#solasmance fanfiction

[citrusai]

their yearning is intertwined, as though there were no spatial or temporal interval between them.

Summary: Inspired by my own dog-gone post about Solas watching his heart through the eyes of Rook, incapable of doing or saying anything to reach out to her. 1.7k words

Warnings: None, but it's more Solas POV obviously. Bittersweet, obviously. No grave Veilguard spoilers but read at your own peril.

A/N: As always, crossposted to ao3. Love u all.

This was not Solas’ plan. It was never his intention to bind Rook to himself, to be trapped in a prison of his own making. The bond was thin, a crumb of a thought floating through the fade, it wasn’t much to go on.

The last thing he’d heard was that Rook was intending to meet a possible ally somewhere in Minrathous. His patience was wearing thin. Had it not been for their meddling, the veil would have been torn, nature restored to balance. And perhaps, Solas could… No. He won’t dwell on that treacherous thought, on the impossible.

The Cobbled Swan is empty, save for Rook sat at a small table. The situation weighs heavy on their mind. They’d been anxious about this, more so when Morrigan and Harding had started speaking about utmost privacy, just you two, we shouldn’t be here for this.

Rook seems to be incapable of sitting still, bouncing their leg as they look around the empty pub. How curious. What kind of person would have an entire establishment shut down? They glance through the window, eyes studying the movement of people living their day to day. A sigh escapes their lips.

A cold hand creeping up behind their ear and down their neck.

“Boo.”

Rook jumps in their seat, hand clutching onto their chest. Their head swivels in the direction of the voice, and they’re even more taken aback. They bow their head in greeting.

“Inquisitor.”

A sound of a raspberry being blown. “Wrong. The inquisition’s been disbanded. It’s Gan’freya now, or Lavellan if you wish to be formal. May I?” The woman gestures towards the chair in front of Rook, and they motion for her to sit.

Gan’freya sits down, folding her arms across her chest, her gaze bears no steeliness and yet it’s not entirely kind. She studies Rook for a moment. Their face, their outfit, the way they hold themselves. Rook notices the glint of metal on her hand, a prosthetic.

“You’re not entirely what I expected.” Rook speaks.

Gan’freya has to hold back an eye roll. “I suppose you expected a saviour, someone who invited you here with words of encouragement.” Her arms slip down to rest on the armchairs. “I’m afraid I don’t have any to spare. If you think what’s going on here in the North is horrid, you have yet to see the scourge released on Southern Thedas.”

“Why ask to see me then?”

“Morrigan and Harding had asked so politely, and what with Varric hiring you on my expense, well.” Her voice trails off, eyes looking out the window. A snort escapes her mouth. “Apologies, I think we both expected something different when you went to disrupt that ritual.”

“Do you think I failed?” Rook’s mouth runs dry, knee bouncing faster and faster.

Gan’freya looks at them, and there’s a hint of pity in her eyes, it’s gone as soon as it had arrived. She reaches her hand out to clasp Rook’s. “No.” She says, voice firm. “Nobody could’ve predicted the consequences.”

There’s a warm roll of familiarity that washes over Rook, but they can’t pinpoint why. They’d heard tales of the Inquisitor, and the stories had brought comfort on the long days chasing the Evanuris and the Venatori. The very stories Varric regaled.

But this felt different. As if a foreign mind had bled into theirs, trying to reach for her through Rook. They zero in on her speaking, shrugging off the sensation. She tells them of a statuette, and in return Rook tells her of what they’ve found.

It’s a glimmer. A foggy window, but Solas knows that figure better than he knows himself these days. Surely, the prison mocks him. Every move, every plan made in his lighthouse, buried under secrecy until Rook seeks him out. But now, the fade ripples and opens itself as if arms outstretched, daring him to confront himself.

Her hair is shorter, and there are bags under her eyes. She is both how he remembers her, and more. Yes, he had watched over her in her dreams, even before the night of the ritual. But seeing her, physically seeing her, through the eyes of Rook, it makes his heart leap into his throat.

The humour in her voice, quick to deflect Rook’s questioning. Always so perceptive to what others want from her, always ready to keep them at arm’s length.

He did not want this for her. Did not want her to follow him, to resign herself to a role she never wanted to begin with.

Herald. Inquisitor. Martyr. A symbol larger than life itself.

When she reached for Rook, when her hand had touched theirs, it’s as if that warmth washed over him too. How he wished he actually did bind that fool to do his bidding, if only to feel the softness of her hand in his once more, even through a proxy body.

The image becomes clearer upon her touch. And the punishment continues. Her pained cry, from when he’d removed the orb from her arm, echoes through the fade. The very sound mocks him, as his gaze falls on her prosthetic arm. He’d saved her, had given her another chance at life, or so he told himself.

His hand reaches for her, and the view ripples in between his fingers like water. His heart hammers in his chest, as if trying to break through skin and flesh and crawl out from the fade into her arms.

The prison echoes with more cries of anguish, the hiss of words in anger, mistakes that had been made before he’d met her. Solas dares not acknowledge them, their very existence a heavy weight upon his shoulder.

So he closes his eyes. His ears tuning into her voice as if it were a guiding melody. Everything else is just noise.

Rook scratches their temple, it feels as if a fog has fallen upon their mind.

“Are you alright?” Gan’freya inquires.

She’s no mage, not well versed in anything arcane, and her brother has been no help what with his speciality being healing. But something about Rook’s behaviour feels odd.

Morrigan had sent word, updates after the ritual was disrupted, when blight had descended upon Thedas once more like a disease. Harding had urged her to meet with them, to alleviate their fears now that Varric was gone. And through Morrigans eluvian she went.

She knew of Rook, in a way. Varric had written enough letters for Gan’freya to make sense of who this person was, what they could do. Yet something about their eyes fighting not to glaze over as they scratch and prod at their temple, fingers moving towards the back of their head, makes her eyes zero in on them with an analytical gaze.

“I am. It’s just…” They place their palms on the table, as if willing their body to still. “Ever since I hit my head when we disrupted the ritual, it’s like there’s this buzzing in my head.”

Her eyes give them a once over. “A concussion, you mean?”

They shake their head. “No it’s like, like something crawling around in there, biting on my brain.”

“What like something controlling you?”

“No..” Rook trails off, eyes cast down at the table, fingers scratching on the surface. “It’s more like... Something’s watching me, or at least trying to.”

“And by someone you mean…”

“Solas.” Rook finishes. “But it’s not constant, sometimes it’s a dull throb, but right now it’s like… Like my brain is on fire, in a way.”

Gan’freya hums, eyes giving Rook a once over. She rises from the table, approaching Rook as her hand reaches for their scalp, a questioning look in her eyes.

“May I?” She asks.

Rook simply nods. Unsure of what her fingers carding through their hair might achieve. Her touch is soothing, in more ways than one. It seems she’s inspecting their wound, fingers gently prodding the scab.

“I’m not oozing, am I?” They jest.

Something between a laugh and a snort escapes her mouth. “No, no you’re fine. No oozing, no bleeding, no tentacles or horns.”

Their body stills, and they hear the rustle of a bag, and a smear of something wet on their scalp. It’s cooling, relaxing almost. They listen to her hum as she layers whatever she’s smearing over their head.

Solas wonders if smell can travel into his prison, the scent of lavender and verbena overwhelming him. He cannot feel her touch, nor feel the balm she’s generously slathering Rook in. But he remembers, remembers how she used to tend to his wounds and his scrapes, how she used to bandage him and place soft kisses upon his scars afterwards.

And now all he has is this. A memory. A faint touch that cannot reach him.

The sting of tears in his eyes, his throat closing up, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’ll be fine.” Her voice, hushed, reverberating through the fade.

A part of him hopes she knows he’s listening in, another doesn’t dare to assume this kindness is aimed towards him.

It’d be so much easier if she had come to the lighthouse. The veil is thin there, he’d have more opportunity to reach out, to engage. But he cannot, he’s resigned to being a backseat passenger.

Solas watches her pull away, a solemn expression on her face, lips downcast in a frown. He’s always hated seeing her like that. The view grows foggier as Rook begins getting up, Solas watches as Gan’freya’s hand slip the jar of the salve she rubbed on them between Rook’s palms.

“You need it more than I do. Whenever you feel an itch just… you know, smear away.”

But there’s something in her voice, a tone that’s indecipherable to Rook, but all too familiar to Solas. There’s no bite, no sadness, but there’s a lilt of knowing. Her eyes catch Rook’s gaze, but it’s as if she’s staring through them, right at Solas.

When they bid their goodbyes, the image blurs altogether. As if it were never there with him to begin with.

And when Rook comes to him in the fade, he tries his hardest to bite back the upturn of the corners of his lips as the all too familiar medicinal smell wafts into the air, paired with something far more familiar, and sweeter.

Just as Rook pretends they did not meet with her under secrecy, Solas pretends he did not watch it through their eyes, hands folded behind his back. Their conversations clipped, filled with jabs and insults. But when they leave, and Solas is alone in his prison once more, the smell remains.

And it sparks a feeling of hope in his chest.

[vir-bellanaris]

With a harsh movement, Elgar'nan parried Lavellan's blow and wrapped his long fingers about the slender column of her neck. He dragged her forward, his putrid breath sickly hot against her face as his cold eyes appraised her.

With a terrible cry, Solas unleashed a torrent of energy on the wouldbe god. Solas' magic hit him square in the chest, the force of the Dread Wolf's anger knocking the wind from Elgar'nan's lungs. He released Lavellan, her body falling and to the ground where she twisted and rolled to her feet.

Solas now stood between her and Elgar'nan. The latter's gaze narrowed in shrewd understanding.

"What a fascinatingly lovely creature, even for a mistake." The blighted god leered from her to Solas. "Tell me, Fen'harel, do you feel more akin to god or wolf when you have her on her knees?"

Solas replied in a tone of deadly calm, though his anger rippled off him in palpable waves. "You're going to die today, Elgar'nan. All memory of you will disappear. Eradicated and forgotten. I will see to it."

I am toying with making a chapter...where Lavellan and Solas fight together with Rook and co against Elgar'nan...cause that should have happened in game ngl

The chapter happened

[acmelxvr]

Take A Seat, Inquisitor

Pairing: Female Lavellan x Solas

Summary: Solas finds the Inquisitor in desperate need of some relaxation in the Winter Palace. And, well, he can provide.

Genre/Tags: Explicit, Canon Compliant, POV Third Person, Spoilers for Dragon Age: Inquisition, Drunk Sex, No Penetration Though, Thigh Riding, Praise, Dirty Talk, Ear Licking, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Biting, Premature Ejaculation, Mentions of Oral Sex

Word Count: 3,900

Notes: This is my first Solas fic so be gentle pls...I also posted it on AO3, you can read it there by clicking this link if you want :3

“And that’s how I ended up hunting wyverns in the Frostbacks with only two pairs of breeches!” All the nobles and Inquisition personnel in the small circle laugh at the lord’s story, some more forced than others. The ball at the Winter Palace wanes into the early hours of the morning now with no end in sight. Although drinks and food are still being served, the massive crowd has thinned into small packs of chattering lords and ladies who would dare not make the faux pas of leaving too early.

“I think I’m going to explore the library.” Lavellan murmurs to Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen. The excuse is enough to dissuade the rest of the crowd from protesting the Inquisitor’s departure from the group, but her three advisors are unconvinced.

“Take me with you.” Cullen pleads through gritted teeth, smiling a bit too wide as he barely follows along to the conversation taking place. Josephine tuts at the Commander but simply nods at Lavellan. 

“Good idea. You might find some of the more intellectual attendees who would be interested in learning more about the Inquisition.” Josephine’s eyes twinkle at the possibilities, and the Inquisitor nods politely.

“Yes, I will most definitely be doing that.” She says flatly, causing Cullen to snort and this time earn a light kick from Leliana that could easily be passed as a stretch of the knee. As Lavellan begins to take her leave, the Spymaster grabs her arm and turns to speak over her shoulder to avoid any eavesdroppers.

“You did well tonight.” She starts. “You are a complete natural at The Game, despite the many forces working against you.” Lavellan smirks at the praise, knowing Leliana probably thought she would trip over her own two feet. “You’ve earned a respite, even just for a few hours before our work starts up again.” The last part she fully whispers, leaning in conspicuously. “For once, I will advise you to not listen to Josephine.” She smiles knowingly before dropping the Inquisitor’s arm. 

Lavellan chuckles. “You read my mind.” She takes small steps through the ballroom towards the vestibule, occasionally saying hello to people she passes. Her mind spins with the possibilities of her alliance with Empress Celene; what it means for the Inquisition, for the Dalish, for herself. The Inquisitor is still deep in thought when she looks up and realizes that her body seemed to auto-pilot her straight into the Grand Library. The guards that used to be stationed near the entrance have disappeared, gone hours ago once the threat against the Empress’s life was neutralized. She worries over this for a moment, before dropping her shoulders and taking a deep breath as she remembers Leliana’s words.

Her fingers trace over the many titles packed into the various shelves, some in languages Lavellan doesn’t even recognize. She smiles softly as she picks up a book by a professor in the Free Marches collecting Dalish songs and tales. She leans against a desk, facing away from the Grand Library entrance, while she flips through the pages and remembers a much simpler time. 

“I figured you’d be hiding in here.” The voice makes her jump, yelp, and drop the book at the same time. She quickly turns with her hand over her hidden dagger strapped to her thigh, only to sigh when Solas snorts with laughter. “The Inquisitor should not be so easily caught off guard.” He exclaims, the two flutes of champagne in each hand shaking as he chuckles to himself.

“Yes, well, forgive me if it pleases you.” She snips, then grimaces when Solas raises his eyebrows slightly at her short tone. “I’m sorry. I had finally escaped from all those people out there…I guess I got a bit caught up in what I was reading.” Her explanation is jumbled, but Solas places the two drinks on the desk before waving her off.

“Do not apologize. I’m certain you’ve had a much busier night than I. I can leave, if you wish.” He points towards one glass as an offering. Lavellan nods gratefully before grabbing the thin spine of the delicate piece and holding it close to her chest.

“Please, stay.” She says. “You’re good company.” Solas smiles and shakes his head as another laugh escapes him. He heads towards the shelf Lavellan previously occupied, now examining the tomes himself.  With his back towards Lavellan, she can’t help but take in Solas’ form. He towers over her a bit and his broad shoulders also help distinguish Solas from the Dalish elves she’s used to. Even in the alienages, Solas stands out as…bigger.

Lavellan coughs, a flush climbing her cheeks as her mind wanders to more depraved thoughts about Solas’ body. Solas was certainly free with his verbal affections, but they had only just started engaging in physical affections recently. Even then, they had only kissed. Lavellan didn’t mind waiting, of course, but it felt as though every time it developed into something more that Solas pulled away. 

Solas clears his throat, bringing the Inquisitor out of her thoughts as though he has eyes on the back of his head and can see how she’s examining him. Or maybe being a mage with a speciality in the Fade lets him read minds. Lavellan’s eyes widen as the drink begins to take hold. Can Solas read minds? She thinks, half seriously. “Inquisitor?” Solas asks.

“Yes!” He turns to fully face her as he holds a book in his hand. “Yes, sorry. Long night.” She mutters, taking another sip. She can feel Solas’s gaze on her as she redirects her vision to a different corner of the room. The shadows dance along the wall as the various candles around the room burn low. There’s a moment of silence, as though Solas is deciding to address the tension in the room. 

“I asked whether you enjoyed your time in the Winter Palace tonight.” Solas leans against the bookshelf, a sly smile gracing his face. “The way you managed to navigate the nobility, the ballroom floor, and an assassination attempt was particularly stunning.” He swirls his beverage in one hand as he flips through his chosen book. Solas’ choice of words cause Lavellan to finally bring her attention back to him. She scrutinizes him for a moment, furrowing her brow as her eyes rake over his stature from head to toe. Finally, she smiles too.

“Solas, are you drunk?” She asks. She giggles as Solas opens his mouth to give a quick retort, but closes it when he realizes he doesn’t have one. He shakes his head in slight embarrassment and drops his eyes as the Inquisitor continues to quietly laugh. “I guess I need to catch up.” Lavellan murmurs as Solas regains his footing in the conversation.

“I will admit to partaking in more drinking than I usually allow myself. All the power, intrigue, danger, sex…” He notices how Lavellan crosses her legs when he pauses. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to go unnoticed for an evening. To engage in behavior that is unbecoming of me.” Lavellan shakes her head, alleviating his fears that she thinks less of him now. “You haven’t answered my original question.” He states, placing his book back on the shelf.

“Enjoyed is not the word I would use.” She pauses, thinking deeply on her answer. “I’m glad I was able to play The Game well enough. It was almost satisfying being able to talk circles around humans.” Solas nods ruefully, staying silent. “But I was on edge the entire time. Constantly waiting for something to go wrong. And when the Grand Duchess was dragged away…” She trails off. 

“Power can be suffocating, sometimes.” Solas finishes Lavellan’s thought. They’ve both finished their drinks at this point, the flush on Lavellan’s face indicating that she’s just as tipsy as Solas is. “There are times when a decision needs to be made. Even the correct choice is never an easy one.” Solas’s expression turns serious, and Lavellan cocks her head.

“So you think I made the right choice? Going with Empress Celene?” She asks. The candles in the Library have dimmed even further as the moon creeps higher above Halamshiral. Solas tilts his head back against the fine wooden shelf, crossing his arms and looking down at the Inquisitor.

“Is my praise necessary for you to feel at ease?” His question makes Lavellan laugh, a true laugh that comes from her stomach. It’s infectious to Solas, a smile creeping onto his face replacing the scowl he had moments before. “Briala and Celene could never have ruled together, and Gaspard is a disaster when it comes to court. In the Fade I’ve seen whole nations crumble because someone would rather force a compromise than make a real decision.” He moves towards Lavellan, all social grace completely lost, and places a hand on her shoulder. “You made a real decision, ma vhenan. They are never easy.” 

Lavellan looks up at Solas, who is only now an arm’s length away. “Ma vhenan?” She restates, teasing Solas now. “That is an odd way to pronounce ‘Inquisitor’, Solas.” Her hand creeps up to rest on top of Solas, the space between the two elves shrinking as he moves to grip her waist.

He rests his forehead against Lavellan’s, rubbing her shoulder with his thumb adoringly. “You looked breathtaking tonight. You were magnificent, awe-inspiring. You’ll forgive me if I drop your title. I couldn’t bear to hide how I feel for you any longer.” He pulls back momentarily to kiss the top of her head, one hand moving to the small of her back. She leans into his touch, and for some minutes the pair is silent, their embrace only betrayed by the soft skitters of someone passing through the hallway.

The trance is broken as Lavellan gives a soft push to Solas. “I should head back now. There are people probably looking for me.” She groans and rolls her shoulders, her muscles tensing back as she recalls what it feels like to have a dozen pairs of eyes on you at all times. She turns to leave, but Solas captures her arm.

“You’ve played your part for the night, vhenan.” Solas pulls Lavellan flush against him, her backside against his groin. Solas forgets his inhibitions as he pulls her collar back to plant a kiss on her neck, making Lavellan gasp. Another kiss and a roll of Solas’s hips makes her groan louder, planting her hands on the desk. “Relax with me. Forget your duty, even for a moment.” Solas’ words cause a small pit of guilt to form in his heart, but it retreats when Lavellan moans again. 

“Josephine would personally see to our executions if we were caught having sex in the Winter Palace.” Lavellan’s skin is practically lit on fire with every single one of Solas’s touches, his fingertips dancing down her waist. “And I think the Orlesian nobility would die from heart attacks if they found two naked elves here.” She turns to face Solas, who stops momentarily to grin wildly, showing his sharp canines.

“I haven’t said anything about being naked.” Their faces are inches apart, both of them breathing heavily as arousal sits heavy in their stomachs. “There are many things one can do to relax without being naked, if their imagination allows it.” Solas whispers in Lavellan’s ear. He pulls away and guides Lavellan to a plush couch in a dark corner, far from any immediate entrance into the library. Solas lets go of her hand and sits on the couch, spreading his legs wide. He leans back on the couch, throwing one arm over the velveteen, and pats his thigh, beckoning Lavellan to sit.

To sit on him.

Lavellan swallows as she takes the sight in. She’s imagined, dreamed of sex with Solas dozens of times, but this was something entirely new. Something she hadn’t even begun to consider, but was still enticing nonetheless. “Is this something you want?” She asks him.

“Yes.” Solas answers so quickly that Lavellan is taken aback. “Nothing would bring me more pleasure right now than to give you pleasure.” He holds out a hand for Lavellan to grab, and tugs her on top of him. “It is selfish of me to admit, but I do not kiss you the way I do solely for your benefit.” He rolls his thigh up causing Lavellan to cover her mouth as she moans. “I do it because I also enjoy it. No, enjoy is too simple of a word.” He turns his head to think while Lavellan grips his shoulders with both hands. “I relish it. Feeling you against me, with only some layers of clothing to separate us…Fenedhis, ma vhenan. You’ve undone me. I haven’t been this overcome with desire in a long time…You make it difficult to control myself.” He plants his hands on her hips. “Let me guide you. Let me show you what I mean. We can reckon with our indulgences in the morning.” 

Solas’ words have Lavellan dripping. she nods, and plants herself fully onto Solas’ thigh, moving her hands to Solas’ neck and jaw. He starts pushing her back and forth against his leg, adjusting the pressure by examining the way her face contorts just so. She moves to cover her eyes but Solas stops her. “You are so beautiful right now, vhenan. Do not think about how you might look, but focus on how you feel.” She obliges Solas and slowly drops her fingers back to his jaw. Solas notices how his words make her quicken the pace, if for a moment. “Ah, so you do need my praise to feel at ease. Very well.” 

Solas keeps one hand on Lavellan’s hips, and moves one to the back of her head, entangling his fingers in her hair and pulling her down so he can whisper to her. She gasps as he presses up into her, causing her to roll her hips on her own. Although she can’t see it, she knows Solas is smiling with pride right now. “Just like that, perfect. You are a natural at this, vhenan.” His lips move against her ear as she forms a rhythm, her moans forming a perfect harmony with Solas as he groans from the pressure building in his own sex. The slight push and pull causes him to rub against the smooth fabric, making him knit his brow in concentration to ensure he somehow doesn’t cum before she does. He can’t remember the last time he did something like this with someone else; and while he’s relieved himself plenty of times since meeting the Inquisitor, he didn’t allow himself to think their relationship would get this far.

Lavellan whines loudly when Solas grinds up against her clit, the wet patch on his thigh exciting him more than before. He pulls Lavellan so that way they’re face to face, and kisses her like it’s the first time. She heaves against him, pressing her chest against his to get a better angle. Solas groans, louder this time as Lavellan’s knee presses up against his erection. Like everything else about Solas, it’s somehow bigger than she expected. “If you keep stopping, Inquisitor, you will inflate my ego. And getting you into this position has made me prideful enough already.”

 He kisses her again, sloppily this time, the alcohol ignoring any expectations of how their first time together would go. Solas presses his tongue against Lavellan’s, his eyes rolling back at the vibration of her moans. He finds her chest with one of his palms, kneading her and finding a nipple with ease. She yelps when he pinches and rolls, her thighs beginning to shake. Lavellan’s pace has quickened to a point where her thighs burn, the strain of muscle mixing with her pleasure. She begins to chant his name, panting and whining when Solas lets go of her nipples and moves his hands to her backside, massaging Lavellan and gripping her with a strength she didn’t know he had. “Do you know how many times I’ve finished thinking of this exact situation? How I’ve dreamed of having you completely?” Lavellan shakes her head. “Thirty four times I’ve spilled myself over my own hand thinking of how beautiful you’d look like this. For the first time in my life, my dreams cannot compare to the real thing.”

Lavellan gains confidence through Solas’s words and leans forward, almost coming in for a kiss but at the last second, she moves past Solas’s lips. Instead, she focuses on his ears; she licks a long strip from his jawline to the tip of his ears, noticing how Solas shivers and making him wonder how the hell she figured that out. She laughs while still moaning and gasping for more. “I knew you were sensitive here. Had to be, because I noticed how you pulled away the first time we kissed when I went to grab you,” She moves her thumb just underneath the other ear, making Solas jump in shock and pleasure. “Here.” She finishes, returning her mouth to latch onto Solas’s helix. She licks a circle around the apex of his damned ears, running her tongue up and down the ridge before returning to his lips. “Imagine what else my mouth can do.” Her breath mixes with his as both of them pant, although Solas does close his eyes momentarily to see the picture she’s painted. 

Solas bites his lip, almost drawing blood by how close he’s come to cumming over himself. Both of them are sweating now, Lavellan’s pristine hair stuck to her forehead. “Fenedhis–” She presses her knee against Solas’ cock again as she moves her clit down onto him, “–Fuck–”, he groans loudly as her pace quickens and she begins to babble quietly in his ear. If someone had walked in on them, Solas was too preoccupied to notice.

“I’m going to–I think I’m gonna–” Solas nods approvingly while Lavellan’s release reaches its peak. Solas closes his eyes, tears forming in the corners as he pleads with himself to hold off for just a bit longer. In a final move of complete desperation and arousal, Solas latches onto Lavellan’s neck.

And bites.

Lavellan yelps and it’s what finally sends her over the edge. She cums on Solas’s thigh, stuttering and gripping onto him while he licks at the marks his teeth had left. Both of them are moaning, although Lavellan has the sense to cover her mouth. When she finally comes down from her orgasm, Solas leans back to examine his work. Lavellan looks down and breathlessly laughs. “I made a bit of a mess.” Is all she says, and Solas lifts her momentarily to examine her handiwork.

Solas’s thigh is so soaked that Lavellan’s juices had even begun to pool next to Solas in those final moments. He smiles softly and pats Lavellan approvingly. “It is an easy enough task to warm my hands and dry my clothes, as I have done before. Do not worry.” Lavellan moves to get up off of Solas and onto her knees in front of him, but he stops her. “As much as the thought entices me, and believe me when I say it does, I’ve stolen enough of your time tonight.” She crinkles her brow in confusion, and gestures towards Solas’s groin where his erection is clearly visible, and pre-cum has even started leaking through his trousers. 

“Ah.” He says, and while he does entertain the thought longer than he should have, he still shakes his head. “This was for you, not for me. And besides,” He stands up and kisses Lavellan. “I can’t imagine there won’t be more opportunities for me to catch up.” Lavellan snorts, giving another kiss to Solas before smoothing down her attire and hair. 

“How do I look?” She asked sarcastically.

“Magnificent.” Solas responds, moving closer to brush her hair with his fingertips. He plants a gentle kiss on her forehead. She seems to be remembering something and laughs; Solas tilts his head in a silent question.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse like that. I didn’t think ‘fuck’ was even in your vocabulary.” Solas’s cheeks flush red and he coughs in surprise.

“Yes, well…” He stammers underneath Lavellan’s stare. “You bring out a part in me I thought I put away long ago.” Solas smiles lightly. “And that part is inclined to curse, occasionally, when underneath a fascinating woman such as yourself.” This time, Solas is the one to let go. He nods towards the Library entrance, and Lavellan sighs before squeezing his hand and stepping quietly into the hallway. He waits until he can no longer hear her footsteps before sitting down and throwing his head back against the couch. The late hour and sudden physical activity has him utterly spent.

The elf looks down, his cock practically bursting against his leg and begging to be taken care of. “I’m not that depraved.” He murmurs. Solas’s eyes close, and while he tries to think of more important matters, he can’t remove the image of Lavellan on top of him from his mind. The way she bounced on his lap, how her mouth felt against him, makes Solas bite his knuckles to hold back a moan. How she jittered when he marked her, claiming the Inquisitor all for himself as her neck bloomed with purple splotches from his sharp teeth and how quickly her release came from an action that felt as natural to Solas as blinking. Solas breathes in, then out through his nose, attempting to bring himself back to reality, but he can’t help but recall the offer she left on the table before Lavellan took her leave. Her lips would look so pretty wrapped around him, gagging and moaning as she would try to take him all the way, his tip hitting the back of her throat—

Solas jolts suddenly as his orgasm hits him like a slap against the face, the dark stain of cum now spreading down his thigh. Solas bites down hard on his palm, unable to fully hold his voice back as the smallest movement against his trousers prolongs his release even further. When the immense pleasure finally subsides, Solas opens one eye hesitantly to assess the damage. He groans into his hands, a conjured flame able to dry his clothes but not the Orlesian, and definitely expensive, couch.

It’s hours later when the morning sun rises over Halamshiral that the Inquisition takes their leave. Solas blearily rubs his eyes and yawns, although when he catches Lavellan’s smile he can’t help but reciprocate despite his weariness. The Iron Bull looks between the pair before laughing and slapping Solas on the shoulder. “Sleep well?” He asks simply, although Solas knows the Bull well enough to know that his questions are never simple.

“No, I had a long night.” Solas quips, eager to head back to Skyhold and be as far away from the Winter Palace as possible. The unspoken part being that he is more eager to finish what he started mere hours before.

“Yeah? Spend some time cleaning in the library?” The Iron Bull asks, looking at the way Solas and the Inquisitor blanche before guffawing loudly. As he walks away he shakes his head. “You guys are not fucking subtle.” 

[cosmiccrushes]

The Potential of a Painting

Solavellan || 2.1k words

on ao3 here!

summary: Lavellan visits the Lighthouse for the first time and finds, upon its walls, something she did not expect.

notes: I'm just obsessed with the idea of the frescoes in the Lighthouse being Solas' venerations to Lavellan. And her having to process that. I cannot stop thinking about it

***

The Inquisitor's boot connects with smooth, flat stone as she steps through the eluvian. 

“Home, sweet, home,” Rook says as they step through the mirror behind her. 

“Is it sweet?” Inquisitor Lenore Lavellan asks, tilting her head thoughtfully at Rook. The idea of Solas having a place, comfortable and safe, to return to after leaving his bloody trail through Thedas stirs her emotions into a muddled brew. Not quite rage, not quite relief. Bitter on her tongue. Telling in the warmth it spreads down her throat, through her stomach. 

Rook shrugs their shoulders. “Eh, it grows on you. Strange to be in a place that keeps expanding and changing as more of us arrive.” 

Strange indeed, Lavellan thinks. That Solas would choose to live in a place capable of transformation when he himself has refused to evolve. She’s heard all about this Fade-touched place from her various reports and letters from Varric. The Lighthouse- where rooms appear to accommodate Rook’s growing team. A place that seems to be made for community, to provide for its occupants. Yes, strange that Solas, who’s chosen to walk his lonely path, would take his rest here. Then again, did the Dread Wolf ever rest? The last decade spent always a step too far behind him would suggest otherwise. Her own restless nights would demand it. 

“So, a tour first? Or,” Rook pauses, “Would you like to see Varric? He's resting in the infirmary.”

Lavellan smiles at Rook’s kindness. It's been many moons since she's seen her dear friend, yet, “Thank you, Rook. But a tour first, I think.” 

Rook nods, sweeping their arm forward. “Right this way.” 

She climbs the steps from the eluvian’s chamber into a wide, circular space. Her gaze is immediately drawn upwards. Her lips part in awe at the beautiful, mysterious contraption spinning in the center of the room. 

Rook is watching her, something of pride in the curve of their mouth. “Yeah, it's breathtaking.” 

“Mmm,” Lavellan hums, rotating in a slow circle, as her gaze hunts hungrily across the low tables and chairs, prowling for signs that Solas was ever here. 

Rook’s voice breaks through her focus. “This is the main entrance hall. We take a lot of our meetings gathered here. The fireplace has a nice ambience for discussing the downfall of ancient elven gods.” Rook shrugs their shoulders playfully. “Since we're already downstairs, let's see the music room first.” 

“Music room?” Lavellan asks sharply, a memory glinting like the edge of a knife before it plunges through her. 

***

“Yes, vhenan, I've been known to dabble in piano.” 

Lavellan stares at him doubtfully. “You? Play piano?” 

Solas gives the tiniest shake of his head and his lips pull at the edges, like he's fighting back a smile. “I've dabbled over the years, yes. Is that hard for you to believe?” 

She leans an elbow atop her balcony, resting her chin in her hand. “It's hard to imagine you dabbling in anything. You seem more of an, ah…” She taps a finger against her bottom lip as she searches for the right word. “A deliberate pursuer of things.” She looks back at Solas. His eyes are fixed on her lips. 

“Ah, yes. I suppose I can be rather decisive in my drives.” His gaze finally lifts to her eyes. “Most of the time.” 

A warmth spreads through her at his words, and she thinks, not for the first time, that perhaps Solas had rather meant to dabble with her. Had stumbled into something far more definitive than he intended.

“Maybe it’s just surprising that you would have a more idle hobby.” 

“I paint, do I not? It is not so far reaching that I might enjoy leisure time with other arts.” 

Lavellan laughs, wide and open-mouthed. “Solas!” She gasps between mirthful breaths. “You don’t dabble in painting. You create-” She shakes her head, picturing the beautiful murals adorning the walls of his room. “Masterpieces,” she says softly. 

Solas stares at her like she’s the sun. Warm and bright, but difficult to look at for too long. He’s always watching her like this. With a reverence and longing that makes her ache. He’s just as likely to reach for her in those moments as he is to turn away, as though afraid she might scorch his skin. 

“Perhaps I can hear you play, when this is all over,” she gestures vaguely at where the sky is torn open, bleeding Fade and demons. 

Solas’ answering smile is brittle and breaking. Like bark peeling off a tree, revealing the growth of something new and harder underneath. Many of Solas’ smiles were like this. It maddened her not to know what they meant. 

“Maybe, vhenan,” he replies, his fingertips reaching to brush gently against her temple, trailing the shape of her vallaslin. It did not feel like the potential of a promise though. More the doleful caress of a decision already made. 

***

“Yep, a music room, complete with a piano!” Rook is saying, striding across the room to reveal a round door in the wall. Lavellan follows them down a long hall, drawing a deep steadying breath through her nose- that she immediately exhales sharply in a quiet gasp as she steps fully into the music room. 

Paint is splashed across every wall. Perilously parallel to the frescoes Solas created in Skyhold. As if sensing the lurking danger, her heartbeat increases its pace. She half expects Solas to look up from one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, old elven endearments on his lips.  

Rook is saying something, but Lavellan cannot hear over the rushing in her ears. For across the walls, is the story of the Inquisition. Just as Solas once painted it in a tower room that smelled of earth and spice. If she could force her lungs to draw breath, would she be able to smell his scent lingering here? 

“Inquisitor? Inquisitor?” Rook's concern is etched across their brows when Lavellan looks at them. “Are you okay?” 

Lavellan nods slowly. “Yes, sorry. I'm just… taking it all in.” 

“Right,” Rook says with the undercurrent of knowing there's something more to it but being tactful enough not to ask. Lavellan's fondness of Rook grows by the moment. 

Rook leads them from the music room, re-entering the central chamber. “I'll show you the upstairs rooms next. It's amazing- everyone has their own chambers, curated specifically to meet their needs. Somehow, the Lighthouse knows what we'll require.” 

Lavellan's footsteps are heavy on the stairs, her mind tumbling through time. She watches her feet lift from step to step in a detached sort of way. She feels weighed down by the past. A past she didn't expect to encounter here. A past someone did not warn her was gaping open here, hemorrhaging from the walls. 

Color at the corner of her vision catches her attention. She turns her head, footsteps faltering as she crests the landing to the second floor. 

Now she's not just weighed down, she is falling. Plummeting to the bottom of a well where she floats, weightless, at the edge of drowning. One mouthful of broken heart away from going under. 

She spins to look out at the other walls on the second floor landing. Every single one of them is a brutal punch to the gut, a glorious blade to the bone. Like a gift wrapped in rose thorns, beautiful and promising but horribly confounding. 

Solas has painted frescoes here too. But these she has never seen. Suspects they were not made to be seen. Solas filled his empty lighthouse with the ghosts of a person still amongst the living. She swallows hard, forces tears not to fall. Would they be from grief or gratitude? She does not know. 

Every painting depicts wolves, an homage to Fen'Harel, one might think. But amongst the wolves, too prominent to be mistaken as anything but a focal point, is her. Bathed in golds and reds, fiery like the rising sun. Hair flowing long around her, like she used to wear it in moments of refuge at Skyhold. A Dalish charm dangling from her neck in the painting closest to her. Her own vallaslin depicted on the charm’s surface. As if Solas plucked it from her brow all those years ago and enshrined it here.   

Rook’s tour is forgotten. Lavellan makes her own way from painting to painting nestled between doorways, gaping at her likeness. Why? Why has Solas painted her here? All these years he has refused to stand before her- or so she thought. How many times has he stood before her portraits? Are they here for his pleasure or his penance? 

She traces a finger down her face in one of the murals. Her hair is flowing around her in this one too. Her hands clasped around the hilt of a sword at her chest, its blade pointed to the ground. A large wolf, his head tilted back in a howl, sits at her feet. She lays her palm against the wolf and a single, strangled sob chokes out of her. 

“Uh, Inquisitor?” She remembers Rook is with her. They are looking back and forth between her and the mural. “Is that you?” Rook asks, bewilderment permeating their question. 

“Yes,” Lavellan states plainly. 

“Oh,” Rook’s head bobs up and down. The upward slant of their eyebrows indicative of how baffling they find this development. “Varric never said-” 

“I’d like to see Varric now.” Lavellan cuts them off, offering a gentle smile to soften her bluntness. 

“Of course, sure, yes.” Rook’s head is still nodding. “Over here.” 

Lavellan exchanges pleasant greetings with Varric, waiting until Rook shuts the door behind them as they exit. Then she turns to Varric and demands, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Ah, I take it you saw our very own little museum to the Inquisition.” Merriment dances in Varric’s eyes. 

“Varric,” Lavellan says, exasperated with his response. “There are paintings of me everywhere. Maker’s breath, why didn’t you tell me they were here?” 

Varric sighs. “I thought it was best for you to see it for yourself, Lenny.” 

She softens at the nickname. “I suppose I might not have believed you if you’d written to me about it.” 

“I do love a good joke,” Varric smiles dimly. “Although, I’m not sure that would have been a very amusing lie.” 

Lavellan sits on the edge of his bed, taking care not to disturb his injuries. “Then why are you so amused?” 

“Because, Lenny, don’t you see? He can be saved.” Varric says it with a conviction that presses on her heart painfully. 

“Varric, I don’t think-” 

He interrupts her with a raised palm, before she can begin the same argument they've had for the last decade. It's not that she doesn't want to save Solas from himself- that had been her own steadfast conviction ten years ago. But with every body he dropped behind him, every instance he avoided a confrontation with her, Lavellan felt him slip further away. He didn't want to be saved. The Dread Wolf had chosen, and his choice had not been her. She had to choose too. If she could not save him, she would stop him. 

“I trust my gut on this one. I’m right. Chuckles can be pulled back from the ledge, whether he knows it or not.”

“He stabbed you!” Levallen exclaims. 

Varric sighs again. “And I’ll be pissed at him about that when I see him next. But first, you need to knock some sense into him.” 

“Me?” She huffs an incredulous laugh. “Varric, he didn’t listen to me eight years ago. What makes you think he’ll listen now?” 

“Those are veritable venerations to you out there,” Varric implores, pointing at the door, the faintest tinge of vexation in his tone. “That’s not the work of a man who’s given up on what he really wants.” 

“Or perhaps it’s the graveyard where he’s laid to rest the wants he refuses to have,” she says darkly. “Besides, he is trapped in the Fade now. It hardly matters.” 

Varric studies her intently. “Doesn’t it? Do you really think he'll stay quietly locked up there forever?” Varric pauses. “Is that where you really want to leave him?”

“Damn you.” 

“All the way to the Deep Roads if you like, but I’ll still be right.” 

She smiles at her oldest friend. “You really think I can reach him this time?” 

“I think,” Varric says slowly. “He’s spent his last lonely decade painting your portrait to fill the emptiness around him.” Varric softens, voice dropping to a low murmur. “Those paintings aren't a cemetery, Lenny. They're his salvation.” 

Lavellan sinks. Slips beneath the cold, calm surface of her hope. Chokes on a lungful of potential. Varric takes her hand gently in his and squeezes as she weeps for a painting and what it might promise.

[beccacoffindaffer]

Even Gods Need Miracles

Notes:

It's Veilguard Day, and I've been understandably consumed with Solas and Solavellan. Given that the Inquisition lasted at least a year, it's likely that their relationship spanned months, and it felt like there was a lot of space to play and explore moments that may have happened between the game's missions and cut scenes. Content warning for non-explicit on-page sex. The elvish I use in here is either taken from the game or entirely the credit of FenxShiral's incredible Project Elvhen, on AO3. Translations are at the bottom.

That's it! I hope you enjoy!

He thinks about the kiss in the Fade more than he should.

Her fingertips tracing along his jaw. The warm press of her mouth against his. His shock at the spark of desire that flared inside him in response. 

And then she had pulled away, the shade of worry in her eyes, like she was unsure of the boldness of what she’d just done, and that desire had burned in his chest. He had moved without thinking, tugging her back into him, deepening the kiss until her lips parted.

He is no stranger to the physical act of sex; in the courts of his youth, he had been quite the consort of it, hotblooded and cocky, delighting in the feel of being desired, but nothing more than that. It had been passing fancies; nothing like this. This want. 

He has never wanted before. 

He tries to pin down where these feelings started, hoping that by discovering the source he might also find a cure. Of course he had noticed that she was attractive, graceful and powerful in a fight in ways he loved to watch, but many were beautiful and powerful without holding any temptation for him. If she had only been those things, perhaps he would not have…

The little gasp she had made when he captured her mouth with his. The dig of her fingers into his clothes. The heat that had spread low in his stomach at the sensation of her body fitting perfectly against his.

It was at Haven; it had to have started there. With the conversations they’d had, how she’d questioned and challenged and surprised him at every turn. Until he found himself looking for her, hoping at every moment to see her walking toward him. 

Foolish. He retreats to his studies and his painting. He lists every reason why it would be madness to go any farther down this road. He dismisses the exquisite pain pounding in his chest as nothing, a mere passing infatuation.

It will fade soon enough.

* * *

One tomorrow passes. And then another. And another.

It does not fade. It only gets sharper and more consuming. He finds he cannot take his eyes off her whenever she is near. And when she is not, his mind is constantly drifting to her. It is equal parts frustrating and fascinating, wondering how anyone functions with this terrible feeling taking up all the space in their chest. 

They travel Thedas, and he notices how she sags under the weight of her responsibilities when she thinks no one is watching. The lives that she must guide and shepherd. Every decision, a crossroad and a tipping point.

It pains him to see her like that. He knows those feelings intimately, in a way no one else in the Inquisition can.

Most nights during their travels, he sits up by the fire, too restless to sleep after everyone else has retired to their tents. And he hears her sometimes, tossing and turning, crying out. Nightmares of Haven, of loss, of war. He slips into her tent and lays a hand feather-light on her forehead, soothing her with a simple spell until she relaxes into peaceful sleep. Then he slips away again, with her never the wiser. 

He sits under the stars and fails in not thinking of her and fails at not naming the emotion burning through him. He has known its name far longer than he can admit to himself.

Love. 

* * *

He has not been in her quarters since the day he kissed her on the balcony and let slip the words that had been written on his heart for weeks. 

Ar lath ma, vhenan.

He isn’t entirely sure why he’s here now. It is late, the snowcapped mountains surrounding them piercing up into a blanket of deepest night and shimmering stars. 

No good decisions are made at this time of night. He should go.

Instead his feet carry him up the stairs to her bedroom. A fire burns in the grate, but the air is chilled and smells of snow. Likely because the balcony doors are thrown open, and she is standing out there, a thick blanket wrapped around her and her head tilted up to the sky.

He steps through the balcony doors, a wry smile on his face. “I suppose catching your death of cold is one way to avoid all the expectations of the Inquisitor.”

She looks over at him with a grin. “It’s so clear tonight. I was foolishly trying to pick out the constellations.” She shrugs, the blanket slipping a little from one of her shoulders, baring her skin. “One of those things I was never good at but always wished I was.”

“I find it difficult to believe that there is anything you are not good at.” He holds out a hand to her. “May I?”

At her nod, he stands behind her, dropping his head down to that bared shoulder so that they’re cheek to cheek. He’s close enough to hear the hitch in her chest as his warm breath brushes against her neck. Curling his hand around hers, he points their fingers up into the sky, moving with her, his voice low and quiet as he shows her the constellations he can find up there. The Maiden. The Thunderbolt. The Oak. The Watchful Eye. 

And yet only half his mind is on the stars. He is too aware of every place his body connects with hers, of how she leans back into him, of her racing heartbeat pulsing against the underside of her wrist, as fast and hard as his own.

No good decisions are made at this time of night.

When he runs out of visible constellations, he straightens, clearing his throat awkwardly, and pulls the edge of the blanket back up over her shoulder. “You’re shivering. We should go inside.”

She doesn’t object, and he follows her from the balcony, closing the doors behind him to shut out the cold. The chill in the room lingers, though, and she moves to the fireplace, the light from the flames dancing over her face. He ought to say now that he’ll leave her to get some rest, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“Solas,” she says after a moment, looking up. “I’m glad you’re here. That you came, I mean. I feel as if you’ve been avoiding me, even after…” Her eyes flick to the balcony briefly and then away.

He shakes his head as he joins her in front of the fireplace. “I am sorry, vhenan. It is not you. I am unused to feeling like this.” He can smell the faint traces of the perfumed oil she likes to wear. The soft orange glow of the fire flickers across the bare skin of her throat. He wants to kiss her there. He wants to kiss her everywhere. It’s intoxicating. “Every time I’m near you, it is like I am unraveling.”

She steps even closer, even as everything in him sings that it isn’t close enough. They are toe to toe, her chest nearly brushing his, and it is still too far. “In a good way or a bad way?”

“Good,” he admits with a little smile. His hand drifts to her face, lightly touching her cheek and her jawline, thumb skimming along the line of her bottom lip. “But also terrifying.”

Her face is only a few inches from his. Her face is his entire world. One in which he has no other cares or claims but the ones he chooses for himself. Where he is simply Solas.

He just wants to be Solas for tonight.

He takes a breath, but it is shallow and shaky. As if he cannot breathe properly. “I should go.”

Her gaze drops to his mouth and her lips part ever so slightly. The heat of that look hits his blood like a lightning strike. “If that’s what you want.”

It isn’t. Tell me to stay. “I must leave. It is not appropriate. Me, coming to you like this, in the middle of the night – ”

“Solas.” She presses her fingers lightly to his lips, stopping his words. He can barely hear her over the racing beat of his heart. “I don’t think I’ve been unclear about my feelings for you. But I also don’t want to make you uncomfortable – ”

It is too much. His resolve breaks, and he kisses her, hard and desperate, cutting her off before she can give him an excuse. He does not want an excuse. 

He simply wants.

Isalan hima sa i’na.

She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, her lips opening to his, exploring, consuming. Or being consumed. Or both. 

The blanket falls from her shoulders to the floor, leaving her only in her nightclothes. Thin, barely anything. But still too much. He slips it from her body without breaking the kiss, her own hands pushing and pulling at his pants, at his shirt, shedding layers as they move backward and tumble onto the bed.

She is beneath him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back, and he has never known a hunger like this. He kisses every part of her body, drinks her in like a book, like a font of lost knowledge, like a vision in the Fade. Let him be a scholar of the hollow of her throat and the lines of her hips, every sensitive spot that makes her cry out and clutch him tighter. Let him be an expert in the feel of her and the expression on her face when she pulls him into her, how she looks at him with such desire and love that he could drown in it. This is the only wisdom that matters to him now.

Ar lath ma.

She whispers the words against his skin, breathes his name into every kiss. It feels like a miracle or even a prayer. Not to the Dread Wolf. Not to a distant god, beloved but not loved, worshiped but not known. But to him, warm and real and present and moving inside her, his head buried against the curve of her neck as the pleasure builds and builds and then breaks and they’re left breathless, face-to-face, her legs still wrapped around him. She is flushed, eyes bright, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and cheekbones, along her collarbone and breast.

She has never been so beautiful.

She traces a finger along the line of his ear. “If that’s what you leaving is like, I can’t wait to see what it’s like when you intend to stay.”

He laughs softly, dropping his forehead to hers, so close that their noses touch and their breath mingles. 

“You are, though? Staying, I mean?” The note of wary caution in her voice makes him lift his head, see the slight shadow in her eyes. 

If she knew how he truly felt, how he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to leave this embrace, let alone this bed or this room… But of course, she doesn’t know because he has been holding her so desperately at bay. 

Foolish again. As if he had any power to deny the tide.

“Ame amahn,” he says and kisses her. “I do not think I could drag myself away.”

* * *

To fall, after that, is such a simple thing. As easy as breathing. 

He laces his fingers through hers as they walk the lands. He retires to her tent with her at night and sleeps beside her. She does not seem to have nightmares anymore when he is there.  

At Skyhold, he pulls her away into shadowed alcoves, stealing kisses for no other reason than it makes her laugh and he loves to feel her smiling against his lips. He is by her side, too, when the mantle of the Inquisitor grows too heavy, and he helps her bear it. Just for a little while.

It is effortless, being with her. It is joy in a melody he’s never heard before, ringing so loud in his chest that everything else fades into the background. And in those moments when he is by himself and the guilt and the burden and the obligations slip through to cut him, remind him of his own mission, of the secrets he is keeping from her, it is a simple thing to reason them away.

This isn’t the moment to come clean; she has too much on her shoulders already. And besides, there is nothing to be done anyway until Corypheus is dealt with. There is no harm in being with her until then, of letting himself live in this joy until then.

Tomorrow perhaps, he tells himself. Tomorrow, I will share everything.

* * *

His favorite moments are the nights they spend together in Skyhold. 

Sometimes those nights are hungry and yearning, tangled limbs and heated kisses and skin moving against sweat-slicked skin. But many times, they simply lie together, the moonlight painting the planes of her body in silver, her head on his chest, hair brushing across his bare skin. He lets his fingertips lazily trace the lines of her as she tells him about her clan and her childhood or plies him with questions about his studies and his experiences, always curious, always insightful, always surprising him with her unexpected perspectives. 

Often she teases him until she manages to pull a smile or a laugh from him. So often, in fact, that his face starts to get used to the movement for the first time in centuries. 

In the dark of nights like that, after she has fallen asleep curled against him and the only things he can hear are the crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of her breathing, he plays a game with himself called Perhaps.

Perhaps my plan went wrong for a reason…

Perhaps there is a different solution I am not seeing…

Perhaps I don't have to walk away from this…

Perhaps he can choose his own happiness. Just this once. 

* * *

The last night he spends with her in Skyhold, they walk the Fade together. By her request, he has been teaching her how, showing her his favorite places, demonstrating how he pulls at the magic to see visions of the past, introducing her to spirits that have become friends. She is especially drawn to spirits of Compassion, he suspects because of her affection for Cole.

If he had only known what was to come after, he would have stayed there with her. He would have held her in his arms until dawn pulled them from their dreams and then made love to her until night fell again. 

But he doesn’t know. So they get up the next morning and set out from Skyhold.

To the Temple of Mythal. Where everything changes. 

Everything he has been avoiding, everything that has grown distant to him in the past months, blinded as he was by the bright, sudden dawn of her – it becomes starkly clear once more. 

He is not Solas. He is not his own creature, free to choose. 

He is the Dread Wolf. And the Dread Wolf is bound to his vows and to his people and to his fate.

When they return to the keep, he strategizes, trying to find a way to tell her the truth. As if it is a puzzle he can solve – the right words in the right order to unlock his chest of secrets without him losing her – the one thing he has ever wanted for himself.

But in the end, he tells her nothing. He flees from her arms with their last kiss still imprinted on his lips. Because he is a fool and a coward. Because he fears she will reject him, but even more than that, he is terrified she will not. That her open and compassionate spirit will understand his guilt and his burdens all too well, and she will want to stay with him, support him. And the thought of that is more than he can bear.

He is already lost. He will not be a millstone around her neck as well.

* * *

He shatters her.

He knows that he shatters her because he’s shattered himself, too. And he continues to splinter into pieces over and over, shadowing her movements in Skyhold, following her on her missions for the Inquisition, watching her from afar. Seeing the pain and grief in her face and the lines of her body that he put there. Unable to touch her, to comfort her. Not anymore. Not ever again.

He tells himself that he is there because he must keep an eye on her. That she needs to be protected so that she can defeat Corypheus and he can reclaim the orb. But that is a lie of omission.

Ame amahn. He cannot drag himself away from her. Not yet.

* * *

The Dread Wolf has agents throughout Thedas, eyes in every village, ballroom, and royal court from Seheron to the Sundered Sea. 

But there is one report that he anticipates most. And those agents have arrived just now to see him.

“And?” Fen’Harel is a general. He uses no preambles. Though it is a struggle to sound cool and disinterested with pain and anticipation tightening his throat. “What news of the Inquisitor?”

One of the agents stands a little straighter. “Still down in Ferelden. At that sanctuary. The one for the former templars.”

Still. How many weeks has she been there? The Inquisition has long since disbanded. What business would keep her there for so long? “Anything else of note?”

“She is often with that former soldier friend of hers,” the other adds. “Makes it difficult to get too close. He’s always around, almost like a bodyguard.”

Like a besotted puppy more like. Jealousy twists in his chest, and his words come out sharper than he intends. “And? Is he a bodyguard? Or something more?”

The agents exchange a glance. “I’m sorry, Solas,” the first agent says. “We aren’t entirely sure.”

“Then go make sure.” He turns his back to them, bracing his hands on a table scattered with scrolls and scraps of paper. “You never know what bit of information might be useful to us. Notify me by raven immediately if anything changes.”

Once the agents are gone, his shoulders sag and he brings his hands up to his face, rubbing at his eyes. He revealed far more of himself than he should. There are spies within spies and networks within networks all over this world. If he cannot be more guarded, he may inadvertently hand them a weapon to be used against him.

His eyes stray to his bed, and he wishes it could be night. Not because he is tired – although he is – but because he can at least see her then. Be with her from a distance in their dreams. She has stopped calling out to him when she sees the wolf in her shadow, but she does not shun him either or ask him to leave. She walks the paths of the Fade and pauses whenever he falls too far behind, as if reluctant to lose him even if she never looks at him. So he stays. He returns to her time and again.

Ame amahn.

He should not keep doing this. It is so painful, and yet the thought of not seeing her at all spears him deeper still.

It isn’t fair. To her or himself. He will stop. 

Tomorrow perhaps. Tomorrow, he will stop.

* * *

The dust settles on the remnants of the Evanuris. Dead and defeated, though not by his hand. All around him, a changed world, perhaps even a better world, though in a form he had not imagined. He stands at the end of a path he thought would surely mean his doom, and yet he lives. No vows or claims on him; he is no one’s creature but his own now, and he is unsure of how he should feel.

“Solas.”

Her voice. It ripples through him in a way that makes him weak, and it takes him a long moment to steady himself enough to turn around and face her.

In some ways, she looks exactly the same to him as she did ten years ago. And in other ways, she is even more achingly beautiful, the spirit inside her that draws him so much deepened by time and wisdom and experience.

Sorrow, too, though. And loss.

His doing.

She is dressed in no uniform, no frills or adornments. Simple garments of supple leather and cloth that fit her well. He has always preferred her like this.

Her expression, though – that is unfamiliar. Cold and guarded. Wary. Like he is her enemy and not…

“Vhenan.” The word comes out in a reverent murmur. As it should. He has not said it aloud in years. He will never say it to anyone but her.

Her eyebrows lift slightly, surprised. Or maybe skeptical. “Still?”

“Always.” He lowers his eyes, unable to look at her any longer. The great Fen’Harel terrified at what he might see on his lover’s face. “And you?” 

He has no right to ask. Not after everything. But he has to ask anyway. The silence stretches between them, getting heavier with each passing second, pulling him down with it. Ten years is a long time. And his betrayal ran so deep. It is foolish to even consider otherwise. Not with a heart and a spirit like hers that could claim anyone else as a partner. 

At last, she moves, closing the distance between them, reaching her hand to touch his chin and pull his gaze up to hers. The ice in her expression has melted away, her eyes now soft and bright with feeling. “Var lath vir suledin. You may have left me, Solas, but I never left you.”

His fingers ache to touch her, but he can’t bring himself to do it. “That is far more than I deserve.”

Her lips curl upward, the same, knowing half-smile she always made when teasing him. It is a relief to know she can still smile at him like that. “We can certainly agree on that.”

“The things I’ve done, vhenan, the things I tried to do… I am not worthy of your love.”  

“So you say.” Her fingertips trace along his jaw, guiding his face closer to hers. “And yet it is yours anyway.”

Her mouth, warm against his. The little gasp she makes when he finally reaches for her, pulling her tight to his body, marveling at how perfectly she still fits against him. His hand, cradling her face, slipping into her hair. 

It feels like a miracle. 

But then again, that’s what she’s always been.

Notes:

Ame amahn. - I am here (credit: FenxShiral) Isalan hima sa i’na. - I lust to become one with you (credit: FenxShiral) Ar lath ma. - I love you (credit: DA:I) Vhenan. - Heart/My heart (credit: DA:I) Var lath vir suledin. - Our love will endure (credit: DA:I)

[inquisitorsenchanters]

“I have found you in every life!” Solas insists, warm hands sliding to her cheeks and tilting her chin upwards to meet his gaze. “In every life,” he breathes. “There is not a single you that I have not found. As Wisdom or as Solas. I have found you. I would find you if we were mere energies. I would find you if we were an idea in someone’s head. Nehelania- I would find you in a sea of men because I yearn for you.”

Found an paragraph from a chapter not written yet🥺

If anyone is curious, the fic is called The Shadows of Your Dreams on A03! I have it pinned on my profile!:3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51836386

[freesidexjunkie]

hey uh i see all yall talking abt Elgar'nan possibly being the big bad in dread wolf and i just wanna take a moment to plug the fic I've been working on since august where Elgar'nan is the big bad, post Inquisition. OC Lavellan reluctantly teaming up with Solas again after the end of Trespasser. Very slow burn, very angst and feelings, very story driven.

[biowhore]

Shrike

Solavellan angst, ~3100 words (i think that's the longest one i've done so far!)

Excerpt:

"You chase a dead dream, Fen'Harel," she murmured, closing her weary eyes, "If you'd only wake, you might see the world for what it is now. Appreciate what it has become." "Please, not that name. Not from you." She heard snow crunching underfoot. She felt cold fingers against her cheek. Her heart lurched in her burdened chest, but she refused to open her eyes. "I saw you," he spoke softly, with a longing sort of affection, struggling to stay distant, "And I see you now. Stretching yourself thin, exhausted to your very bones, putting yourself at great risk."

It was always Haven.

Her dreams always took her back there, back to when it was all brand new and she and her friends had no idea what they were doing. Every decision was a guess, a leap of faith, a shaky gamble. But she had loved it. Had loved getting to know everyone, had loved being a source of hope, even if she had little of it herself. She had been held together by wit and snow, getting away with being Herald by the skin of her teeth.

When she dreamed, Haven was empty. There was no birdsong, no chatter, no clank of armor. No footprints, except those of a large wolf, and not always present. She followed them when they appeared in the snow, but they always faded, as if the wolf simply ceased to exist.

The Chantry was hollow, and the wind sang through its bones in a way that almost felt real. Over the years she had wandered through every inch of it slowly, savoring each snowflake, each supply barrel, each speck of dust. All of it was so detailed, but ever so slightly off. As if one were looking though warped glass.

Tonight, she was more exhausted than usual, with her work over the last 9 years expected to be coming to a head very soon. Rather than wander, she sat wearily on part of the stone half-wall that surrounded the chantry and stared up at the memory of the Breach.

Her stump tingled. Strangely, despite returning to Haven as it had been, her arm never returned to what it was. She supposed dreams couldn't give one everything, but a little reprieve from the phantom limb would have been nice. It itched more intensely here. Her right hand closed around the stump, squeezing in a pattern, trying to remind her body yet again of its new form. Malloria sighed, closed her eyes, and listened to the false wind.

With her eyes closed, she felt the snowflakes speckle her dark skin, leaving brief pinpricks of icy cold on her warm face. At times, she reveled in the silence and peace here, and at others she mourned. Tonight, with how tired she was, she was grateful for the somewhat eerie simplicity of the place.

As it often did while she was here, her mind remembered quick flashes of an easy conversation, of surprised kisses, and hands grabbing for more. Her memories were of her senses; the taste of his lips, the timbre of his voice, the feel of his tunic between her fingers, the smell of his skin, and the color of his eyes.

Her face still upturned, and her eyes still closed, her pointed ears flickered at the sound of snow being compacted underfoot. Under four feet, to be exact. Other than the footprints, she had encountered no other sign of this wolf until now. Too tired to hunt, she hoped it might settle for a chat.

She listened to it, turning her head to follow the sound, but it seemed to trickle in from all around her. Pat pat pat, it barely made any sound in the snow, but the hollow and contradictory nature of this version of Haven had anything other than the wind amplified by magnitudes.

"I hope to skip a long line of questioning and ask you directly why you only show yourself now, Hunter," Malloria called out.

There came no answer. She didn't know what she expected. She sighed when the sounds of the wolf trampling the snow morphed into growls that filtered in from all directions, bouncing off the stone of the Chantry and echoing into the ether.

"You're doing to make me get up, aren't you."

The growling faded, as did the sound of the wolf's feet. Suddenly Haven was silent. The false wind had even ceased.

Malloria briefly closed her eyes, steeling herself. When she opened them, the wolf stood directly in her line of sight, perhaps 30 feet away. It was massive and many-eyed, pelt as dark as the night and producing a faint smoke. The eyes did not blink and were of no color. It stood unnervingly still, those many unblinking eyes locked onto her.

She stood, realizing she could feel her heartbeat in her pointed ears. Her hand tensed, preparing to pull for a magical blade.

"Well, Beast?" she asked, low and calm. There was no point in trying to attack it immediately. She wasn't even sure what it was. Its wolf form was dredging up feelings she would rather not address, especially with how tired she was. She needed to focus. If she couldn't do that, she needed to wake up, but her head was starting to feel like it was swimming.

The only reaction she received was that the wolf began walking a wide perimeter around her. The giant paws padded a slow, deliberate rhythm, its head swiveling to keep its monstrous eyes focused upon her. It taunted her openly, trying to intimidate her to run as if she were an anxious doe.

Except Malloria did not run. Not anymore.

She reached into the Fade for a blade to defend herself. Her feet planted into the stone and snow, her whole body tensing in anticipation. The blade came so easily here, in her dreams. It shone like bright cold flame, energy crackling away from it in frenzy. She held it low, as a warning that she was prepared but would allow the creature to leave if it finally thought better of it. The wolf paced behind her now, slowly coming around to her right periphery and her weapon. Her fingers gripped the hilt of the sword like a lifeline – her instincts screaming at her so loudly it was affecting her focus. Her heart raced, her blood ran cold, and her breath quickened to quiet, shallow, pants. She had a terrible feeling about this.

It finally entered her peripheral vision again, dumbfoundedly choosing not to attack within her blind spots. Her ears picked up a sizzling sound as it continued its circuit – acidic saliva was dripping into the snow from its maw, poison steam rising in small tendrils from the ground as it walked. A growl grew within its chest anew, as if it were agitated by something. It continued walking, its eyes still focused on her.

The beast halted in front of her, back at the beginning, hackles raised high, and grinned at her with all its poisoned teeth, "May the Dread Wolf take you." It cursed her with a voice of tumbling stone, bouncing through the Fade like a nightmare.

With an echoing cackle, its body melted and disintegrated into a smoky, ashy, pool, the mess evaporating slowly into the ether of the Fade.

Malloria disengaged, confused, dismissing her sword and flexing her fingers. She blinked slowly at the darkened snow where the thing had been. Her instincts were screaming at her again, that she knew what it was, but her mind fought it. It couldn’t be… she was too strong for that. And then a slow awareness prickled up her spine, spreading across her shoulders as they tensed. Malloria turned slowly, stiffly.

The Dread Wolf was there, standing calmly in the middle of the yard. She surveyed him from feet to ears - he wore the same wolf pelt as last they met, but he had exchanged armor for robes of a dark material she could not name. There were gold embellishments throughout, and a rather important looking dagger secured at his hip. His posture was deceptively guarded, his hands behind his back, as always, but shoulders lax and stance casual. She arrived at his face, and it too was lined in deceit. Feigning calm and collectedness - disinterest, even - but his eyes told her his sorrow, his regret.

Her mind viewed the Dread Wolf as an enemy. She didn't recognize this person, but she saw Solas's eyes. She would always know them, no matter their form.

Malloria blinked, and her Solas stood before her. The dagger and pelt remained, but he now wore the same humble hedge mage robes as when they first met. He bore no other weapons, only himself.

"Hello, Inquisitor," he greeted. He sounded so formal, so foreign. He briefly looked down at himself, keeping his hands behind his back, "Remembering me as I was?"

"Some version of you, anyway. Whatever that may be," it was hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice, "You could have changed yourself to suit me better, for all I know."

"This is your dream. You have... most… of the power here." He spoke carefully.

"If that is true then how are you even here?"

"I said most, not all. And you are weakened, as evidenced by the demon that sought to take you over.”

"Ah. Demon..." She knew her instincts had been right. Her guard was down, and a demon had walked right in. She wondered if it had been scouting her all this time, stalking her, leaving its footprints in the snow as some sort of taunt. All the endless work she had been doing over the years was catching up to her. Little rest, little time for contemplation, as she liked it. It wasn’t safe. She had to shove down the shock that was threatening to overtake her with this realization. Focus. She needed to focus. The Dread Wolf was here.

Malloria slowly looked Solas over, from the placid expression on his face, to his casual stance, and back up again. Stopping at his eyes, she asked, "Did you come here just for that? Just to drive it off?"

"Did I enter your dream just to save you?" he asked softly. His gaze fell to the ground, his head turning to the side. "Yes, I did." He turned to face the Breach, giving her his back. His right hand clasped his left wrist behind his back, still so formal after that confession. For a several moments he said nothing, and Malloria allowed it. She couldn’t bring herself to ask the questions. She didn’t think she wanted to know the answers.

"Why Haven, with the Breach?" he asked, almost casually.

Now it was her turn to pause. To stare at the blasted thing that started them all down this cursed journey.

"Hope," she finally said. Back when it was brightest. Back when there was only one problem to solve, and she was the one who could do it. Her dreams used to be more exciting or fantastical. Faraway lands, distant pasts, incredible adventures. Now, she just wanted peace, even if only for a moment. She hadn't been one for hope at the time. More inclined toward a dark sense of humor. Inside, she had always clung to it though, the thought that she could be something, do something, so much greater than herself. That was what she was supposed to believe, anyway.

He turned his head toward her, then slowly faced her, taking her in again anew, "You've changed."

"People do that, Solas." She took slow steps toward him, circling him and coming to stand at his front. Closer, but not too close. Her hand brushed the pelt mantle just slightly as she passed him; she was amazed at how real it felt, "Change is the nature of the world."

"It didn't use to be."

"So you've said. But it's been many, many ages since your time. Since your people's time.

"Our people."

"My people are not yours," she said with all the conviction of the Inquisitor, the Herald. "You don't even recognize them."

"That is why-" he cut himself off, shaking his head, "You know my path. I will not stray from it. I've done what I came here to do, there is no reason to stay and continue a pointless argument."

"Are you just keeping me alive for some machination of yours?"

He looked at her again and actually appeared wounded, his eyebrows drawn in, his jaw clenched.

"If only I were so detached from you."

If only she could believe that. Malloria sighed with all the weight of over 10 years of separation, of never truly understanding why. And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Even now she didn't understand. Why? Why? Why had she not been enough? Had she ever been?

"You chase a dead dream, Fen'Harel," she murmured, closing her weary eyes, "If you'd only wake, you might see the world for what it is now. Appreciate what it has become."

"Please, not that name. Not from you."

She heard snow crunching underfoot. She felt cold fingers against her cheek. Her heart lurched in her burdened chest, but she refused to open her eyes.

"I saw you," he spoke softly, with a longing sort of affection, struggling to stay distant, "And I see you now. Stretching yourself thin, exhausted to your very bones, putting yourself at great risk."

His thumb brushed across the high arch of her cheekbone, where part of her vallaslin had been, and she lost her battle against looking at him. Her eyes fluttered open and flooded with his gaze. She felt his intake of breath when she looked at him, obviously as affected by her as she was of him. There was nothing she could say that she had not already said. He would not come home, he would not stop. She had to be the one to stop him. She had to stand against him. She had to build a network. She had to move, and scheme, and toil, and work and work and work... She was tired. But he would not come home.

“Do you know what it was?” she asked, trying weakly to steer the conversation away from the vast void between them.

Solas sighed, his eyes flicking back and forth between hers. “It is a more complex demon… attracted to and influenced by your mind.” Again his thumb ran across her cheekbone, as if to emphasize the point, “But, you know this.”

Did she? Did she truly understand the depth and gravity of her inner emotions? Or had she been shoving them away into a dark corner of her mind, focusing only on what lay in front of her.

Solas’s eyes bore into her, looking at her like he could read everything about her that she wanted to ignore. See all the hard parts of her that she tried to file down into softness. He saw the raw heart beyond the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. He saw Malloria, and she wished he did not.

Her jaw ached with a rising wave of acceptance. That she had opened the door for this spirit and let it through, to become the thing she couldn’t acknowledge in herself.

“Duty.” Solas named it softly, “Resentment.”

She closed her eyes with the weight of it given life through his words. It was true. She was no longer Malloria, she was a symbol. An idea. She could not hide from it no matter how she longed to. She would chase Solas across Thedas to keep her world alive, and she would forever resent the events that started her on this path.

“I’m so tired, Solas.”

“I know.”

Malloria stared into his eyes, her hand coming up to his own cheek, her bare fingertips roving over the cold skin. His face had begun to blur in her mind over the years, but she always knew the shape and colors of his eyes. Sometimes stormy, melancholic blue, sometimes sensual, prideful purple. But always the same, always Solas.

"Aren't you as well?" she whispered after a moment, "Are you not weary?"

"As I have ever been, ma vhenan."

“And yet…”

“And yet,” he acknowledged. And yet he would continue. And yet she would chase him. And yet they would go on and on in this game of cat and mouse, until the bitter end, whatever shape that took.

Malloria’s composure chipped, her face crumpling briefly with the power of her sorrow threatening to overtake her. Small tears built in the corners of her eyes and she attempted to blink them away.

“Ir abelas, vhenan.” Solas whispered, brushing his thumb under her eye, anticipating the tear that fell there.

 She nodded, trying and failing to say the words without choking, more tears spilling onto her cheeks, “Ir abelas, ma vhenan.”

Solas’s other hand came up to her face and pulled her forward, bridging the small gap between them. The kiss was just as she remembered them, but laced with salt from her tears, and the bitterness of his regret. Their lips still danced together as she remembered, brushing softly, then taking great sips of each other, trying to communicate the incommunicable, trying to take from one another, trying to give to one another what they each thought they needed. His hands fell away from her face and his arms came around her, as if his body would not accept leaving without her. For the moment of their kiss, their souls tangled together and cried out, attempting to fight a fate neither of their hearts would abandon.

They parted slowly, foreheads touching, bodies pressed together, reluctant to return to their respective paths. Solas marching forward and she trailing behind, as a hunter, trying to head him off. For this impossibly small window of time, they could exist outside of those roles they had built for themselves.

Malloira tried to catch her breath, but she felt her heart breaking all over again. She could see nothing but him; not her plans, not her friends, not her life. Only him. She thought she might perish the moment she had to be thrust back into reality. And she knew he knew what she was thinking. How she did didn’t think she could let him go again, even in the Fade. She couldn’t end this, but he could. He could always do the hard things.

"You used tongue again," she whispered onto his lips.

The faintest, lightest little bemused laugh on his lips, a smile, then the echo of his voice as he commanded her, "Wake up."

Malloria sat up straight in her bed, her breaths short and shallow, her heart racing in her chest, her stump on fire. Cold sweat ran in rivulets down her back as her mind caught up with her body. She gripped her stump with her hand, trying to massage it, trying to distract herself from the incessant pain. Her room was dark and cold, as empty as it had ever been.

She still tasted him on her tongue, and somehow, she knew it would be the last piece of him she would ever have.

[ly-art]

Why am I like this? I THOUGHT SOLAS COULDN'T HURT ME ANYMORE

Okay... so this girl maybe restarted DA:I because she has to romance a certain bald elf with a voice I would kill for. To pump up my excitement for Veilguard. Anyway... it brought back certain memories of getting dumped...TWICE.

I really just wanna see my elven boyfriend in Veilguard, fuck everyone (not you Lucanis and Harding, got you my babies, oh and Varric don't you fucking die on me, I love you).

Anyway. Since I'm still writing on my longfic and sadly had to push back the next post since I was on vacation in Greece, I'm gonna update this week and playing DA:I...seeing Solas. Welp, short story: I'm so fucked. It inspired me and the next chapter just makes me so sad AND I FUCKING WROTE IT!!

DAMN YOU SOLAS

For those who are interested:

Amatisha’s gaze seared into him, burning with questions, with hurt. She was too perceptive, too attuned to his moods, and he hated how she saw through his walls. But Solas didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He had to keep running, as he always did when his secrets were on the verge of being uncovered. He had done this for centuries—lying, manipulating, always one step ahead of those he cared about, distancing himself from the emotions he so desperately longed for but could never afford to have. This was no different. Fen'Harel could never love a mortal. *Or anyone at all.* The sound of footsteps behind him—Amatisha’s and the rest of the group—echoed through the cave. He caught the faint scent of lavender and vanilla mixed with the metallic tang of her blood. The scent stirred something in him, but he shoved it aside. Every glance from her tore at him, the weight of what he could never tell her hanging like a blade above his head. His heart ached, but he swallowed it down.*Do not let her see how deeply this affects you. Maintain your composure This is temporary; it must be.*

I will go cry now, thanks guys

[ciellafanfic]

La Pomme Vie et Morte

Solas/Female Lavellan

Summary:

It is said that the apples that grow near the gallows will be bitter on the tongue of a lover who will betray. It is also said, although by different people entirely, that unripened fruit should not be the only consideration when investigating matters of fidelity. The latter are lonely most evenings among the arbors of the Summer Bazaar.

—From Our Orlesian Heart by (formerly) Sister Laudine

Just a small, hopefully bittersweet, scene from Inquisitor Lavellan's first trip to Val Royeaux.

"Thank the creators that we’re finally leaving," said the Herald. Solas looked at the elven woman. Her whole body slumped with the metaphorical weight that had been thrust onto her shoulders as she walked beside him through the streets of Val Royeaux. The Seeker and Varric walked not far ahead, the latter needling the former about something, attempting to get a rise out of her. He’d done this for the majority of the trip here and looked as if he would continue on their way home. Their strange company had traveled here to ally themselves with the Chantry leaders, to secure their assistance in closing the Breach. Instead, they had been rebuffed, not only by the Chantry, but by the Templars as well. 

“You were quite excited to travel here. I assume the recent events have dampened the city’s appeal?” he replied. The eagerness she’d shown on their approach to the Orlesian capital, while naive, had been pleasant to witness. It had been far too long since he’d looked at a place with such fresh eyes. To see only the beauty, the glamor, and the novelty, without knowing the rot that it held beneath it. There was actually a twinge of sadness in him that she was no longer ignorant to it.

“It’s an amazing place,” she replied, her voice somewhat wistful as she glanced around the colorful buildings. “But it’s a lot like that lake they have back there: incredibly beautiful and horribly useless.”

Solas chuckled slightly at the comparison. The Herald had been aghast at the idea of creating a lake from which no water could be drunk nor fish be caught. And while everyone agreed that the emperor who had created it was mad, that hadn’t been much in the way of a balm. 

“Thank you, though,” she continued, giving him a pleasant smile. “For coming with me. It was nice not to be the only ‘knife-eared savage’ about.” 

She said it as they passed a group of mask-wearing nobles who whispered and pointed in their direction. He’d heard those insults hurled at her multiple times since their arrival here. Some even to her face. He was surprised at how well she'd handled it. On occasion, he had even felt ready to lash out on her behalf. But the insults didn’t seem to bother her. At least, not half as much as the fact that there was a hole in the sky and no one she spoke to wanted to do anything about it. 

Solas schooled his features into mock seriousness.

“Ah, but see, only you are the ‘savage’, I am merely a humble ‘knife-ear’,” he replied, with just the smallest of bows, to show his humility.

She laughed at that, throwing her head back slightly before looking back at him. The weight had shifted off her shoulders for the moment, and there was only her light-hearted smile. She did have a charming smile, he had to admit. Exuberant, he could call it. And contagious as well, as he found himself smiling back.

“How could I forget?” she said. “I’ll need to wear one of those fashionable masks if I ever visit again.”

“That would be a true shame,” Solas said. He said the compliment, without thinking and she raised an eyebrow at him. Her smile turned sly, but surprisingly, not uninterested. Solas even noticed Varric looked back to give him a glance.

“It’s incredibly difficult to eat one of those little cakes while wearing a mask,” he said, hopefully not missing a beat, and she laughed again in response. 

“That’s true. You were right about them, they were delicious. A half-mask then.” 

Solas gave her a smile in response, but inwardly he scolded himself. He was here on a mission: seal the Breach & retrieve the foci. He was most certainly not here to flirt like the courtier he’d once been. 

But when he looked over at the elven woman, he couldn’t help but think that he’d been right; covering her face with one of the humans’ silly little masks would be a shame indeed. 

She glanced at him and he shifted his eyes so he would seem as if he was looking just beyond her. Judging by the self-satisfied smirk that graced her face, his ruse wasn’t as successful as he hoped. 

He looked forward again, taking in the bright colors of the banners that hung along the city streets. There was music being played at some café down the road, and it wove its way through the chatter of the busy thoroughfare. As he felt the sun warm his skin, he let himself drift away. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that was everything what he presented himself to be. A simple apostate who had wandered into a larger world, by forces beyond his control. And by his side walked a pretty Dalish woman, who smiled warmly in his direction. 

He could flirt with her, and perhaps she would return it. She didn’t seem disinterested. They could talk. He could make her laugh. Glances could linger. Skin could brush against skin.

“Are you hungry at all?” she asked. He was pulled out of his daydream by the question, leaving the fantasy behind. It shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was. Fantasy was all it could ever be.  

“I thought you were eager to leave. Did one of the cafés catch your eye?” he asked. 

“Oh, we can definitely leave, but I just spotted a snack.”

She pointed to some decorative apple trees that were rather garishly adorning the gallows in the bazaar. 

“I’m not so sure those are for eating,” replied Solas. A small fence surrounded the trees, and it would be very Orlesian to use fruit-bearing trees for decoration only. 

The Herald rolled her eyes at the idea of food not meant for eating, and he could hardly blame her. 

He watched as she gracefully vaulted over the small fence and began to pluck a handful of apples from the lower branches. Behind her, there were indeed several Bazaar patrons who seemed scandalized by her ‘savage’ behavior. If anything that seemed to increase the gleam in her eyes. 

“What are you doing?” the Seeker asked, annoyed. Solas presumed she was more perturbed by the delay in their exit than by the Herald’s brazen transgression of Orlesian niceties. In answer to her question, the elven woman tossed the Seeker a shiny red apple. Cassandra caught it one-handed, before even registering what it was.

The Herald tossed another to Varric and a third to Solas, before leaping over the fence once more, her own apple in hand. She lifted the fruit to her companions in a toast.

“Thanks, Lucky,” Varric said, returning the gesture with a smile. 

Cassandra simply made a half-hearted attempt at a grunt and began walking again.

“I believe you may have shocked the locals,” Solas said as she began walking next to him again. 

“I hope so,” she said, unabashed. “They could use a bit of a shock.”

She took a large bite of her apple for emphasis. He could hear the crisp snap as she broke away the apple’s flesh and a small trickle of juice ran down her chin. Solas had the sudden urge to wipe the juice away with his thumb, brushing it just slightly against her lips as he did. He quashed the impulse as soon as it appeared. It seemed that he'd let his small fantasy get away from him. Perhaps it had been too long since he’d worked in close quarters with others. He would need to make a better effort at controlling himself.

Solas took a bite of his and spit it out on instinct as his mouth was flooded with a strong bitter taste. He looked down at the offending apple and saw nothing wrong with the thing. It didn’t look mealy or rotten. In fact, it looked delicious. He brought it to his nose with a sniff. Nothing smelled off either. He quickly darted out his tongue to taste it once more and the apple’s flesh produced that same bitter taste. 

“What’s wrong?” the Herald asked.

“It seems I’ve gotten a rotten one,” he replied.

“Oh no,” she said, more concern on her face than a rotten apple merited. “Want some of mine?” 

Solas shook his head.

“It’s no matter. We’ll be at the camp and resupplied before long.”

She gave him an empathetic frown and returned to her own apple, though with far less enthusiasm this time.

“Thank you though,” he said. “For the thought.” 

“I guess Val Royeaux just wants us to leave on a sour note,” she said with a sigh. They were approaching the exit to the Bazaar and Solas felt a strange pang of regret that her first, and possibly only, visit to the city would end so poorly. 

“I don’t know about that,” he said, hoping to give her one more smile before they left. “It is rather a beautiful view.” 

From ahead of them, Cassandra and Varric could easily assume he spoke of the city. But, next to him, the Herald returned the gaze he had leveled directly at her. He watched her face begin to flush red and she turned to the side to try and hide the blush. Solas could see the small smile at the corner of her lips, one that seemingly matched his own. 

They passed into the Avenue of Reflective thought, leaving the Summer Bazaar and Val Royeaux behind. He supposed he could allow himself the fantasy for just a brief moment longer.

Codex entry: La Pomme Vie et Morte

It is said that the apples that grow near the gallows will be bitter on the tongue of a lover who will betray. It is also said, although by different people entirely, that unripened fruit should not be the only consideration when investigating matters of fidelity. The latter are lonely most evenings among the arbors of the Summer Bazaar.

—From Our Orlesian Heart by (formerly) Sister Laudine

[andrastes-flaming-arse]

🦁 Cœur de Lion 🦁

As Thedas is plunged into chaos, Aithne Trevelyan desperately seeks to escape the suffocating grip of her noble family and the haunting memories of the Ostwick Circle. Each day is a battle against the echoes of her past, as she longs for a life free from her painful upbringing. Cullen Rutherford, former Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall Circle, fights his own demons. The scars of lyrium addiction run deep, leaving him to grapple with the remnants of a life filled with despair; Cullen feels unworthy of love and redemption. Thrown together as the sky falls apart, both will have to learn to set aside their tempestuous pasts and confront the evils that threaten to engulf everything they hold dear. Through trials involving family, conflict and magic, will love bring them together or ultimately tear them apart?

🦁🦁🦁🦁🦁

A full Trevelyan/Cullen fic that I might extend to Veilguard, with the Inquisitor as the main character because fuck you Bioware. What was Veilguard. Look how you massacred my egg Solas. You took a perfectly good elven god and ruined him. He has anxiety and so do the rest of us after that shit.

[citrusai]

she could melt into my bones. we could be the same creature.

Summary: Multi-chapter Arlathan AU. As Mythal weaponizes wisdom and twists it into pride, Elgar'nan seeks to turn hope into despair. Two perfect weapons, crafted merely to serve their makers, constantly orbiting each other.

Chapter: Prologue, 1.6k words.

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, angst heavy, implied self harm, canon typical violence, slow burn.

a/n: Honestly, no clue how long this is gonna be. I have my outline I just have a problem with length management. As always, crossposted to AO3! header image is lovers in the waves by edvard munch, title is taken from Dorothy Allison's poem "Demon Lover"

She learns that a body is a terrible thing.

It is a needy thing, it needs to be sustained and fed, it bleeds and it aches. It dulls the senses, the pathways of emotion become blurry and difficult to navigate. It is unforgiving.

The first time was all wonder and sensation, the whispers of endless possibility in the physical. Her knees buckled under her, unused to the weight of carrying oneself.

Her limbs feel foreign more often than not, phantoms that move on their own accord. Perhaps that is how she dissociates herself from her corruption. One cannot grieve being twisted from their purpose if they see themselves as merely a possessor of a foreign body.

When Elgar’nan came to her, he came with sweet words and speeches that people cannot live without hope. That her presence would squash everyone’s fears, she is a necessity to the new world. They couldn’t create anew without expectation, without hope.

Hope is a sweet thing, a kind thing. It was in her nature to trust him, to expect the best of his intentions.

Her body was crafted with utmost care and tenderness. Honey blonde curls of hair cascading down her back, her soft full lips and aquiline nose, her eyes the colour of the sun.

Elgar’nan does not mar her face with vallaslin.

His hands tenderly cupped her jaw as he spoke, “Hope should not be chained.”

But she does not need marks on her face as proof of her subjugation. Elgar’nan does not give her a wide breadth of freedom. At first, she is merely decoration. The image of her bathed in light, a proof that even the most sensitive of spirits have chosen to join the new world order.

And what could ever go wrong if hope is there?

So Elgar’nan flaunts her as a paragon of the ideal future. The people who bare his mark clutch her hands and speak in reverence. They speak of the inevitable domination of this earth in his name, they invoke her name when they stand in judgement in front of the Gods, when they venture forth in the name of their leaders, and do not return.

The corruption is gradual. It starts with a name.

“I don’t want a name, I already have a body.” She spoke, wringing her hands nervously.

Elgar’nan tutted in disappointment, “We all chose names. No second in command of mine will walk around nameless. The people need to know who they pray to.”

“I do not want them to pray to me.”

His hand petting her head, fingers playing with the tendrils of hair cascading down her face, “They will do so anyway, da’len.”

Gan’freya. It feels odd in her mouth when she introduces herself now. As if she speaks of someone else. Elgar’nan said it was a name fit for a warrior, and so with a name came a title, with a title came weapons. No general of mine shall be walking around unprepared. The words echo in her head anytime she wields the twin blades.

So badly she wanted to say but I am not a general, I am not a warrior. I am a spirit.

But Elgar’nan is ambitious, and he plots. And when Mythal brings wisdom to court as her advisor he will not be made a fool. He will not let his consort parade herself as above the rest of them, heeding the words of a dog instead of her peers.

He will not let his own creation be unseated by the wolf.

So he seeks to harden her, flowy gowns and gently clasped hands turn into leather armours, daggers strapped to her belt, hands crossed behind her back. The sun in her eyes sets. Hope turns to despair, and across from her wisdom turns into pride.

The people are not allowed to clutch her palms in prayer. They are not allowed to cast their gaze upon her if it is unearned.

The first spill of blood seals her corruption. A part of her thinks this did not mean to happen; I am not made for this. Another part of her feels a sense of freedom at the metallic smell in the air, if the rest of them can die, surely somebody would eventually put her out of her misery.

It had all happened so quickly, an elf proclaiming they will not bend, then a reach of their hand into their pocket and she had flung the dagger before anyone else could react. A gasp of air, then, a spurt of blood onto the beautiful marble floor. Her dagger buried to the hilt in their chest. When she approached the writhing man, their hands reached to grasp hers, muttering something as she stared in disdain.

Elgar’nan was biting back a smile, trying terribly to show indifference. But he was proud of her. Mythal had cast her eyes down, whether in horror or equal indifference as her beloved she would not show. And the wolf stared blankly at the blood pooling on the floor. Gan’freya rolled her shoulders and stepped back into her place next to her creator. She did not dignify anyone else in the room with a glance.

Later, in her chambers Elgar’nan visits her and sings her praises. He speaks of devotion and dedication, of strength. He promotes her, to a sworn protector now. But she must protect him and him alone.

Gan’freya’s actions bring Elgar’nan to an understanding with Mythal. The people need something to fear and somebody to guide them. Hope and wisdom shall nudge them into the arms of their Gods; no one wants to be left to rot after all.

Their presence brings a resolute knowing that the Evanuris will not be challenged.

They do not speak to each other. They do not spend enough time outside of their respective duties to ever have to. What they know of each other in this world, they only know from the lips of their creators. Elgar’nan despises him, and Mythal says she is an example of loyalty.

“Her devotion runs deeper than mere words of encouragement, she does not lecture him, she guides him. As you promised you would guide our people.” Speaks Mythal.

“He seeks to depose us both, he thinks I am a tyrant and you are the harbinger of doom. Even Mythal’s short leash cannot contain him forever. Be wary of him, da’len.” Speaks Elgar’nan.

Yet there is something in their words that is so carefully practiced, so beautifully crafted to poison their minds that it plants something else entirely. Hope and Wisdom did not cross paths often. One brought aspiration, the other knowledge. But they remember each other. Two guiding lights in the dark, for entirely different purposes.

Solas knows better. He knows her destruction is a by-product of her physical being. The same way pride twists and wraps itself around his every action, despair hangs in the air whenever her hand reaches for her blade.

They were not built for this. To pay the price that having a body entailed.

When he took the mark from Mythal, he had reasoned it was a show of loyalty, of devotion. He had carried it proudly, and had wondered how Gan’freya could forsake her maker by not carrying his vallaslin on her body.

Solas quickly realized being bound came in a myriad of forms.

The clothes she wears, tailored and chosen by Elgar’nan. Her hair always cascading down her back, she does not dare to put it up, because Elgar’nan does not like her hiding the gifts he has given her. He takes credit for her very existence, never mind that Hope has existed long before Tyranny. It does not matter to him. He seeks to control her in every way possible, and through her, he will control everyone else.

She is both his shield and his sword. When she strikes down the nonbelievers, she reaffirms his power. When his ambition is called into question her essence is what is used to defend him from his crimes. Would Hope stand beside Tyranny? Would Hope doom the world? No. But the light that hope carries is starting to dim. And the dark fog of despair rolls across the horizon like a grim premonition.

He’s too proud to admit it. Solas is no better.

He may not spill blood in Mythal’s name, not yet, anyway. But his very being feels like it is being burned alive. The subjugation of their kin, the war with the titans, and the endless travels to take siege over another plot of land. It eats at him. Solas may not raise his hand against the people, but his knowledge and the twist of his mouth brings just as much decimation. He tries not to think about it. The sun dimming in Gan’freya’s eyes, the way their sad gazes match each other.

Tries to pretend he doesn’t claw at his face, his forehead feeling like a throbbing scar even though the mark remains. The same way Gan’freya pretends she does not dig her fingers in her own wounds after hard fought battles won in the name of their Gods.

With court politics comes proximity, comes the unavoidable fact that the sword of tyranny and the guard dog of benevolence shall cross paths. They will break bread together, toast to each other’s success, all the while pretending their spirits aren’t screaming underneath all the flesh and bone.

They will not acknowledge each other’s pain, shall not speak of the kinship born of servitude, the guilt and horror clawing at their skin. They will grin and bear it, as the always have.

As they should have.

[vir-bellanaris]

Lavellan reclined on the lounge, the room dark save for the shifting lights of blueish white wisp spirits hovering in the air. She stroked gentle patterns against Solas’ skin as he lay with his head upon her thighs, her fingers tracing the sharp edge of his ears and down the contours of his neck.

“They’re so beautiful.” She murmured.

Solas nodded in agreement, his eyes never deviating from her upturned face, drinking in her expressions and little sounds of delighted awe.

“Is this what you looked like, before you gained a body?” Lavellan reached out, lifting her finger towards one of the delicate phantasms. Thin tendrils of gossamer light brushed and delicately intertwined with her seeking fingers.

“Of the same ilk. I was much larger, far more sentient than these wisps of intelligence.”

She lowered her gaze to his. The blueish glow illuminated her face, casting her features into sharp relief against the dim backdrop and the orbs of dancing light above her head. “I saw what you once looked like, I think. In one of your frescos.”

“I imagine you did.” He hesitated, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “May I ask your thoughts?”

“Beautiful. You were beautiful. Luminous.” She traced a fingertip across his cheeks, connecting the freckles that lay upon his fair skin in little constellations. “You still are.”

He sat up, enough to touch his nose to hers and give her an affectionate kiss.

She felt the curve of his smile as their lips brushed. She placed her hand against his abdomen, feeling the muscles shifting beneath his tunic. “I’m glad you decided to gain a body.”

Solas watched her, half amused, drinking in each graceful movement, the strands of her long hair cascading down her back and falling over a shoulder as she leant forward. “As am I.” Another light kiss. “Now more so than ever.”

She beamed at him. The radiance of her beauty dimming the waltzing lights above. Solas tucked a finger beneath her jaw, stroking her chin with his thumb. His eyes a dark amethyst as he regarded her, his thumb moved to caress the plump flesh of her bottom lip, watching as her mouth opened slightly in response.

He loved her.

How he loved her.

Every beat of her heart echoed within his own soul. His own spirit, once unbound from notions such as love and lust, now clothed in flesh.

He had never looked at her in such a way, not even in their stolen moments back in Skyhold. She saw his eyes drawn magnetically to her lips, the touch of his fingers causing her blood to quicken.

Drawn by the electricity between the two perhaps, a wisp alighted on Lavellan’s shoulder, tangling soft strands of essence in her hair. Solas released his hold on her chin, grinning as he chuckled quietly. “They seem to be drawn to you.”

“Maybe it’s the energies left over from the anchor.”

“Mm, I postulate more readily it is your aura that draws them.” Solas coaxed the wisp from her shoulder where it obediently drifted into the palm of his hand. He raised it back up and allowed it to float once more amongst its brethren. “Your own spirit is a rare and marvelous force, vhenan.”

“I seem to remember you saying something along those lines long ago.”

“Ah…yes.” Solas’ face fell slightly, the act of remembrance for him eternally bittersweet.

Lavellan slid her touch down his shoulders, taking his hands, speaking softly. “Do you remember our first kiss?”

His lips tilted upwards at the well-worn memory. “Every detail.”

She watched the movement of his lushly curved mouth, studying with loving awe the beauty of his features. “How you said it was ill-considered and impulsive?”

She moved in and pressed a kiss to the healing skin under each of his eyes. Kissed all the freckles scattered across his cheeks like stars.

“Yes.” Solas leaned into her, closing his eyes, inhaling her warm breath as it ghosted across him. He pushed aside the guilt still gnawing at him for what he had done to her, allowed it to be consumed and burned away by her persevering love. “I remember it all.” He caught her chin again, moving her so he could see her eyes. “The way you looked at me across the campfire, ‘lingering’ as Madame de Fer aptly described. The rise and fall of your chest becoming more pronounced whenever I would brush against your body in passing, or when healing your wounds.”

“Solas…”

But he continued. “The ache of wishing to forsake all my plans and just be with you. How much that inferno of desire frightened me.” Solas drew her closer, their noses almost touching. “The scent of your hair, the warmth of your skin, the curve of your body, it all threatened to undo me. Undo everything I had worked countless years towards.”

“Do you still think of us as ill-considered and impulsive?” Lavellan had to ask the question, even if she could see how deeply it affected him, the slight wince and tensing of his features.

Read More here

To Where Your Soul Travels, There Go I - Chapter 6 - MysticAwareness - Dragon Age: Inquisition [Archive of Our Own]

[elfroottales]

That Which Endures

After a quick rescue, a injured Varric and Solas talk after the beginning.

Post Dragon Age Veilguard gameplay preview fic

[snaileyes42]

More dragon age writing! Please enjoy a Solas Angst short-story! I've posted the link below along with a snippet of the work.

"

Solas took a tepid sip of his tea with a scowl. He knew if he would venture into the fade, he would try to find Lavellan through her dreams, that he might tell her everything he couldn’t just a few hours ago in Crestwood. For now, he knew he’d need to keep his distance as his heart broke. Or else he’d run to his vhenan with the shattered pieces. Or else he’d abandon his plans, everything he’d worked for, just for the chance to be with her in this world. Could he really afford to give up everything, his people, for her? Would she understand? Would she still love him if she knew that…?

He shook the thought from his mind and stood abruptly. No, he mustn’t worry about that now. He had a plan, he’d made his choice, and now he had to live with that – no matter how painful.

"

[crackinglamb]

It is done. At long last. All the rehosting of embedded links is finished.

(sketch by @dreadfutures, it's still my favorite)