#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.

[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.

[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... 

-

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!

[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.

[doomieshot]

Maybe it was always them, even before Mythal, when he was a spirit of wisdom, wandering around, being that, just knowledge and wisdom... Maybe even back then he longed for more than just knowledge.

A physical body that could be loved, it was probably his curiosity and desire that prompted him to accept the first opportunity. He didn't get that connection with anyone else, well with anyone other than Mythal and even if he had her, they were just two curious beings exploring the world, exploring themselves and exploring emotions, feelings, experiences... They could be more.

Ambition may have corrupted him too much... But he swears that the moment he saw her, lying on that mattress of straw and cotton, her arm glowing with magic and pain, he had never seen such a precious being. A dalish, an elf who had lost her knowledge to the dawn of history and time, too proud to accept help? Perhaps he didn't like them because they reminded him too much of himself.

But she was different, a totally new spirit, striking, unique... She was fierce, but she was also sweet, she had shown it by being so sweet to Cole, but fiercely sinking her (metaphorical) fangs into the initiative to help the mages, even though everyone seemed to be against them.

He had two sides... Or maybe more, he wanted to see them all.

He didn't realise when or how, but his heart was racing and his face was hot the first time she spoke to him, he doesn't even know how he could control himself so well... The terrible Fen'Harel blushing at the curiosity and gentleness of a Dalishana? Yes, Elgar'nan could probably burst out laughing if he was told something like that.

Oh, but when he saw that vallaslin.... That damn tattoo, her Lavellan was not the property of any god, she was not a slave, she hated to see that mark of Mythal even if it was that simple and delicate tattoo on her cheekbones and not that intricate one Felassan used to wear... It could have been worse, it could have been marked by Falon'Din or maybe Dirthhamen... Ugh, gods forbid... Well maybe it was the jealousy of his pride or his Fen'Harel side, but he felt possessive of the Inquisitor's interests, which in turn, made him feel sick because she was light and strength and he couldn't and wouldn't turn that off.

That probably contributed to his abandonment of her.

His perfect, precious Lavellan, she shouldn't be caught up in his catastrophes.... But he couldn't help but feel a part of him being reborn when he saw her coming up the stairs. It didn't matter that she now had wrinkles around her tired face, or that she had a few grey hairs adorning her hair, to him, she would still look like a divinity, everything the evanuri once dreamed of being, she already was and had nothing to do with the perfection and beauty of a god's immortality.

He felt self-conscious, not only because of Mythal's presence, but also because of the intervention of his vhenan.... He was being intervened by the women in his life and one of them even took him by the hand and promised not to leave him, how could she be so precious and gentle with him? He was heartbroken! She should be furious with him, she lost an arm, she threw herself at everyone, she almost lost her life TWICE.... And all because of him and yet, she forgives him and goes with him to exist and be happy in the veil? How? That question hits him too many times a day, even now, when his head rests on his beloved's thighs and she can only caress him gently like the fluttering of a butterfly, as if he might break if she touches him too roughly.

She is gentleness, she is humility, she is mercy, probably why Cole felt so at ease in her presence? That's probably why everyone was so comfortable with her, and him? He was betrayal, lies, and selfishness, the complete opposite, and yet he melted in her arms and gawked at her.

If this was a dream, he never wanted to wake up.

(I'm just rambling on about how much I love Solas while I let the play control charge.)

[browniejeane]

The Veilguard brainrot is real. Here's a quick snippet of my RookxLucanis WIPs. These are just the ones typed up on my computer. Not the bits i have in notebooks scattered around the house. And it's just my ShadowDragon!Rook Odari -- I haven't even started with the other Rook characters I have. Send help

[karpowskaja]

Lamb & Peas

The sun had set behind the battlements and the air grew cold, her breath coming out in small puffs as the Inquisitor walked hand in hand with Cullen across the courtyard. "I'm really not in the mood..." he began again, but her blue eyes met his, uncompromising.

"Just give it a try, and then you can go back to your desk." Her voice was light, almost teasing, and he could hear the smile behind it. "You don’t have a birthday every day, Vhenan!" He shot her a warning look for speaking too loudly, but she ignored it, just as she had ignored his plea to do nothing out of the ordinary today.

She dragged him towards the tavern, and he tensed visibly, like a horse straining at the reins, but she was relentless, her smaller frame pulling him along with surprising strength. As they approached the open door, where voices and the sound of a lute poured out into the cold night, he felt a surge of unease, his mouth already open to tell her once again that he was in no mood to celebrate his birthday, not with the mission ahead. But then, to his surprise, she walked past the open door. He glanced at her in confusion, his defiance giving way to curiosity as she led him past the noise to a smaller door that led into the garden and the small chantry.

"Close your eyes," she ordered quietly. He sighed but obeyed, knowing he could never deny her anything - a fact she knew well and used to her advantage. She opened the door and led him through, her hand warm in his, the gravel crunching under their boots. He noticed the silence around them - the fact that there was only the sound of her footsteps and the rustling of the trees.

"You can look now." Her voice rang out, no longer so excited, softer. His grip around her hand tightened, his heart pounding, fearing the kind of surprise he loathed. But when he opened his eyes, he found something quite different.

The garden was empty, the gravel paths and corridors around it deserted. Even the door to the sanctuary was closed and there was no Sister or Mother in sight. The usually bustling garden was peaceful. He assumed she'd used her title to clear the garden just for them.

In the pavilion to his right, usually occupied by Morrigan, stood a table and two chairs, a single candle flickering, illuminating plates and glasses.

He blinked twice before turning to face her.

She smiled at him. "You said you didn't want a big party. So it's just you and me," she explained, her voice clearly more nervous than before, her free hand stroking a lock of hair behind one pointed ear.

For a moment he was speechless, only able to look at her. He cleared his throat, trying to hide how nervous he felt. "I didn't expect... I mean, this isn't..." He stopped, catching the light in her blue eyes, the affection there. "Thank you." What more could he say? He felt a pang of guilt, a reminder that he didn't deserve this, didn't deserve her.

She rose to her tiptoes and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. Her lips warm and his heart quickened slightly. "Come, the food's getting cold and I know you haven't eaten properly all day."

He smiled, a reluctant pucker of his lips, admitting she was right as he followed her to the pavilion, not letting go of her hand.

They sat down facing each other. She lifted the lid and steam rose, filling the air between them with the rich scent of spices, vegetables and meat. The smell was surprisingly familiar, not like the stew they usually ate. Something in the scent tugged at his heart.

He looked at her delicate hands, steady as they served the stew and filled the glasses. There was something reassuring about the way she moved, a quiet confidence that made him feel... at ease. Cullen realized he was grateful, not just for the food, but for her insistence on taking him away from his work, if only for dinner. They barely had time for each other these days, caught between their duties and preparing for what was to come. Perhaps his birthday gave them at least a little more of an excuse than anything else.

She raised her own glass and made a gentle toast, and he hated and loved it in equal measure, the way she smiled and said sweet things about how happy she was to be with him. That she hoped they could be somewhere else next year, words spoken with the knowledge that logically it would not be so, but she hoped anyway. She was always like that.

He could feel her eyes on him after they had clinked glasses, clearly waiting for him to taste the food, waiting for his reaction. He looked down at the plate in front of him. A typical Ferelden stew - lamb and peas. The simplicity of it, the familiarity, struck him, and he felt a pang of guilt for assuming that she, of all people, would drag him into a party he clearly didn't want. Instead, here they were, in the quiet of the abandoned Skyhold garden, just the two of them, with a meal from his country, simple and unassuming.

He took the first bite and felt the familiar tug at the back of his mind. This dish was often on the menu here in Skyhold - warm, hearty, easy to make in large quantities - but this... this was different. It tasted of warm hands and soft kisses on his head, the spices evoking memories of an old wooden table in the small hut where he had grown up. He could almost see his mother's smile, feel her fingers brush against his as she slipped him an extra portion before he left them to begin his Templar training. The last day he had seen his parents, or his family for that matter.

He swallowed, the taste bringing back the bittersweet image of his last day in Honnleath. His fingers tightened around the spoon, caught in the vortex of memory.

He blinked and looked back at the woman across from him.

"It's terrible, isn't it?" she asked, her voice uncertain, her eyebrows knitted together, making the black lines of her Vallaslin curve. He blinked, her words sinking in, and suddenly he realized - this wasn't just any stew from the Skyhold kitchens. She had made it herself.

A wave of warmth spread through him at the thought. How had she found the time, with all the burdens she carried day and night? His chest tightened with affection, the corners of his mouth lifting into a softer smile.

"Maker, no!" he finally replied, realizing she thought he didn't like it, his hand reaching across the table to take hers, feeling the contrast of her soft skin against his rough calluses as he brushed his thumb over her knuckles. "It tastes of Honnleath... of my childhood," he continued, his voice thick with nostalgia and gratitude.

She exhaled, her shoulders visibly relaxing, and a small, relieved smile broke across her face.

"I'm so glad," she said quietly. Then, almost as if she needed to explain, she added, "I wrote to Mia." She looked down and finally started to eat. "I asked her what your favorite food was and if she knew the recipe... She was really helpful." She took another spoonful of stew. "I wanted to make something that would remind you of home," she added, her cheeks flushing as she looked down at her plate.

Cullen was silent for a moment, the realization that she had even bothered to write to his sister sinking in. He almost couldn't believe it - she had gone out of her way to make him feel at home. She always told him she cared, always showed it in countless little ways. But sometimes it still felt like a dream, like something he shouldn't have after all he'd done. Something he didn't deserve - didn't deserve her, or the chance to be so happy. Not when the world around them was about to collapse.

"I know that look..." Her voice cut through his thoughts, soft but edged with the sharpness that told him she had guessed what he was thinking - again. She was far too good at it, but it helped bring him back to the situation, back to the moment. His hazel eyes met hers, her blue gaze steady, searching. She reached out, her hand closing over his, her grip strong, her fingers threading through his. "You're starting to think again..." she added gently, her eyes filled with compassion.

"I can't deny it..." he admitted, shaking his head slightly, fighting the urge to apologize. He paused, searching her face, then finally added, his voice soft, "Thank you... for this. For everything."

She simply squeezed his hand again, her touch comforting and reassuring, not pushing him to say more. They continued to eat in comfortable silence, the candle flickering softly between them, and after a while she told him how she'd spent her afternoon in the kitchens, how the staff had been confused and how she'd had to order them to stop whispering, knowing full well it wouldn't work. He told her about those last days in Honnleath so many years ago, and about his parents, talking about them more than ever for the first time. He realized how much he wished he could introduce this woman to them, to show them that despite everything, he had found something good in his life…

[espressocomfort]

Looking for a little smutty Academia AU Solavellan treat?

As Long As You Follow

Aka. the Valentine's Fic

Rated: E

Pairing: Female Lavellan / Solas

Word count: 2,754

“How did you get there,” Silvhen mumbles, looking down at her kneeling lover. With the shower water running down his face, he already looks utterly irresistible.

“Quite the coincidence,” Solas replies, and gives her inner thigh a kiss that turns into a slow lick.

~~~

When Silvhen Lavellan goes back to her research position after a long leave, Solas decides to join her on a conference trip to Ferelden. Steamy smut ensues all across their rather lavish hotel room.

Solavellan Academia AU. Established relationship, no spoilers.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59638453

[strangerasher]

you know i actually really think it’s a good thing that there is queer representation in media bc

a lot of shows i watched (mostly TDP and kipo) had same-sex relationships, trans/non-binary people etc. My parents are stupid and homophobic and i bet if it weren’t for the rep in media i would have turned out like them.

queer representation is making stuff so much better for lgbtqia+ people by showing kids it’s normal and teaching them to be accepting from a young age. it isn’t a bad influence, it’s making everything better.

also it makes lgbtq+ people (also me) very happy to see gay and trans characters in media. so yes its very nice

holy shit im sorry thats a lot of tags 💀 oh well more people to say hi to

[citrusai]

desire is no light thing.

summary: awakened, solas steels himself and makes plans to fix what he once destroyed and the universe laughs.

warnings: 18+! mentions of male masturbation, unresolved sexual tension and pining. takes place in act 1 of inquisition!

a/n: lavellan is obviously named, cause she's my special girl. crossposted on ao3 if you prefer the format there! fic under the cut

He assumed it would be simpler. A nudge here, a wisely proposed idea there. Solas was not new to the art of spying, infiltration, and betrayal. But the problems began piling up right from the start, with no solution in sight.

The first, was when she fell from the breach. No orb, a dead divine, and the Seeker breathing down his neck about the conspirators health. It was easy enough to dissuade the Seeker from anger, speaking of foreign magic and the green pulse in the woman’s palm.

He sat vigil, and it was easy enough. Wiping the sweat off her brow, monitoring the rhythm of her breathing, the swirl of magic now imbedded in her limb was not as finicky as they all feared it would be.

When she wasn’t twitching, panting or murmuring under her breath as the sweat dripped down her temple, she would lay almost perfectly still. Peacefully, even.

Under the candlelight and the light of the moon shining past the cracks of the deteriorating dungeon, Solas would let himself admit he found her beautiful. But it was a point of pride for him to not get distracted, such thoughts would be dimmed and cast out as soon as they arrived.

The second problem arose when she did. She had awoken, and the blight had spat out more darkspawn than all the soldiers and volunteers combined could handle. And although Cassandra had cast doubt on her story, the moment she saw the woman’s palm glow green and close a fade rift, she resigned to calling it divine intervention.

The Seeker, and the Chantry behind her, scrambled to hoist her up into the role of messiah. The chosen one sent down by their Gods to save Thedas.

Solas bit his tongue, held back his scoffs and opinions. He did not come this far to foil his own plan over what the humans thought of their magic, their orb. And it seemed the elven woman shared the same sentiment. The glint of apprehension and cynicism in her eyes.

They had shared a few sparse words on the battlefield, he’d learned her name. Gan’freya. A peculiar name for a peculiar woman, he reckoned. They had not spoken since their triumphant return to Haven.

Their eyes would meet across the base, and she would greet him cordially, with a nod. No more, no less. Until of course, he’d find her going through his rucksack, no sign of remorse in her features as he confronted her.

“Just curious is all.” She’d said. “I went through Cassandra’s things too, and a few others’. Although, you’re the first one to catch me red-handed.”

She shrugged, and said nothing else before sauntering off.

The third problem arose not soon after, when they marched to scout the Hinterlands.

He had found her beautiful and perplexing. But Solas did not intend to tangle himself into the relationships of these mortals more than he had to, nor did he wish to anyway.

Through their long treks, she’d proven herself to be more than capable in battle, but also sly. Varric and Cassandra bickered more than they cared to babysit their Herald, but it was Solas who would catch the deftness of her palm sliding across a merchant’s stall. Her fingers gently prodding the items, as she talked their ear off. It was obvious she was very adept at this.

At first, he’d written it off as one of her peculiarities. An impulse she did not care to control or curb even whilst wielding a title, and the peoples trust at her beckon call. But when a refugee had stopped them by the side of the road, pleading for food or water, she had murmured something to them and handed over the stolen goods.

It had stirred something within him, a curiosity he could not satiate or curb.

He had resigned himself to be a spectator, a silent manipulator as his own spies gathered the intelligence hidden behind the walls of Haven. It seems the universe, or perhaps Gan’freya herself has chosen to force his hand.

Solas argued with himself, he was an intelligent man, resilient. He would not be easily swayed by a woman who bats her eyelashes at him. He would not waver in his plans because of the warm, long forgotten yet oh so familiar feeling blooming in his chest.

Gan’freya had spun his mind in circles, and she had been none the wiser.

She had felt foreign, alienated even. Cassandra looked at her with the hopeful eyes of someone clinging to their faith, Varric would cast sly glances and write down notes after every sentence spoken, and Solas. Well, Solas avoided looking altogether.

She preferred roaming the Hinterlands. Haven felt suffocating, a person on every corner waiting to grasp her hand, to sing her praises. Yet what she felt was not divinity coursing through her veins, but a dull throb. A looming threat that was eating her body from the inside.

It worried her, this power. For now, the power of the mark responded to her, but how long until it tore through her? No amount of flowy words from the Chantry and the people leading her dissuaded the thoughts of herself as a ticking time grenade.

Gan’freya resigned herself to foraging during their down time, aimlessly wandering the forests and digging her hands into the roots of plants. A reminder of home, almost. Back when she was just the obnoxious rogue of Clan Lavellan. Sent out to collect supplies and speak with merchants just so she wouldn’t lead the young ones astray.

But now, she was not allowed to wander far alone, and she always preferred Varric or Solas to accompany her. Cassandra had been kind to her, but even in the quiet moments she’d corner her about the Maker, Andraste, and what it means to the people joining them.

Solas would keep two feet between them at all times. Partly to keep an eye out for any possible danger, and because he sympathized with her wish to be left alone. He would give her the illusion of privacy, and when they’d return to camp she’d always squeeze his palm in a silent thank you.

And so, the fourth problem was entirely of his own doing.

A battle hard fought on their way to Redcliffe. As the Apostates and Templars tore each other, and everyone around them to shreds.

They’d saved a few refugees, lost a dozen. And earned their own scrapes and bruises in return. The scouts and guards of the camp had looked on in sympathy, offering health poultices and bandages upon their arrival.

Cassandra had waved them off, retiring to her tent. “I do not need to be coddled. I’ve experienced worse.” She spoke.

And Varric, well, he’d taken the poultices graciously, then asked if there was a fine bottle of Fereldan wine to soothe his aches.

But most curious was their leader, who ran off to her tent immediately. They could hear the sounds of rummaging and rustling, but no one dared to intrude. By the time she’d reappeared, everyone had retired to their guard posts or tents. Sat by the fire, Solas had eyed the delicate jar in between her hands.

His gaze met hers, and there was a glimmer of something in the way she looked at him. He felt hot under his collar, quickly turning away as she started moving towards the campfire. His ears perked up at the sound of a jar being unscrewed, but his gaze remained firmly on the crackling embers and flame.

Fingers, gentle but slightly calloused, circled his wrist and turned his palm flat side up. Solas eyed her curiously, as she graciously smeared what he recognized to be a healing salve onto his palm.

“Frostbite.” Her voice gentle, hushed almost. “That’s no good.”

“It’s merely the after effects of a spell. No grievous harm would come from it.”

She’d smacked his palm at that, a hiss escaping his lips. “No grievous harm my ass.”

“I meant that the injury would not kill me.”

The corners of her lips ticked up, “The salve does not prevent death.”

Solas huffed humourlessly as she continued to massage the salve into his palm. In the quiet, he studied her. The sun had begun to set, casting a soft glow behind her. She seemed ethereal in this moment. Her honey blonde hair no longer neatly plaited, stray hairs sticking out of place. Her brows, set in a furrow of concentration, and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

Solas wondered when was the last time someone had fretted over him. The last time someone had stopped to soothe his aches, to bandage his wounds. He dared not to daydream of what it would be like for someone like her to look after him, through thick and thin.

“I must admit, I did not come here without ulterior motives.” Her voice reverberated inside his head, and his gaze met hers.

The colour of amber and gold staring back at him.

Absentmindedly he flexed the hand still gripped between her fingers. “How so?”

Gan’freya had turned her body towards the fire slightly, showing the marred flesh of her shoulder. The blood had been cleaned meticulously, but the skin still showed signs of irritation.

“The arrow went clean through.” She remarked. “It’s the back of my shoulder I cannot reach, I’m afraid.”

Solas dipped his fingers into the jar, now sitting neatly between them. Clutching her hand with his injured one as if to steady her through touch alone. He tries to be as gentle as possible as he rubs the salve onto the wound. She hisses and squirms, and there’s the unmistakable sound of a giggle.

“Sorry.” She chuckled. “I’m ticklish.”

Her skin is soft to the touch, despite the jagged wound. Solas wonders what the rest of her feels like.

No. Such thoughts have to be quelled, snuffed out, cast aside. He will not get distracted.

“Would you not have preferred the Seeker helped you?” He questioned curiously. “She seems much eager to be your aid”

Gan’freya hummed, as if she herself did not know why she didn’t approach Cassandra first, or Varric, even.

“Cassandra means well, but she’s overbearing. Besides, she hates when I offer to help her. Did you see how she barked at the scout a few days prior when he inquired about her poultice needs? Nearly bit his head off.”

A beat of silence. “Besides, you’ve been more understanding than everyone else. Even if you did catch me investigating your intimates.”

Solas choked on his own spit at that, and she had burst into laughter.

As her laughter died down, she cast her eyes back onto the fire, and Solas continued to tend to her wound. He gently tapped his fingers against her flesh, signalling that he’d done what she had asked. Neither one was eager to get up first, though.

His eyes trailed over her skin, the freckles covering every inch of her, the scar on her jaw and above her brow, proof of her survival of their first attempt at stopping the breach at the ruins. She smelled faintly of lavender, and verbena.

A rustle by the entrance of the camp had startled them both. A scout returning, message clutched in hand, quick strides made towards them. Gan’freya sighed, whether from fatigue of the day’s events, or because she had grown tired of the role thrust upon her. She stood tentatively, casting one last glance at Solas, a thank you mouthed as she met the scout halfway.

They had grown close at Redcliffe. She had chosen to meet the mages first, claiming their aid would be detrimental in sealing the breach. Of course, her own inner circle chastised her for such a choice, weary of the apostates.

That was when Gan’freya began seeking his opinion before anyone else’s. Whether that was because she genuinely valued what he had to offer in terms of guidance, or if it was an act of rebellion on her part he could not say. But she sat with him for hours, asking about the fade and magic.

She had shared small tid-bits of her own life during those talks. Remarked on how her father was a mage, how he left the Clan in pursuit of knowledge, and vanished. She spoke of her mother, a healer. The very reason for her constant foraging and picking of leaves, the reason for the salve, safely sat in her rucksack.

Solas had exchanged his own secrets in turn, though they were more thinly veiled half-truths than outward ones. He would not outright lie to her, but he would keep his cards close to his chest nonetheless.

There was a mutual understanding between them. And something else blossoming in its cracks. Solas would argue that he is not a man easily led astray by something as trivial as attraction. Lesser men have sacrificed their goals in pursuit of passion, he was not one of them.

Or so he had thought.

Something had shifted that day at the camp, but it was easy enough to cast aside when they were journeying in search for allies. But now, they were back at Haven, laying down plans of their next move, it seemed that Redcliffe was under siege of a Magister, and to infiltrate his stronghold was not as simple as knocking on the doors.

She had begun cropping up in the back of his mind, a constant in his thoughts. Haven offered the safety of distance, when they returned she was swept right up into the shuffle of politics. He had admired the way she would not waver in her choice to help the mages, even when Cullen tried to argue that perhaps they’re a lost cause for the time being.

All of Haven had heard that argument.

“You ask me to lead, yet you try and undermine me at every corner.” Gan’freya had exclaimed.

Cullen had pinched his nose bridge between his fingers. “I am not undermining, I am simply trying to offer you alternatives.”

“I did not ask for them.” She was furious, fists clenched, brows furrowed. “You cannot possibly believe we may end the blight through steel? Our men are not Grey Wardens.”

“You must understand, although the mages offer an advantage, it is who we choose to align ourselves with which will be detrimental to how the rest of Thedas sees us.”

“There will be nothing to see if all of Thedas is dead.” She seethed.

Cullen had tried to reply, but she merely waved him off and stormed off towards her makeshift home. Solas had followed her, kept a safe distance if she had slammed the door shut it’d be a signal not to bother her. But it remained ajar.

He peeked through the crack, watching as she shuffled around her items before sitting down in her cot.

“You’re not sly, you know.”

Solas cleared his throat, pushing the door gently to step into the home, he closed it behind him. “I was not trying to be, my apologies.”

Gan’freya made a noncommittal hum. “I didn’t ask for this, you know.” She clenched and unclenched her fists, a frown on her features. “They all depend on me, yet it seems no matter my choice they’re all wrong.”

“You cannot please everyone. The situation we are in is fickle enough without delving into the politics.” He stepped further into her room, shoulder slumped against the door frame. “Do not let your council sway you into making choices you would regret.”

“My choices are my own.” She affirmed. “But I do not think of them as choices of a Herald, I do not wish to be one. I wish they’d understood that.”

Solas stepped closer to where she was sat, motioning to ask if he may sit. Gan’freya nodded, sliding a bit to give him some room. Once he sat next to her, he reached for her hand, grasping it firmly in his own.

“It is merely a title. You needn’t twist your very own nature to fit it. With time perhaps, they will see different. If not, their faith is their own, their beliefs of who you are do not make it truth.”

He felt his body shudder at the touch of her cheek against his shoulder. If she noticed, she made no comment, sitting there silently hand in hand.

“You are wise beyond both our years, Solas” She spoke with a smile. “I just hope you’re not being kind to me to try and acquire my mother’s secret balm recipe.”

Solas huffed out a breath in amusement, offering nothing in reply other than his thumb drawing circles on her hand.

It became more difficult to argue that he had not grown attached to her. He sought her out just as much as she him, if not more. After the mess at Redcliffe, and her stories of the future that should not come to pass, he had made himself a permanent fixture by her side.

She had told him every sordid detail of her and Dorian’s travel through time, had spoken with such anger and conviction towards the Magister and Corypheus’ followers, it seemed that the incident had reinvigorated her.

They had made travels through the Hinterlands once more, searching for a Grey Warden that Leliana had spoken of. The man seemed harder to track than expected. They made camp by a nearby village, the people had offered their homes for shelter as thanks for everything the Inquisition has been doing, but she had made it clear she would not abuse their kindness.

Although, she did ask them if she could use the empty stables for sparring practice, the people spared no thought before agreeing. Solas watched on as she sparred with Cassandra, soon they would march on to close the blight, hopefully for good.

“Be careful there, Chuckles, or your jaw will break off.” Varric joked.

“I do not know what you mean, Varric. I am merely keeping an eye out, we are after all in unguarded territory.” Solas would not look at the man, gaze shifting between Gan’freya and the horizon.

Varric chuckled. “You think no one noticed the way you two are attached at the hip? The glances anytime someone proposes an insane idea, the constant hovering in her space after a fight, and who can forget the nights by the campfire talking on and on about the fade.”

Solas had tried to interject, argue, but Varric continued on.

“And I mean, that weird balm she slathers you in, asked her about it and she got all cagey, said it was an elven thing but when I asked around other elves at Haven, it became very clear it was a you and her thing.”

“You know not of what you speak, Varric. Have you grown tired of writing your romance novels you’ve decided to project them onto your reality?” There was humour in Solas’ voice, but he could not deny he had felt like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t have.

The dwarf crossed his arms, looking from Solas towards Gan’freya. “Knew a guy like you once, he was all mysterious, reserved. Trailed around Hawke with puppy dog eyes even when he swore he didn’t want to be with them.” He raised his arms as if in defense. “I’m just saying, I know things.”

Solas hummed, arms crossed behind his back, casting one last glance and moving towards his tent. Perhaps Varric was right, he was too obvious, too close. But pulling away now would send alarm bells ringing not just to her, but to their fellow companions.

He slinked back into his tent silently, drawing it closed.

He reasoned with himself, there was nothing wrong with their friendship, were she the one to pull away he would gladly let her. But then a pinprick of something else swirled in his brain. Was it friendship? Or perhaps was it something more.

He would not deny it to himself that perhaps his glances, lingering touches were not just rooted in cordial intent. At first he had been un-phased by her, but the behaviour she has shown those past few weeks have planted something inside his mind he could not uproot. She had shown grace, and courage, and most importantly wisdom and kindness, when the people surrounding her had clamoured for power and good political standing above the wellbeing of the people.

It was her who divulged to him that she had no intention of lying to the people, of seizing power under her new moniker. She had given all this up freely, and she had in turn cherished every piece of information, every form of advice he had given to her.

But then his thoughts started to drift. Past the emotional, past the budding sweetness of admiration, into something more physical, more carnal, desire.

Solas thought back to the first time she had held and bandaged his hand by that campfire, her fingers calloused from wielding dual blades, yet her palms remained soft. He thought of the skin of her bare shoulder, the hitch of her breath when he had bandaged her wound in return.

And then he thought of her today, the way her toned arms were moving with swiftness, blades piercing through targets. Her firm midriff slightly exposed during her sparring session. Even drenched in sweat and gore she was the vision of fairness.

In that moment he wondered what it would feel like to have her pressed against him, her mouth on his, to have her clutching onto him, writhing, grinding.

It seemed that he had lost all sense of control over himself, as his hands drifted down to palm himself through his breeches, searching for friction. It was no use, he had thought to himself, hand dipping inside the waistband. He could not, would not deny himself any longer.

As he stroked himself, it felt as though the air in the tent became too stuffy. He had bit down on his free hand to keep himself from making too much noise.

Solas tried to reason with himself to finish this up quick, he did not have the privacy of four walls and a lock on the door. Anyone could just barge in and catch him in such an indecent position.

At that, his mind drifted further. How would Gan’freya react if she had caught him like this? Would she chastise him? Or would she move towards him with a helping hand? Perhaps she would make the first move, smack his hand away from himself to finish what he had started.

Too lost in his own ministrations, he could not hear her voice echoing throughout their camp, questioning where her friend had disappeared off to.

As he was getting closer to his peak, he’d heard the familiar rustling of his tent flaps, hand quickly moving from inside of his breeches, as if he’d been burnt. He heard her voice before he cast a glance behind his shoulder, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” Gan’freya inquired, hand clutching the fabric of the tent, not daring to invade without an invitation. “You look… flushed.”

Solas’ voice felt caught in his throat, yet he managed to cough out, “I’m fine.”

Her brows furrowed in worry, sucking her lip between her teeth. “You don’t look fine, should I inquire about a medic in the village?”

He turned towards her hastily, wiping his hand down on the fabric of his pants before reaching for her. “No, I’m quite alright, honest.”

Gan’freya studied him for a moment, inspecting him as if she herself were a medic. She observed the pinkness of his cheeks, the slight quiver in his hands, shallow intake of breaths, and most obvious was the remains of a tent in his pants. Her worrisome gaze shifted, a twinkle of mischief replacing it.

“Oh you’re naughty.” She exclaimed under her breath. She knew he’d heard her, his gaze deciding to look anywhere but her.

“I do not know what you speak of.” Was his hushed reply.

A hum, followed by a snort. “I’m sure you don’t. Although, I would recommend next time to do your dirty business when everyone’s asleep.”

Solas jumped to defend himself. “It’s not- It wasn’t- It is perfectly normal.”

“Of course it is. I wasn’t saying it wasn’t.” She spoke, tone getting louder. “I’m just saying, you don’t want there to be rumours flying about that the Herald spends her time with an apostate who can’t keep his hands out of his own pants in broad daylight!”

His hand smacked over her mouth, trying to contain the words she just spoke. She made no noise of discontent, simply biting down on the flesh of his palm to provoke him.

As Solas’ hand fell away, she wiped her mouth. “I didn’t think that one through. I sincerely hope that wasn’t the hand you were making yourself happy with.”

He had a retort locked and loaded, but it died on his tongue as he looked at her. No malice or disgust in her gaze, the corners of her mouth ticked up in a wry smile. Their eyes met and neither one moved. She had made a tentative step forward, hand grazing his stomach, her mouth opening and closing as if she were looking for a way to speak the words.

In the distance, a sound of a horn being blown. A signal of a scout’s arrival. Gan’freya smacked her head on his chest, exhaling deeply. She toyed with the fabric of his tunic, gazing behind her before she detached herself.

“Well, carry on as you were.” She snorted. “Hang up a banner while you’re at it.”

Solas groaned, muttering a for goodness sakes, under his breath. But as he watched her go, a twinge of regret echoed through his heart. Solas wondered to himself if perhaps the path he was on wasn’t the only path worth walking, and if it would truly be so bad to enjoy this new world.

[foxxology]

i may or may not have written a rook and lucanis fic and might be writing more random oneshot because my rook Kord is eating my brain and aaaaaaa

look at them

[elfy-elf-imagines]

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[queenofbaws]

if i don't write something vhawke in the immediate future i feel like i might explode into a swarm of moths and eat a whole sweater