecognisable. Things could have been different; they could have faced this together. She could have stood by his side, helped him bear the weight of his cause, find a better way, and maybe, just maybe, spared them both the pain of this isolation.

The thoughts of what could have been pierced through her, sharp and unyielding. How different would their lives have been if he hadn’t pushed her away, if he hadn’t shrouded himself in secrecy and left her to chase shadows for years? Heavy and unrelenting regret settled into her bones. They could have shared this—this fight, this journey. She had loved him enough to stay, to fight for him, but he had locked her out, too consumed by his purpose, too afraid to burden her with the truth. 

Her fingers curled into her palms, hands clenched at her sides, frustration clawing its way up her body as she thought of the pain he had caused—his actions had left Varric wounded, with the false gods free to wreak their havoc upon the world. He had condemned himself to isolation, convinced he was sparing her the pain when, in truth, he had only deepened the wound.

Maybe he had been too proud, too wrapped in his conviction that he had to bear this weight alone. He hadn’t let her love him the way she could have. If only. If only things had been different. If only he had trusted her.

Lavellan’s thoughts were then interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the corridor. She wiped at her eyes hastily, straightening her posture as Leliana appeared at the doorway.

“They’ve returned,” Leliana spoke softly. “Rook and the others are back.”

Lavellan turned, her heart still heavy from the weight of her reflections. Without a word, she nodded, following Leliana out of the room and towards the group that had gathered in the main hall.

There was more to it now—she’d learned that Rook had formed a connection with Solas. A tether, almost, caused by the disrupted ritual. She had to know if there was a way, some hidden thread she could pull to reach him herself, to bridge the distance between them once more. 

A spark of determination tingled through her skin. If Rook had found a way to connect, perhaps she could too.

Later that same evening, with the sharp sting of her discoveries still fresh in her chest, Lavellan found herself standing in the Fade. 

Rook had spoken of how they had become connected to Solas through the ritual gone wrong, their fates intertwined, and Lavellan had seized upon that fragile link. It was all she needed—a thread, however thin, to follow him.

With Varric’s warning in her ears and Solas’ necklace warm against her skin, she stepped forward, stumbling through the dark and desolate landscape of the Fade. The twisted remnants of broken elven statues loomed around her, their cracked surfaces glinting dully in the ethereal light, like forgotten memories trapped in stone. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burnt magic, a bitter tang that clung to her tongue, tainted by a ritual gone horribly wrong. 

As she moved, the ground crumbled beneath her feet, each step sending a shiver through her body as she navigated the uneven terrain. She could feel Solas’ presence—distant, yet unmistakable—like a flickering flame in the depths of her mind, pulling her forward despite the air of despair that settled around her like a shroud. Echoes of lost voices whispered through the stillness, their lamentations brushing against her ears, urging her to keep searching in this forsaken place.

She had worked so hard to find him over the past ten years, constantly reaching for him in her dreams only for him to slip away like a fading memory. Her relief at hearing he was alive warred with the anger gnawing at her heart. He had stopped appearing in her dreams, and for so long she had feared the worst—afraid he had been consumed by his mission, or worse, by his pride. Yet here he was, trapped in the Fade, perhaps lost in his own way.

The thought of him being trapped, cut off from everything, pulled at her heart. Just as she had found him again, he was suffering. But that grief mixed with a simmering anger. He had hurt Varric, who had only been trying to stop him from making a terrible mistake.

Her steps quickened, the greyed path through the Fade twisting and bending as though it were alive. She remembered Varric’s words—how he had tried to stop Solas, how Solas, in his struggle tugging at the lyrium dagger, had let it go too far. The thought stung, reopening the old wounds that had never fully healed. He had hurt someone they both cared about. Had it been an accident, or had his obsession with his plan blinded him to everything else?

It was then she saw him. Solas stood at the edge of the platform, his presence powerful and untouchable like a distant star. His eyes caught hers with a knowing look, as though he had been expecting her all along. 

His strong stance wavered ever so slightly, a near imperceptible shift. Somehow, he was even more beautiful than she remembered. He was draped in dark leather armour that hugged his frame, his broad shoulders embellished with gold which decorated his chest as well. His face remained sharp and regal, though it now carried a colder edge. The weight of his millennia-old burden clung to him, as heavy as the Fade around them.

The sight of him sent a rush of warmth through her, but it was quickly swallowed by the bitter pang of nostalgia and regret, memories crashing over her like an ice cold wave. Lavellan’s voice faltered, the carefully rehearsed words slipping from her grasp, lost under the crushing gravity of his presence. For countless nights, she had imagined this moment—each conversation, every plea, practised over and over. But now, as he stood before her, all those thoughts scattered like dust, leaving her speechless.

“Solas.”

Her voice trembled with the only thing she could utter, a raw mix of anger and longing breaking free. Lavellan felt the years between them collapse. The sorrow, the love, the pain, and the anger—it all surged forward, overwhelming her in an instant.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Solas’ expression remained guarded, though the tension in his jaw and the weariness in his eyes betrayed him. His lips parted, as though he might speak, but the words died unspoken on his tongue. The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken history.

Lavellan’s heart raced as she struggled to steady her breath, emotions crashing over her: love, anger, and grief all vying for control. She wanted to scream at him for the pain he'd caused—to her friends, to her. She wanted to demand answers, to weep for his loneliness, for how lost he had become. But she also longed to run into his arms, to hold him so tightly he could never leave again, to feel the warmth of his lips, to taste the love they once shared.

Across the distance, Solas silently soaked in the sight before him. Amidst the boundless darkness of his prison, his heart stood before him once more. A dull ache crawled from his chest into his throat as he noticed how time had touched her. Soft lines had etched themselves across her skin—subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone but him. She looked exhausted, as though the years had been heavy, yet her beauty had not faded. Her eyes still held the same fire, the same brightness that had captivated him. 

His gaze fell to her arm, the gleam of metal catching his eye—her prosthetic. The sight of it twisted his heart into a deep, bitter knot of guilt. She had lost her arm because of choices he had made. Though removing it would save her from an untimely end, her connection to the Anchor would have consumed her had the arm remained. However, that knowledge offered little comfort. 

It was because of him. she had been marked in the first place, that she had been forced to bear that burden, to lose part of herself for a cause that had never truly been hers to fight. He carefully swallowed the pain in his throat in an attempt to mask the surge of sorrow that threatened to break through.

For a heartbeat, the distance between them seemed insurmountable and never ending. Yet the connection they had forged so long ago, deep and unshakable, remained—like a tether drawing them together even now. 

Solas shifted subtly, searching the depths of his mind for words that could bridge the chasm of time and pain between them. No words could repair the damage that had been done, not a single syllable could undo the devastation he had caused.

“Vhenan…” he whispered at last, his voice rough, heavy with all the things left unsaid. It was the only word he could manage, the only truth left to him, spoken as though it held within it all his love and regret. The word hung in the air like a fragile promise.

The harsh and unforgiving hand of grief gripped Lavellan’s heart at the sound of his endearment. It had been so long since she had heard the word leave his lips, and yet it was the same—soft, full of meaning. She placed one foot in front of the other, taking a tentative step forward, her fingers brushing against the jawbone necklace, grounding her in the reality of the moment. The memory of their love flooded her, the fluttering which overwhelmed her belly when he would call her his heart, mingling with the anger that still smouldered in her chest.

“What have you done, Solas?” Her voice cracked through her cutting words, the accusation spilling through her lips before she could bite her tongue. “You stopped coming to me. You were…tearing the Veil apart, and then Varric—” She swallowed hard, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “You didn’t stop. You hurt him, and now… the false gods are free and ready to destroy this world.”

Her words were sharp, biting, but beneath the anger was the raw, unspoken truth: she loved him. She always had. And seeing her proud, cunning love like this—trapped in the cage of his own creation—cut deeper than any wound she had ever known.

Solas’ eyes fluttered closed for a moment, his head bowing beneath the shameful weight of her words. When his eyes found her again, there was a subtle flicker in his gaze—something raw and aching, a depth of emotion she couldn’t quite define. Regret, perhaps, or something far more tangled and broken. 

“It was not supposed to happen this way,” he murmured, voice thin and weary, as if even the admission pained him, the words almost too heavy to continue. “I had a plan. The ritual, I was moving them to another prison. But Varric interfered, he disrupted a dangerous ritual. I did not intend for him to get hurt.”

The flame in Lavellan’s eyes blazed with fury, her voice trembling as the words tumbled out without a second thought. "Varric was our friend, Solas. You’ve gone too far. He wasn’t aware of your intentions. He tried to stop you, tried to make you see reason, and you—" She faltered, the pain caught in her throat reducing her voice to a weak whisper. 

Though Varric still lived, his fate was uncertain, the magic from the lyrium-infused dagger weaving through his veins unpredictably. Her dear friend had only wanted to help—and yet, he had paid the painful price for it. 

The hardened resolve in Solas’ eyes wavered, his brow furrowing with the slightest shake of his head. “I’m sorry,” he uttered, the words quiet, but laden with everything left unspoken. 

“That’s all you have to offer? After everything that’s happened? After all this time?” Lavellan’s words sliced through the air, her voice was low yet biting. Her fingers curled in, hands tense at her sides as her frustration simmered just beneath the surface. 

She was torn between the depth of her love and the hot flame of her anger. She had missed him so achingly—every day without him was a quiet torment—but now, seeing him like this, the one she’d loved so fiercely, all she could feel was the cold sting of his absence, the ache of betrayal. He had left her, and worse, he had hurt Varric in his reckless pursuit. 

And now, after everything he had done, he stood there with regret etched into his sharp features, yet offering nothing more than a simple apology. She could see the remorse in his eyes, he meant it, but it wasn’t enough—not after everything. She longed to reach out to him, to close the distance between them, but the wound was too fresh, too raw. How could she bridge the gap when all he had to offer were those meagre words?

“Nothing can change what I have already done,” Solas sighed, the sound long and weary, as though carrying the burden of centuries. 

“I know,” she replied, her voice trembling with the heaviness of her admission. “You can’t undo what’s been done… but you can still do better. You can still choose differently.”

Solas studied her, his expression unreadable for a moment, though the gravity of her words seemed to hang between them. "Better choices do not erase what has already been set in motion," he spoke quietly, his tone almost resigned, as though he carried the inevitability of his fate like a burden.

“So what, you'll just let the world fall apart because it's already in motion? You think destroying this world will somehow lead to salvation?” Lavellan began, her voice cold and cutting. Her eyes locked onto his, unflinching as she took a hard step forward. “The elven people you’re trying to save? There’ll be nothing left for them if you don’t help us stop this madness now.” 

Her words hit him like a sudden gust, rattling the walls he had built around himself. For a moment, his defences collapsed under the truth of her words. But then, almost instinctively, he pulled them back up, his expression hardening as his gaze held hers.

”'Did you come only to scold me, Vhenan? Or is there more you wish to say?”

Lavellan’s breath quickened at his response, the fire in her eyes dimming for just a moment as his question hung in the air. The silence between the two stretched, filled with all the things that had never been said, all the pain, all the longing in their time apart. She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it, struggling to speak past the heaviness of her own heart. 

"There is plenty I wish to say. But in truth, I came because—" She managed to murmur, the words catching in her throat. Her feet moved before her mind could stop them, stepping slowly towards Solas. "Because I was worried about you. Because I wanted to see you." Her voice was raw, as if speaking the truth aloud burned at her tongue. "Because…even after everything I—"

Solas’ head tilted ever so slightly, his expression softening as his furrowed brows relaxed, and for a fleeting second, something in him seemed to break. The unspoken bond between them, ever-present and undeniable, pulled at him once more. He reached out, almost as if drawn by the force of her words, but stopped himself just short.

He wanted nothing more than to hold her close to him and never let her go again. To let every thought spill from his lips and confess his love for her as if it were the first time. The warmth of her presence was only growing closer as she stepped further in his direction, her beautifully intoxicating scent stirring memories of their past together. He craved her fiercely—the softness of her lips, the feel of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips, her lovely voice whispering words of love that echoed in his heart.

But the shrinking space between them felt like a chasm born not only of time, but of all the hurt and chaos he had left in his wake. He didn’t deserve her. Not after his failure. Not after what he had done.  He couldn't bear to drag her into the darkness of his journey, a path that he believed would only lead to death. She deserved so much more than the ruins of his mistakes. 

He imagined the weight of his choices suffocating her, dimming the light that had always drawn him in. Yet as she drew nearer, he could feel the pull of her more acutely, as though the Fade itself conspired to draw them together. The ache of her absence, the torment of his own regret—none of it could dampen the magnetic force that still lingered between them.

"You should hate me," he spoke quietly, his voice barely more than a breath. "After everything I’ve done. All of the pain I have caused."

Lavellan had closed the never-ending distance between them, the air around them thick with an intensity that took her breath away. Her already racing heart quickened, emboldened by a sudden rush, a defiance against the pain that had lingered for far too long. With a trembling hand, she reached for him, her fingertips brushing against his cheek. The connection was electric, sending shivers through her, reigniting a fire that warmed her very core.

In that moment, all his carefully constructed walls began to crumble, melting away beneath her touch. She could see the tension in his shoulders ease, the weight of his regrets momentarily lifting. Their breaths mingled in the space between them, a fragile intimacy that felt both exhilarating and terrifying.

It had been years since they last stood face-to-face, their encounters reduced to her lone whispers in her dreams. Each night, she yearned for the warmth of his presence, the comfort of his touch, imagining the feel of his skin against hers, the sound of his voice calling her name. The ache of separation had clawed at her heart, and she knew he had felt it too—a longing that transcended the boundaries of their worlds. 

"I tried," she confessed, her voice heavy with emotion, barely above a whisper. "I tried to hate you, but I can’t, Vhenan. I could never."

Solas’ resolve crumbled even further, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes undeniable. “I never wanted you to see what I’ve become. I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he pushed further in a weak attempt to suppress the overpowering love that threatened to consume him. 

“I know you cannot change what you have done,” She began through her breath, gently placing her prosthetic hand against his armoured chest and meeting his eyes directly, as though reaching into the depths of his heart. “But I see you, Solas. I see the burden you carry, I’ve seen what you hide in your Lighthouse. It hasn’t changed the way I feel about you.”

Her touch unravelled him completely, cutting through the barriers he had so meticulously built to keep her at a distance and protect her. For all the power that pulsed within him, he was utterly powerless before her. His breath was hitched in his throat, his senses overwhelmed and intoxicated by her nearness. All words escaped him, and instead, he clutched her prosthetic hand to his chest, his knuckles brushing the delicate skin of her cheek, drinking in the moment as if it were the last.

The space between the two vanished, the long-forgotten warmth of each other’s touch easing the ache of a lifetime apart. Starved of the love they had once shared, the air around them grew heavy with anticipation. The energy between them hummed, drawing them closer with each breath, until their eyes flitted shut, surrendering to the inevitable pull of their connection.

“Vhenan…” Solas found his voice once more, before the thread which held him together finally snapped and his lips found hers.

The kiss, at first tentative, quickly deepened as the years of distance, longing, and unspoken words melted between them. It wasn’t gentle; it was desperate, filled with the ache of years apart, with the pain of betrayal and the hope of forgiveness. Lavellan’s hands instinctively reached for him, fingers curling against the cool, textured surface of his armour as if he might slip away again, as if this moment might vanish like a fleeting dream. His hand cradled the back of her head, pulling her closer still, like a drowning man grasping for air.

Solas trembled against her, the control he had so precisely maintained for years finally unravelling in her embrace. Every heartbeat, every breath shared in their kiss spoke of the time they had lost and the memories they had clung to in the dark. 

He clutched at her waist, tugging her impossibly close, as though she might disappear if he allowed any distance open between them. The taste of her lips—familiar and sweet—sent a rush of emotion surging through his mouth and into his heart, blooming with love. It was a taste he had dreamed of, mixed with grief, regret, and the bittersweet recognition of all the time they could never reclaim.

For Lavellan, kissing him felt like breaking the surface after endless years submerged in sorrow. She had imagined this reunion, longed for it in her loneliest moments, but nothing could have prepared her for the rawness of it now, the intensity of feeling his warmth, his breath, after so long. Her lips moved fervently against his, as if she could anchor them both in the present, as if this kiss could hold them together while the world threatened to crumble around them.

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity as their spirits reached for one another, desperate to bridge the chasm of all that had been lost. The air around them shimmered with the intensity of their emotions, the soft crackle of magic lingering like static electricity. Tears mingled between their lips, and Lavellan found herself unsure if they were born from her own heartache or Solas’ sorrow. 

When at last they reluctantly parted, it was only enough to breathe, their foreheads pressed together and breaths mingling in the narrow space between them. The warmth of Solas’ skin contrasted with the coolness of the Fade around them. His fingers brushed her cheek, wiping away a tear, his eyes searching hers with a mix of reverence and sorrow, as if committing her face to memory all over again.

“I have missed you,” Solas admitted through a trembling breath, his voice fraying at the edges, each syllable thick with longing and vulnerability. “Every moment, I have missed you.”

Lavellan’s heart stilled at his confession, the pain she’d carried for so long softening, giving way to a quiet joy she had scarcely dared to feel. It was real—his yearning, his regret. He had missed her, and in hearing those words, a wave of warmth rushed through her, filling the hollow space his absence had left behind, like sunlight breaking through a dark, heavy cloud.

“As have I,” she whispered, her voice a breath, an ache. “I love you, Solas.”

The distance between them vanished once more as she closed the space with her lips. An electric tangle of desperation and love crackled in the air, as if they could pour every stolen moment of the past ten years into this one kiss. She breathed the words against his lips�� Ar lath ma. I love you, I love you, over and over, with each fleeting pause for air. One hand gripped his broad shoulder as though holding onto the thread of the life they might still have together, while the other skimmed gingerly across his sharp jaw, the cool metal of her fingertips shooting a shiver down his spine.

As their lips moved together, she tasted the faint remnants of the Fade on him—like the bittersweet tang of twilight and the warmth of embers long extinguished. The air was thick with unspoken promises, Solas’ scent enveloping her, an earthy blend of ancient forests, fragrant herbs, and a whisper of magic that felt both familiar and achingly distant. Her heart raced, a wild drum echoing in her ears, as she felt the world around them fade into insignificance. In that moment, nothing else mattered—just the two of them, entwined in a dance of love and longing, the taste of their shared past lingering sweetly on their tongues.

Solas drew a tight breath, his lips forming the words in return, “Ar lath ma, I love you,” each confession fragile and tender, as if speaking it aloud made the moment more real. His hands cupped her face with reverence, fingers tracing the contours of her skin as if rediscovering her all over again, as though he needed to believe this wasn’t some fading dream. She was truly here with him, loving him still, despite all that had come between them. And with each kiss, each murmured promise of love, he felt the final crumbling of the walls he had built to protect himself from this—this undeniable truth that she saw him, truly, as he was: Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf. And still, she chose him—Solas.

Warm, fresh tears streamed down his cheeks—tears of relief, not of sorrow, and for the first time in an age, he felt lighter, the burden of millennia softening in her embrace. 

Lavellan’s fingers traced the familiar lines of his face, feeling the tension in his jaw slowly release. She caught her breath, pressing her forehead gently to his once more, letting the moment wrap around them like a fragile cocoon, holding them together.

They no longer needed words. There was no need for promises, no talk of what came next.

For now, they were simply here—together.

Solas’ hands held her tightly against him, as if memorising every curve of her, grounding himself in her presence, in the warmth of her body pressed to his. He drank in every bit of her, enraptured by the way her eyes sparkled with the tears she had shed. There was no one more beautiful, in body and spirit.

The world beyond them faded into the abyss—no ancient gods, no torn Veil, no crumbling ruins. Just the rhythmic sound of their breaths mingling between them, the quiet beat of their hearts within their chests, steady and sure. For so long, he had dreamed of this, and yet the reality of it was more than he could have ever imagined.

Lavellan clutched him closer, as if to say all the things she couldn’t form with her lips, as if to tell him that here, in this moment, she chose him—not Fen’Harel, not the Dread Wolf. Just Solas.

And as they stayed there, lost in each other, neither knew how long the moment would last—only that, for now, it was enough.

[alexendria-rose]

Falling apart~

Lucanis Dellamorte X F!Elf!Rook

Spoilers!!!!!!

Summary- After the fight with the gods and losing the people she cared about- the people she became to love. She falls apart- when nobody can see her. Where she doesn’t have to tell people she is alright when she isn’t anymore. She panics- she spirals. Lucanis knows a little something about that…

We won… but at what cost?

The question that swirled through her head- the question that was going to haunt her for all her years. Why did it have to be her? Why did she have to lead? The blood stained her hands- it stained her whole body- her armor. The lighthouse seemed quieter- which she usually prefer the quiet rather than the noise… but at this moment she was awaiting that noise. The squeaks of assan… the arguing back from Darvin. The sweat voice of Harding- the small chuckles from Neve. She missed it. She wanted to hear those noises. She craved it. She walked into Varrics… well what was suppose to be his room. Looking at the bed she imagined him laying on; giving her advice on how to be a leader. Remembering the worries of becoming one and telling him about it.

She was falling apart- and nobody knew it. Nobody could see it. She was used to putting on facade in front of her team. Always helping them with their work instead of her own- her sleeps interrupted by solas, her body covered in blood and bruises from fighting the demons and anyone that came in their way to make the world a brighter place. Away from the blight and away from the Gods.

She placed her hand on the bed kneeling on the side of it. Her head falling onto the sheets. She wanted to cry- she wanted to shout. But how can someone like her be able too? She needed to hold it together for everyone else who lost people as well. She wasn’t the only one who was hurting and she needed to realize that. She stood up from the floor looking at herself in the mirror- she was skinny. Skinnier than usual- her hair was tangled. Her face was bloody and was sure to scar. She lost herself in this mess. She lost her smile- she lost her laugh. She was staring at someone she couldn’t even recognize anymore. She felt numb.

Rook slowly walks over to her room- her legs dragging as she opened up the door. Her legs felt heavy- her armor felt heavy. Her whole body felt heavy. She swore her legs were going to buckle. She thought about the three friends she lost- Harding… Assan… Darvin… and Neve… she was never going to get them back. She was never going to sit in Harding room as she talked about her old adventures- she was never going to drink the most disgusting tea with Darvin. She was never going to hug and pet Assan and Neve… her best friend. She was never ever going to talk to Neve again. Her chest suddenly felt heavy and she needed this armor off of her. She felt her hands shake as she tried to rip off the clothes that were weighing her down. The tears suddenly started rolling down her cheeks as she felt her throat close up and start to shut so much so she was hyperventilating.

“Rook!?” Lucanis voice came into her ears finally- she didn’t even know how long he was there. Lucanis rushed to her side helping her take off the heavy items off her clothes and throwing it to the side. She was clawing at her throat- trying to even her breathing but she couldn’t. She felt her body shake and her legs buckle as she fell onto her knees- Lucanis swiftly moving himself in front of her gripping onto her shoulders.

“Mi amore look at me. Look at me.” Lucanis said sternly but in a loving way he could. Spite was panicking in his mind- and he was trying his best to keep spite at bay.

“ROOK NEEDS HELP. HELP ROOK!”

Lucanis shook away Spite- knowing exactly what rook was going through. He cupped her cheeks gently- her eyes downcast as she continued hyperventilating; the tears rolling down her cheeks. She couldn’t speak- she could barely move.

“Look at me.” Lucanis said calmly- his gaze on her. She slowly moved her eyes to look at him as he cupped her cheeks. His touch calming her down a bit but not nearly enough. “Breathe with me amore.” He gently moved his hand off her cheek grabbing her hand and placing it on his chest. So she could feel his breathing method under his touch. To know he was here. He took a deep breath- her trying to follow along with the way he took an inhale and an exhale out. She felt the choking around her neck slowly star to become lessen. “You’re doing so well amore. Couple more.” He whispered- she continued to follow along with his breathing technique nodding along with him as he complimented her.

“It’s my fault.” She managed to finally gasp out with a raspy voice. Lucanis shook his head- he’s never seen rook fall apart with all this going on- he knew she was going to eventually but he never thought like this.

“No- it’s not.” He whispered softly- using his hand to tuck the loose hair that fell from her hair behind her ear.

“It is- they’re dead because of my decisions. They’re dead because of me. I couldn’t save them.” She sobbed- her hand moving to her chest as she tried to regulate her breathing once again. The tears flowing down her eye socket. “I was their leader- I’m the one that brought them here and now they’re dead.” She couldn’t stop the tears and maker she hated being weak in front of people. Especially in front of Lucanis. Someone who’s been through way worse than her.

“No- I won’t accept that.” Lucanis grabbed her hand that landed on her chest cradling it against his chest. He brought her knuckles to his lips placing a delicate kiss on them. His eyes never leaving hers. “Those people.” He whispered against her knuckles as he placed yet another soft kiss before moving her hand against his chest once again. “They know what they signed up for- they are hero’s rook. You cannot change the past- and you don’t want to because they saved us. They sacrificed themselves for us. So we can live.” She sniffled looking at him wanting to believe his words- wanting to listen to him but she couldn’t shake off this nagging feeling in her chest.

“I could have done more.” She said in hushed tone- that it was barely audible to hear.

“You did- rook. You saved us. You made the difficult decisions. You lead us and I’m so sorry you had all this weight on your shoulders. I cannot even do what you do. Keeping the team together- and showing how much you care.” He saw her body become less tense- he grabbed her quickly holding her shaking body to his chest. “Look at what you did tonight- you fought against a god amore. And won- you helped Solas change even I couldn’t give him that grace. Honestly if it was me I would have stab him.” He earned a little chuckle from her with that line. “The inquisitor may be gone- but you found it in your heart to bring them together. To change solas. And now they have each other. We all do. You saved us all. You did.” Her body starts to shake less at his words- her gaze on the wall as she listened. His hand went to stroke her hair- even if it was dirty and sweaty from their fight with the gods. He still found her beautiful- beautiful then anything he’s ever seen. And spite very much agrees with that thought. Rook slowly moves her head to look up at him- the dried tears stained on her cheeks. Her eyes red and puffy- maker she was beautiful.

“I miss them- I wish I could bring them back.” She said softly- Lucanis smiles sadly his fingertips tracing her cheek.

“Me too mi amore- and we will honor their memory for years to come.” He mumbles lightly- her gaze piercing into his soul. He could almost shiver under her gaze.

“COMFORT ROOK- LOVE ROOK! SHE DESERVES IT ALL!”

He could agree with spite there- she did deserve it all. And he knew from this moment out he was going to protect his Dalish elf from anything- he was going to be by her side as long as she will have him. Even though spite wouldn’t even let Rook walk away from them. She saw her eyes becoming heavy from the lack of sleep she’s barely gotten in months.

“Come on mi amore- let me get you dressed and wiped down before you sleep.” He chuckles lightly at her nodding sleepily. He scoops her up placing her down on her bed- maker he needed to get an actual bed rather then this small one. She leaned back against the cushion watching as he slowly took off her boots- his hands gently massage her side feet. She leans her head back sighing at the contact.

Lucanis finishes changing her into a loose shirt- that was his. He had to admit- it was pretty lovely on her and it made spite go crazy within him. He grabs a wet rag and a brush. He adjusts himself behind her laying her back against his chest as he slowly starts to wipe the blood off her face; her eyes looking anywhere but him. He knew blood would affect her right now and tried to wipe down the blood as fast as he could without hurting her.

He finished wiping the blood off her body- throwing the rag to the slide. “Sit up mi amore.” He whispered into her ear- which made her shiver. She sit up as she sat between his legs- suddenly she felt him brushing her hair with gentle strokes. His fingers running through her hair with every brush. She looked down at her fingers a small smile on her face.

“Didn’t know you knew how to brush hair.” She said in a soft tone- he can hear the faint smile on her face when she said and he just chuckled.

“Caterina taught me- she insisted and you know how that woman is. Can’t tell her no.” He smiled- as he continued to brush her hair making it smooth once again and no longer tangled.

“Don’t tell me you’ve tried saying no to her?” Rook laughed lightly turning her head to look back at him to see a small smirk on his lips.

“Young me was very… what’s the word. Stupid. Once I said no to her and I had to run from her. Hid for 4 hours.” Lucanis chuckled deeply- he placed the brush down before starting to braid her hair. “Caterina taught me everything I know- most importantly how to treat woman. Iilario didn’t listen to that advice.” Rook rolled her eyes playfully and laughed.

“Remind me to never mess with that woman.” She giggled- Lucanis finished braiding her hair. He moved her hair off to the side placing soft gentle kisses on her neck.

“You’ll learn mi amore- especially… since I am hoping you’ll join me by my side as I settle in being first talon.” Lucanis whispered against her neck. Rook turns her head to look at him- Lucanis moving her head a bit to look back at her.

“You want me… with you?” She hesitantly said turning her whole body to face him- he just smiled widely grabbing her hips to place her directly on his lap- making her straddle him.

“I want you in my arms- I want you by my side. I want to listen to your voice as I sleep. I want you only mi amore. So stay with me in Treviso- the crows are your family now.” She grinned- her eyes becoming teary at his words. She finally felt like she belonged somewhere- and being in Lucanis arms… was where she belonged.

“Always Vhenan~” she whispered- Lucanis heart thumped against his chest. He placed his thumb and finger under her chin bringing her head closer placing a delicate kiss on her lips- a soft and passionate kiss to let her know he will always be there by her side no matter where they go. He will always be there.

[rookamell]

ANYWAY HERE'S THE FUNERAL PLANNING FIC

~~~~~

She caught his wrist as he reached for a washcloth. Her fingers were warm against his skin. It was the fifth time anyone had touched him since the Ossuary, and he realised he should probably stop keeping count.

“Don’t you dare take my chores from me, Dellamorte,” she said. “This is the one thing in the world I’m sure I can do right.”

And, despite himself, he grinned again.

“I don’t know,” he said, when she’d let go of his wrist. “Yesterday there were still streaks on my plate.”

Her laughter chased away some of the dark, if only for a moment.

“Shut up.”

[kindlyfeline]

my heart beats for you

Such gentle hands, cherishing him with an admiration he didn’t deserve.

- This is set during the romance scene near the end of the game where Lucanis says, "I thought I'd never see you again." Basically filling in the gap after Spite's wings come down ;)

-

pairing: Lucanis Dellamorte/Rook (named Rook - Maya de Riva)

rating: Explicit

includes: fluff and smut, first time, foreplay, penis in vagina sex, creampie, lucanis is a virgin, emmrich and taash mentioned in passing, angst if you squint, im in love with lucanis dellamorte <3

read on ao3 • read my other work

A smile like sunshine broke out across her face as she gazed up at him, taking in his profound beauty. His dark hair was slightly mussed and falling about his shoulders. Deep, dark eyes blown wide in adoration. Lucanis mirrored her smile until he noticed his heartbeat thundering in his ears and faltered slightly.

As he looked into her eyes his emotions and nerves all caught up to him.

He had suffered days, weeks , believing she was lost to him. Stuck in some fugue state where he couldn’t think straight or move forward, anchored to the memory of her.

Rook. Maya . Her thick, chestnut hair that he longed to touch and thread his fingers through. Her sheer strength of will and ability to command the room. How her amethyst hazel eyes glistened in the Rivaini sunlight.

That day a month prior when he was brave and almost kissed her. A gentle tap of her finger on his chest, no direct skin contact, yet still it set his blood alight. Her warmth. Spite’s voice ringing in his ears: Beautiful Rook. Smells like oranges. Earth. Kiss her, Lucanis. She wants to. You want to. I want to taste Rook.

And again when it was just them; her quiet footsteps across the kitchen coming to check on him, spending endless nights staying up and tanking coffees with him. Her softness, her tenderness. “I never really liked coffee until I met you.” Her voice with that maddening accent and the way she pronounced his name… Gone. All gone.

He should have kissed her. Just once. At least once. Should have told her how he really felt. How she helped him live. How she helped him believe in life again. How he loved her.

Then Emmrich came to him with ramblings of ‘fade weakenings’, thin parts of the veil where they might be able to make contact with her. Lucanis didn’t buy it at first, afraid to give in to hope, but Spite latched on immediately and soon became obsessive. So they ventured out every single day to search for her; he, Emmrich and Taash. It helped to have something to do, something to fight and kill. From the haunted look in their eyes, he knew Taash felt the same. Flashes of Venatori blood on his blades kept him burning, even through Spite’s howling grief and complaints each night they returned to the Lighthouse empty-handed. No Rook! Didn’t smell her. Nothing. Lucanisss, she’s really…gone?!

Until today, when Emmrich’s plan finally worked and they managed to pull her from the Fade. The first word on her lips had been his name. “Lucanis?! You’re okay?” After everything, she was concerned about him? How his heart sang and ached in equal measure.

Though what was he to do now with all his grief? She had returned, true, but where would the mourning go? Would it seep deep into the cracks of his soul only to transform and return should he ever lose her again? He scarcely allowed himself to consider it, mind reeling too much already. Besides, what he had to worry about right now was what he would do if his inexperience disappointed her…

Abruptly, Spite yanked him back to the present. Stop thinking. Do it. Kiss again. We want her.

With the impending doom of tomorrow looming in the back of his mind, Lucanis acknowledged that Spite was right: it was now or never.

“Maya, I… I’ve never… done this before,” he hesitantly confessed. 

He watched her features flash with surprise before relaxing back into an easy smile.

“That’s okay, sweet boy, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” she offered.

Praying he didn’t sound too eager, but spurred on by Spite prickling his ears, “No, I want to. I just… might not be… very good…”

Tut . Maya gently shook her head and stroked her fingertips down his cheek. Her heart swelled as he glanced back at her with those eyes. Those eyes she could drown in. He was so beautiful.

“That doesn’t matter,” she quickly followed up, smoothing her other hand up his chest to play with the crow chain at his collar. “Just do what feels comfortable. We can take our time,” she soothed, even though she was fighting not to acknowledge the tingling at her core and how she was starting to soak through her underwear.

Fears somewhat assuaged, Lucanis curled a lock of her hair around his finger, just as soft as he had always imagined, and murmured, “I had never known beauty until I saw you.”

Maya felt tears spiking her eyes, threatening to spill, so instead she cupped his jaw and crashed their lips together. Lucanis let out a breathy moan and responded passionately, hands immediately moving to hold her waist. Her hand at his collar rapidly started to work at his clothing and was soon joined by the other as she unclasped the chain and undid the buttons of his shirt and waistcoat. Every inch of his skin that was revealed to her she fawned over with her mouth and tongue and hands. Such gentle hands, cherishing him with an admiration he didn’t deserve. 

Gingerly, he skated his hands over her curves and revelled in her plushness as he kneaded her breasts. This earned him soft gasps and whimpers sweeter than any song he knew. He felt giddy as he rolled one of her nipples between his fingers. She felt so wonderful in his hands. She was perfect. His fingers came to hold the hem of her sleep shirt, loosely, questioningly.

“Is it okay if I take…?” he trailed off because she was already nodding and kissing him again, warm fingers of one hand gripping his and encouraging him to remove her shirt. She was bare beneath it, much to his delight.

When they had to separate to throw their respective shirts out of the way, Lucanis caught her gaze once more and the need and desire pouring from her drove him wild. Without a second thought, he left scorching kisses and sucks across her breasts, down the supple flesh of her stomach to her waistband. Then, he barely even hesitated before hooking his fingertips over and pulling her trousers down, slow, teasing . Her eyes never left his, electricity sparking between them.

Once she was bared to him he casually dropped her trousers on the floor and sat back to take her in. The bronzed planes of her body were littered with tattoos he planned to memorise and scars he longed to press delicate kisses to. She was untrimmed, and that only made him crazier.

Mmmm, our Rook~ Spite purred behind him as Lucanis shamelessly inhaled her scent and salivated over her nakedness. He yearned to taste her pussy, drink her syrup, wished to devour her whole and not stop until she begged him to. Although that would have to wait. As of now, he was more in need of seeing her face and watching her reactions.

Maya squirmed under the scrutiny of his heavy gaze and pressed her thighs together. She wasn’t new to sexual encounters like Lucanis apparently was, however nothing before had ever felt so…intense.

Managing to control his gawking, Lucanis swiftly scooted back up to kiss her again. 

“Can I touch you?” he asked, dulcet tones so quiet that she perhaps wouldn’t have heard him, was she not pressed beneath him and hanging on his every action. Their noses bumped together as she nodded enthusiastically and he pressed another sweet kiss to her lips.

To her surprise, his hand moved to her own, took it and slid it slowly down, down, down her body. Goosebumps broke out across her flesh as he arranged their hands over her mound, his fingers ghosting atop hers. They kissed again, deeply, tongues pressed together in a way that made her moan as her free hand snaked into his hair. She could never tire of this.

“Show me,” he then whispered, “Show me what to do. Show me how you like it.”

A fiery thrill coursed through her and, with a grin, she swapped their hands over and pressed his middle finger between her folds. His lips parted to inhale faintly. She was soaked .

“See how wet I am for you?” she breathed.

It was at that moment that Lucanis became acutely aware of how restricting his slacks had become. Maya then moved their fingers to swipe up through her silky folds until the pad of his finger bumped over a small nub. He couldn’t ignore the way her breath hitched once she started circling his finger around it, eyes fixed on her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips, the swallow of her throat before she spoke.

“Feel that?” Lucanis nodded. He’d read about this; the clitoris . “It’s good there.”

He was so tender in his ministrations that followed, so attentive. He placed an open-mouthed kiss to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, licking the salt from her skin and sighing her name.

Every swipe, every circle around her clit was utterly exhilarating. The pleasure permeated through her pelvis and up, an ember growing and growing with every passing second. 

Her fingers pressed down firmly on his to apply more pressure and Lucanis quickly picked up on the hint. He increased the pace and press against her clit and started to switch between directions intermittently. Maya’s hand moved from his to grip his shoulder, his bicep, her breathing rapidly progressing into panting. She was unravelling embarrassingly fast, though she couldn’t seem to care, instead focussed on her Talon and his dexterous fingers driving her over the edge.

“Oh, Lucanis, I-” she managed before the pure force of her orgasm crashed over her. She pressed her head back into the couch, eyes screwed shut and mouth wide open in a silent cry. Her back arched and her chest pressed against his, pert nipples crushing into him. A wanton moan escaped him as she tugged his hair in a tight fist. 

It wasn’t until Maya’s legs began to shake and her hand shot down to grab his wrist that he slowed to a stop. Still breathing heavily, Maya used the hand in his hair to bring Lucanis to her and pulled him into a delicious, loving kiss.

“You,” she exclaimed, breathless between kisses, “you are wonderful. You are gorgeous.”

He huffed a chuckle, disbelief trickling through, and wrapped an arm around her back to hold her close.

“So, it was okay?” he murmured. He sounded more uncertain than he had meant to and he glanced away skittishly.

A wide smile spread across her face as she cocked her head at him, “you know it was.”

When he looked back at her, her demeanor had changed. That same desire was bubbling away beneath the surface, but this time an intense, primal hunger had coloured her eyes. She moved, smooth and intentful, palm against his chest pushing him to sit with his back flush to the couch back. He acquiesced, of course. He would give her anything, everything.

Next, she straddled him, and the proximity of her glistening pussy to his still-clothed cock had his head spinning. She cradled his head in her hands, carding fingertips through his beard.

“Can I ride you?” she asked in a husky voice that went straight to his dick. Daunted, Lucanis swallowed thickly. He was not about to say no, however. He couldn’t possibly. His desperation for Rook, his Rook, was at a fever-pitch, burning lava-hot from the inside out.

“Yes,” he breathed. His eyes were dark with lust and a tinge of violet. They kissed again, a clashing of lips and tongue and teeth, unable to get enough of each other. Maya ground down against him a couple of times and he shuddered a groan into her mouth.

“Is this okay?” Maya asked against his lips as she moved her hand to palm his cock through his leather trousers. His breath hitched and he nodded fervently.

He was so, so hard. And leaking. She could tell even through the layers of fabric. It made her grin against his lips and deepen the kiss. She was trying to take it slow on account of his inexperience, but all she was thinking about was what he would feel like inside her and how much she wanted to make him come. Her pussy thrummed in anticipation. She gave the hair at the nape of his neck a tentative tug and earned a breathy moan in response, his hands on her hips in reverence. 

Unable to hold back any longer, she deftly worked his trouser ties and underwear open to free him, then tentatively wrapped a hand around his cock.

Lucanis bucked and let out a tiny high-pitched gasp at the contact. The movement of his lips and tongue against hers faltered.

“Should I stop?” Maya asked immediately and pulled an inch or two away to assess his expression. His chest rose and fell rapidly, stutteringly. Big doe eyes looked back at her with such adoration it made her whole body flush anew.

“N-no,” he breathed, “sorry, it’s just… new. Please, keep going.”

She smiled coyly and started to pump his cock steadily, as unhurried as she could muster. He was so sensitive, so responsive, whimpering every time her fingers brushed the head of his cock, hips rolling subconsciously. He was already sticky and messy, beads of precome dribbling out of his tip, down the shaft and over her fingers. She took a sneaky peak down and found herself unable to take her eyes off him. He was large and much thicker than she had imagined. Her pussy clenched painfully around nothing. The ache for him was gnawing at her.

Lucanis bit his lip hard. His need became fanatical and even though her hand on him was delightful, he was desperate for more. Spite, ever present, ever demanding, whined loudly in his head: Inside! Want to feel Rook. Feel inside her. Now!

“Maya, please. I want- I need- … Please,” his speech left his mouth in a tumble he figured was nearly incomprehensible, but Maya knew him, she understood him. She was there, right there with him, her smiling face the greatest comfort he had ever known.

Her fingers lightly took him by the base and guided his cock to catch at her entrance, the feeling making them both jolt with pleasure. Lucanis could not hold back the moan that clawed its way out of his throat as she sank down onto him. Another inch had him winded and he suddenly squeezed her hips in an attempt to still her. 

“Ah, Maya!” he gasped out, her cunt so soft and warm and tight it made him lightheaded.

“I know, I know, it’s okay,” she comforted, one hand tracing patterns at the nape of his neck and the other dancing over his chest and stomach, stroking the soft hairs there. 

She peppered kisses all over his face to help distract him; across his cheekbones, his eyes screwed shut, his sharp nose, along his jaw. His beard was fluffy and tickly on her lips. His gulps for breath started to even out.

Meanwhile, Maya was adjusting to the exquisite stretch of him inside her. She hummed lightly as his hold on her hips loosened and one of his hands went to her shoulder blades, clutching her ever closer. She took this opportunity to sink down fully onto his cock, blunt head parting her walls, pressing deep inside. Lucanis moaned gutturally and let his head fall forward against her collarbone. Even in his wildest fantasies he could not have imagined this feeling, his dick buried to the hilt within Maya’s heavenly pussy squeezing all around him. He gazed up at her, mouth slack in awe, watching the candlelight dance across her skin. She was completely ethereal in the glow. For a moment he felt in a trance. There was no way everything had led here; everything he had done had led him to her. And this gorgeous creature had chosen him, pursued him .

“Are you alright, love?” she questioned quietly and placed a kiss at his temple.

A shaking breath in, a steadying breath out. Aiming to calm himself, he kissed languidly up her neck and jaw before whispering against her cheek, “sí, yes. Please, move. Use me.”

“Fuck, Lucanis,” Maya half sobbed as she began to move her hips in a deliberate, persistent rhythm. The agonising drag of him inside her had her eyes rolling back in her skull, his cock catching on each ridge and crease within her. She felt every twitch and throb of him. It was intoxicating. 

Lucanis watched her move, mouth agape and hard-pressed for air, breath coming in short pants as she soon increased her pace. Her cunt coiled tighter and tighter around him with each rock of her pelvis. Lucanis saw stars.

The obscene squelching sound of her pussy only spurred her on, infatuated with the thrust of his cock over and over again against that ineffable spot buried within her. Coupled with the whimpered mantra of his name falling from her lips and her hand tugging at his hair, Lucanis knew he would soon come undone.

“Maya, I can’t- Maya I- I’m going to come,” he managed, cock already throbbing, the tip smushed in a deep kiss against her cervix.

“It’s okay,” an elicit moan, “c-come inside me.”

That was all it took for him to fall over the edge. A feral whine ripped from him as his dick pulsed and thick ropes of release coated Maya’s insides. His entire body spasmed in exquisite pleasure and he clutched onto her for dear life, voice cracking from moaning and gasping. The choke of her hot cunt came in quick, repeated beats, draining him of all he had.

Once their crescendos began to subside, she held his head and caressed his flushed cheeks while offering him a sloppy, hungry kiss. Lucanis opened his eyes to her like a man seeing the dawn for the first time. She thumbed away the tears pricking the corners of his eyes and kissed him again.

“You are so perfect, Lucanis,” she mumbled, eyes peering into his, sparkling with adoration. Frazzled, he simply grinned, toothy wide and love-drunk.

Even if they died tomorrow, if they failed and everything in the world ended, Lucanis decided it would be okay. Because he had her. He had Maya. She had found him and saved him.

~ END

thank you so much for reading!!! i haven't written anything in a long time and i feel quite nervous posting this but i really hope you enjoyed 💜

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[vorchagirl]

In Dreams Lucanis x Rook x Spite Rating: Explicit (it's smut - pure smut!) Summary: Spite finds a way for Rook to spend a night with both himself and Lucanis in her bed, and fulfill a fantasy that all three of them have been dreaming of... 

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Cool sheets. Soft pillows. Warm body. Calloused fingertips trailing over her hip. The sweet stir of desire.

Kash savored each sensation as she lay in the soft twilight of her bedroom, teased awake on a wave of blissful drowsiness. Lucanis lay at her back, holding her in the circle of his arms, one muscular leg draped possessively over hers. She shivered as he pressed his lips against her neck, and then gasped as he gently bit her, the sharp pleasure-pain of the love bite alerting her that it was the demon at her back, not Lucanis.

Lucanis was gentle in bed. All soft eyes and warm kisses as he made love. Spite loved her differently. With a desperate hunger, greedy hands, and possessive bites.

“Spite?” She rolled over to face him, her body languid and heavy with desire. 

The demon watched her with glowing purple eyes as he trailed his hands down her body, his fingers flexing as he cupped her ass and pulled her into a more intimate contact with his erection. He growled hungrily and dipped his face to her collarbone, the hot wet flick of his tongue dredging a small moan from her. 

Spite lifted his head and held her gaze, his expression intense and his smile ravenous. “Have a treat for Rook.” He told her, something dark and primitive slipping through his tone. “ A treat for Lucanis too. And Spite.”

You can read the rest in the link above!

[cravingcoconutredbull]

An angsty Rookanis one-shot I wrote in the dead of night:

Villa Dellamorte was silent, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only came after a storm. The rain had passed, but the air remained thick with the scent of earth and steel, the weight of something unfinished lingering in the quiet.

Lucanis sat at the edge of their bed, his shirt discarded, his hands resting on his knees—stained red with blood that was not his own.

It had been a long night. A necessary night.

The contract was done. The bodies disposed of. The message sent.

And yet—he sat there, unmoving. Caught somewhere between exhaustion and something heavier, something he did not name.

Then—a shift. A presence.

Rook.

She moved through the soft candlelight, her crimson hair still loose from sleep, her amber eyes sharp despite the late hour.

She said nothing at first. Only stepped closer.

Lucanis watched her, tracking every movement as she came to him—unhurried, steady. She did not hesitate. Never had.

And when she reached him, she knelt, her hands finding his wrists, her fingers curling deliberately over his own.

Lucanis didn’t stop her. Didn’t move.

Only watched.

Rook turned his hands over in hers, tracing the lines of his palms, her touch featherlight yet unwavering. Her thumb brushed against the dried remnants of another man’s life, blood caught in the creases of his knuckles, the scent of steel still clinging to his skin.

Then—her voice, quiet. Steady.

“These hands.”

Lucanis didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

What was there to say?

These hands had taken life.

These hands had ended men.

These hands had carved out a reputation built on death and silence.

And yet—

Rook lifted them.

Brought them to her face.

Rested his palm against her cheek, eyes never leaving his.

Lucanis stilled.

Because it didn’t matter how much blood was on them—

She had never once hesitated to touch him.

To let him touch her.

Her voice was softer when she spoke again, a whisper between them.

“But they cradled me, yes?”

Lucanis exhaled, slow and unsteady.

His fingers curled—tight, instinctive—as if he could keep her there, as if she would ever leave.

His throat worked, but no words came.

Because what could he say?

That he had always feared his hands would only ever know death?

That he had never imagined they would be used for something softer, something worth holding?

That he had never once deserved her trust, but she had given it anyway?

Rook smiled—small, knowing.

Then she leaned forward, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his fingertips.

Lucanis closed his eyes.

He was hers.

He had been from the beginning.

And if these hands were meant for blood and death—

Then let them cradle her, too.

[scripts4dreamers]

Letters from the sky

AN: So, Dragon Age is eating my brain and I can't stop thinking about what the tell Solas and Lavellan have been doing for the last decade. So, in my personal canon, they've been drunk dialling each other magic style every few years.

Part Two

When the letter appeared, Solas couldn’t help but jump. He wasn’t frightened, per say. The region of the Fade he had been occupying was not particularly dangerous, and there was very little out there that could hope to match the Dread Wolf in terms of cunning, but still…it was unexpected. Those who needed to contact him knew how to do it, and how to signal to him that he had to exit his sanctuary and come to meet them. It had been years since he had received a completely unsolicited communication and longer still since he had been the target of something so whimsical. He watched it for a moment without moving from his seat, a slight smile threatening to tug at the corner of his mouth. A thick cream paper envelope folded into a crude triangle, so that it might glide through the air, made its way towards him in lazy, unfocussed loops. It dipped, as though falling to the ground, then soared like an eagle. It twisted and turned, kept up by magic and sustained by the chaos of the fade. It was childlike and free, the product of the kind of flair that spoke to a deep love of the craft. This message was a production, created for an audience of one. The caster would not even get to see the product of their labor. He stood and reached out, gently lifting the letter from the air and feeling the weight of the paper in his hands.

“Bravo,” He said, to no one, “I commend your creator.”

The letter, of course, said nothing in return. Solas could almost taste the magic that had kept it aloft as he turned the envelope over in his hands, sweet and cool, like a breeze on a hot summer’s day. It made him hesitate. There was a familiarity to that taste, one that made his stomach tighten and his chest ache with the memory of kinder days. He should throw it away, he reasoned to himself as he continued to run his fingers over the paper. It couldn’t be from her and, if it was, the kindest thing for both of them would be to simply pretend it had never arrived. He had almost convinced himself to toss the letter away when he finally flipped the envelope over and saw the familiar looping cursive of her handwriting.

His heart thumped hard and Solas instinctively grabbed the back of the chair he had been sitting on, steadying himself as a rush of emotions tore through him like a sandstorm.

For a moment he is in the Wyvern’s den, kissing her lips and swearing to himself that this time he will tell her, this time he will force the words from his lips. Then her hands, slamming into his chest as he chickens out again.

“Tell me you never cared about me,” she demands, her face clear of Vallaslin and her eyes burning with rage, “tell me I was some casual dalliance so I can call you a cold-hearted son of a bitch and move on.”

He’s watching her fight Corypheus now, clutching his staff so hard that his knuckles are bloodless and pale. He should be helping, he needs to keep her safe…but he needs to orb more. He made his choice and now he must face the consequences.

Solas took a deep breath, blinking past the surprising wetness in his eyes as he tried to force himself back into the present. It did not work.

He’s standing in the Crossroads again, fighting to keep from falling to his knees before her as she looks up at him with something deeper than betrayal, deeper than hurt, deeper even than love.

“What would you have had me say?” he asks, angry despite his complete lack of standing to be. He wants her to lash out and hurt him. He needs to feel that fire of hers one more time. He wants the pain to be a memory he can cling to. He hopes it scars, “That I was the great adversary in your people’s mythology?”

“I would have had you trust me!” she shouts back. Her voice cracks halfway through, tears that she has been desperately fighting slip down her face - her beautiful face - and something inside Solas just crumbles under the weight of the choices he’s made.

In the present, Solas sucked in a breath and brushed the tears from his eyes. Even now, four and a half years after that last fight with Corypheus, his feelings were shocking in their intensity. There was regret, of course, and anger, some fear and, despite his best attempts at quashing it, an unhealthy amount of longing as well. The time he had spent by her side had been undoing in a way he had never expected. But that knife always cut both ways and losing her, as he had always known he would, had also been worse than he had ever imagined. Not since he had created the veil and been faced with the terrible price the world had paid for it had Solas wept like he did in those first weeks after walking away. He had wept until his body ached with exhaustion, until there were physically no tears left in his body to shed, and even then, the urge to curl up and fossilise had been overwhelming.

The only solace he had now was his plan, his mission. The one thing that could make everything worth it would be to finally undo his mistake and see the world remade, as it always should have been had he not been blinded by his love for Mythal, by his rage and hatred in the wake of her death. His heart had led him to destroy the world, it seemed only fair that he would have to break it again to fix that.

And yet…the letter. He traced the dark lines of her writing with his finger, wondering at his Inquisitor’s intentions. Why now? It had been eighteen months, three days and four hours since last they’d spoken. Eighteen months, three days and four hours of complete silence and then this. Was she hurt? Had something gone wrong? Why had his spies not informed him of this during their last meeting about the Inquisition’s progress? Surely, something major had happened for the Inquisitor to go to the effort to reach out to him out of the blue like this. If he tossed the letter aside now, it would be akin to leaving her to die, wouldn’t it?

Satisfied that the laws of morality dictated that he must read the letter, Solas reached for the knife he kept on his writing desk and settled back into his chair. The knife was simple and old, but well worn. It was one she had discarded a few months into their adventure and Solas had pocketed. In case she changed her mind, he had justified to himself at the time, but even then he had known that it was to be a keepsake in the inevitable After. He slid the blade under the thick wax seal, taking a moment to admire the inquisition crest and ensure he did not break it as he pried the letter open.

The first thing he noticed was that the letter was long, longer than it would likely be if it was a cry for help. The second thing he noticed were a few faint spots of deep purple on the pages. A simple smell told him it was wine, and the knot in his chest loosened ever so slightly. The inquisitor was probably safe. Of course, with the danger removed, a little voice in his head whispered, there was no longer any reason for him to keep reading, but he had already come this far and, if he was honest, his blood was thrumming with anticipation. He had been alone for so long, slipping into her dreams when the pain got too much, but never staying, never hearing her voice or feeling her touch. He longed to connect again, just for a moment, so he unfolded the pages and began reading.

Dear Solas,

Should I still call you that? I can almost hear you admonishing me as I write this, “Amala, you know the truth of me now. Do not insist on hiding behind old masks, they will not change anything.” You really can be a grumpy bastard, you know that? Anyway, all that to say, I have not forgotten. I considered addressing this to Fen’Harel, supplicating myself before the god of betrayal like a good Dalish elf would, but then I think about how well I know the shape of your lips and I can’t bring myself to do it. It is improper, I think, to know so much about a god’s mouth, but I can’t be sure. Perhaps you can tell me.

In truth, I could have addressed this letter to anyone and it would not have mattered, all my drunken thoughts and prayers are dedicated to you.

It took me a long time to find someone who could help me train my new magical abilities as well as you did. Oh! I suppose I should start there; when you took my arm, it seems it did not take all of the magic with it, so I am a mage now. Kind of, just a little bit. My teacher thinks I will likely never have the power of a full mage, but I have skill enough for this. Dorian taught me the spell, after months of begging and pleading, cajoling and threatening, though I sense he still does not approve of me writing to you like this. He’s here with me now (well, not right now obviously or he would have snatched the quill from my hands and pulled me into another insane Tevinter dance. Right now he’s playing Wicked Grace and I’ve snuck into a separate room, but he’s at Skyhold). Bull decided to visit, so Dorian ‘just happened to stop by’ at the same time and picked up Sera and Varric on the way. I’ve written to Blackwall and he’ll be by in a few days. Viv and Cassandra are busy, of course, and I don’t know where Cole might be, but still, it’s almost like old times. Skyhold hasn’t felt this alive in a long while now, you would like it.

Or would you? I still can’t quite decide what was real and what was part of the lie, not that the truly fantastic amount of wine I have consumed tonight is helping. There were so many nights…so many good nights. Did you enjoy any of them, or were they all just part of the performance, lines you had to memorize for a role you never wanted to play? I can’t stand to think of you sitting amongst us, forcing laughter to hide your misery, alone even when you were surrounded by people that would have died for you. We all feel your absence, though no one seems willing to mention it. I suspect that they don’t want to upset me, that they’re just glad to see me acting like myself again. I love them for that, but it’s still as clear as the sky on a summer’s day. Bull orders one too many drinks. Varric leaves a seat to my right for you to fill. Sera talks about ‘you elfy elves’. Only Dorian seems immune to those little slip ups, and that stubborn refusal belies his intention just the same. It hurts. It hurts me to see the spaces you left behind, the craters in all of our lives that I cannot seem to patch. When someone slips and mentions you (which, so far, has happened twice), everyone clammers to remind me how much better off I am now, how by walking away you are the one who has lost. It’s infuriating.

I know they mean well, but it grates on me. I feel raw, like a nerve exposed to the open air, and each cheery assertion that I could have any man I wanted is just a reminder that I cannot. The only helpful one so far has been Sera. Last night we all got slightly drunk and she blurted out ‘at least getting dumped by a god is less embarrassing than getting dumped by a bald hermit’, which she is entirely right about.

But, Creators preserve me, I miss you, dearest. I can say that here, safe in the knowledge that I am a coward, and I will almost certainly crumple this up and burn it, like I’ve done with the hundred other letters I’ve written over the years. I would give anything to have you here with us, suffer any humiliation, any heartache for one more good night. I suppose that makes me weak and pathetic, but you already knew I was those things. Ugh, this letter is a fucking mess. I said none of the things I wanted and a great many things I did not. Whatever, I’m drunk. Forgive me.

I hope you are safe. I hope there is someone to sit at your side and keep you warm.

Yours, Amala Lavellan

He got past ‘Dear Solas,’ before needing a drink. The wine was dry and tart, some Tevinter make that tasted foul but did the job of softening the edges of his nerves better than anything else he had tried. As he read, he drank, frequently stopping to pace around the small study and collect his thoughts before continuing. On several occasions he swore he was done, that he was going to toss the letter out of the window, but it was an empty threat. Instead, he poured over his inquisitor’s words like they were oxygen. It was so painfully her. Every word choice, every strange bit of punctuation. Even if all identifying information was removed, there was only one woman in all of creation who could have penned this letter and it filled him with a feeling that he couldn’t - or wouldn’t - identify.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine the scene. Dorian would have dragged everyone out of the tavern and into the rotunda, arms full of bottles of wine and mead, babbling on about some book he simply had to show everyone. Sera would be lounging on an armchair in some strange, uncomfortable looking way, miming shooting arrows at Leliana’s ravens. Bull and Varric would be bantering about something meaningless, dealing cards out on a ramshackle table. By now someone would have dragged Cullen into the mess. He would be flushing, trying to not be conspicuous as he shot glances at the inquisitor, still as smitten as he had always been. And Amala. She would be everywhere, flitting between her friends, ruffling Sera’s hair, refilling Bull and Varric’s cups, engaging in fond bickering with Dorian and constantly remembering to pull Cullen into conversation when he got shy. She had always been free with affection around her friends. Solas could picture it all so clearly that, for a moment, he felt that opening his eyes would transport him there. The last four years would turn out to be some terrible dream and his friends would cheer, opening up space in their ranks, like nothing had ever happened. Like he wasn’t a wolf in their midst.

The wine had done its devious work. Solas continued drinking and reading, reading and drinking. Drinking and reading and remembering. Soon, he had his inquisitor’s words memorized. He turned them over in his mind, tasting each one and wondering how long this one letter would be able to sustain him before he was thrust again into loneliness. He tried to think clearly, to reason with himself and remember all the very good reasons why he had forced himself to stay away from Amala, why he had contented himself with reports from his agents and spying on her for so long, but they rang hollow. In his drunken state, Solas had no desire to be selfless and reasonable. He wanted her.

Resigned to his foolishness, Solas sat at his desk and began to write a reply. He did not give himself time to reconsider, whispering the spell to infuse his letter with energy and send it back to you before he could change his mind. Almost as soon as the letter slipped through the veil, Solas stumbled his way to his sparse room, collapsing onto his bed with the precious words of his love still clutched in his hand.

Vhenan,

My dearest heart,

I hope you are not angry that I have responded to your letter. Try as I might, I could not let your words go unanswered. It has long been a weakness of mine that I long to hear you speak, to trade thoughts with you no matter how trite or convoluted they may be. Maybe? May be (I apologize, I too have consumed an ungodly amount of wine in preparation for penning this response).

I was surprised to hear from you after so many months of silence. So much has happened since last we spoke, but I had never imagined that the time apart would have made you so cruel. You must have known what it would do to me to learn that there are other letters, more of your precious words meant for my eyes and fed to the flames, where no magic can hope to divine them. Surely you foresaw the madness this knowledge would cause. What did these letters contain? What thoughts were there? Were they declarations of love? Did you curse my name and pray our paths had never crossed? I am tormented by these unknowns.

I read your words over and over again and wonder what you meant by them. You speak of the shape of my lips, the spaces I have left in the world. You are right, there is something improper about such intimacy between gods and mortals. However, that is the problem, isn’t it? With you, I have never been anything but a man. A foolish man. The broken shell of a man who may once have deserved you, but knows that now he does not. Call me Fen’Harel if you must, it is a name I have worn and in a way it is who I am, but know that it was Solas who loved you first. Solas who sat by your bedside. Solas who traveled the length and breadth of Ferelden and Orlais with you, who shared your days and nights and fought off your enemies. Forgive my sentimentality, the wine has loosened my tongue far more than I ought to have let it.

I supposed I deserve to be tormented by you. No, that’s not true. I know I deserve it. I relish the opportunity to be tormented by you. I am glad to hear you did not lose all your power when I stripped the anchor from you. I am glad to hear you have a teacher. I am glad to hear Dorian disapproves of you writing to me. It is a terrible idea.

I hope you will write again.

Solas.

[virginiathegray]

Wisdom Wept, and Hope Replied

*major spoilers for Dragon Age: The Veilguard* a quick fic on what I imagine the moments immediately following the Solavellan ending in Veilguard might have looked like since I couldn't stop thinking about it...hope u enjoy <3 solas x f!lavellan | 834 words | oneshot also on AO3 here ~~~

The fade tear closed behind them.

For a moment, they both just stared forward, taking in the blighted black city before them, the prison for gods that would now become their…home? A place born from regrets that, as they watched, shifted into a new shape. A black spire melting into something resembling a waterfall, elven statues growing broad, regal horns.

Crestwood.

That first eternal beat passed from the present as understanding dawned. Solas’s stiff shoulders curved, then crumbled, then collapsed with him as he fell to his knees.

She followed him down. As she always had, as she forever would.

“I am here,” she said.

“You are.” His head hung low, tucked into his chest. Blackened droplets of blood from still-open wounds caressed his lips as they fell. He did not speak another word, did not move a single muscle. Not for ages.

Her prosthetic hadn’t followed her into the fade. Only the shadow of a lost hand remained, a glowing green figment of raw magic where the anchor once tethered itself to her spirit. But this shadowy remnant could touch and feel like the real thing, a truth learned only when she brushed it over his cheek, wiping away the blood to reveal the cut beneath. Hissing a breath between her teeth, she wondered briefly if the fade had something as mundane as stitches and gauze.

Would he even let her tend his wounds? Something in the familiar rush of water, the whispering of leaves from a moment ten years past, resurfaced old hurts. Was she ever the fool, nipping the Dread Wolf's heels as he ran from her?

There wasn’t much time to ponder it. One moment, she looked at his split lips, and the next they were on her, frenzied and wanting and warm against her mouth.

Over the years, she'd had plenty of time to analyze those few kisses she shared with the trickster god. The first, quick and sweet and impulsive on her part, indulging in the magic of the fade and the easy smile of the man who walked so confidently through it. The second, only moments later, drawn back as she turned away to hide her embarrassment. Then the third, the caress of his arms as they curled around her. Perhaps she should have known the truth of him then, in that kiss. Nothing in all her life had ever felt quite so divine. God-like.

And so many more, combed over in detail long after that final goodbye eight years ago. But this was not any of those kisses. No, this was desperation. Hunger. The great wolf, wounded and starving, descending upon his harvest.

She was no limping halla separated from her herd, however. This was her bounty, too, and when the initial surprise passed, she swelled into the kiss, into him, submitting herself to that sense of return, of home, that lay within his arms.

But then he winced, and her passion cooled.

“Vhenan,” she said against his mouth, starting to pull away.

“No,” he growled back and kissed her again.

“Solas.”

He made one last valiant effort, a peck at the corner of her mouth that lingered in its intimacy, but he obeyed the unspoken command in her voice and pulled away. Only by a breath.

“I am more the fool and coward than I ever dared admit, and for those follies I will pay eternal,” he said, staring at her lips, at the blood smeared there from his kiss. “Tomorrow there is work to do, to make this place a home for you, or to cut a tear so that you might escape it.”

He wiped the blood from her face, brow furrowed. Not for the first time, she wished she could read the thoughts behind those troubled eyes. Would he try to send her away, as he always had? Had her vow to him truly meant so little? Did he still believe her misled, her love tarnished by his own lies, even now as she stood by his side at the edge of the world?

Mercifully, he spoke, quieting her fears.

“But that is tomorrow, and eternity waits. In this moment I am selfishness incarnate. Your gift is one I don't deserve, your spirit meant for gentler things, but I claim it if you will have me, Vhenan.”

Her hand found his cheek, and he nuzzled his face into her palm.

“Please,” he whispered. “Have me.”

At last. A request in that pleading voice, not to leave him behind but to draw him close. Perhaps he thought it selfish, but she was selfish, too, and oh, how she’d missed him.

Around them, something like sunlight peeked through blighted clouds. Flowers bloomed at their feet. Something beautiful was being born here, but neither dared look from the other's eyes.

“Dread Wolf take you,” her clan used to say. Perhaps he had. But in this moment, with a dip of her chin and a meeting of swollen lips, she took the Dread Wolf, too.

[mumms-the-word]

Don’t Look Back

A quick Emmrook snippet for you! I think a lot about how Emmrich’s lich scene parallels motifs of Orpheus and Eurydice, and yet also flips them, especially if your Rook is romancing him when he becomes a lich…so I wrote a little something about it <3

Each step forward is another step closer to death. Another step forward into eternity. The brilliant white light of the chamber beyond draws him closer like the fabled light of heaven, while you, frustratingly mortal, must stay behind. Your sole task now to watch him walking ahead of you.

All at once you are Eurydice, watching Orpheus walk through the Underworld, expecting him to look back, praying that he doesn’t. To look back now would be to lose everything. He would lose lichdom. You would lose him.

Your breath hitches as he pauses inside the chamber and begins to turn, as if to face you. This is your last glimpse of him alive, your final look at the man you fell in love with as he is—was—in life. You want to meet his gaze, reassure him wordlessly that all will be well, that he will be fine, and yet—

Don’t look. Don’t look.

You pray the words fervently to silent gods while the cold veilfire gazes of the Lich Lords stare down at you from above. You should not be here. You are a temptation. His last tether to the mortal world. Every breath of yours that clouds the cold air with fog is proof. One glance backward at you could ruin it all, tempting him to stay.

Your body stills as he comes to a stop facing you. You are Eurydice, standing at the threshold, one of you in the land of the dead, the other in the land of the living. The fate of your future together hangs in the balance, dependent on a single glance. You stare, as Eurydice must have stared, terrified to glimpse even a hint of his hazel-eyed gaze. Then, with a mix of relief and sorrow, your eyes adjust enough to the brilliant light of the chamber to see his face at last.

And see that his eyes are closed.

[chronicsolasapologist]

Solas: hi hey yes am just a priest definitely not the dreadwolf-literal-satan himself, here to help you with the- uh- rift thing-

Pav’ra: uh-huuuhhhhh

Solas: ANYWAY will you give me the statuette containing Mythal’s soul fragment if we bang

Pav’ra: what

Solas: what