#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]

Uttering the battle cry of her people, Lavellan launched herself toward the sundering goliath of rock and fractured spirit.

Solas shouted a surprised curse, making a gesture and covering her body in a magical barrier right before she impacted.

He transformed into wolf-form and leapt into the fray, taking advantage of the opening Lavellan had created.

His jaws clenched around the semblance of a brittle neck, cracking it like dry grass under a boot.

Shards of lyrium shattered icelike from the massive creature’s form, pulsing veins of red oozed magma blood which ran in rivulets down its distorted and crumbling body.

The Dread Wolf paced between it and where Lavellan stood recovering.

She braced hands on knees, catching her breath.  Solas’ magic had protected her from the brunt of the blows, shielding her from the massive clublike hands.

It was a sentient construct of twisting shadow and pulsing blue lyrium, that much she knew.  Lavellan could also ascertain it was tied to the unrest of the Titans somehow and had sensed their presence enter the Fade, particularly that of Solas.

She gathered herself, walking to where the great wolf stood gazing at the smoldering heap.

She reached out tentatively at first, her fingers pushing through black smoking energy roiling off him.  

Her hand found his flank, the tough hide surprisingly sensitive as it twitched at the touch.  The Dread Wolf’s head turned from its vigil, three glowing blue eyes shone upon her, the milky pupils moving individually until they rested upon her face.  

The snarl twisting the canine mouth eased, the glint of his long fangs disappeared.

Lavellan stepped forward, running her hand up his body like a guide, her eyes never wavering from his.  

When she was inches from his snout she smiled, his presence filling her with a sense of comfort rather than that of mortal dread.  

She moved her mechanical hand up, reaching the palm of it towards the large wolven nose, the green flaring of the anchor sputtering once up her shoulder and neck.

Only when she hesitated, a hair’s breadth from the long nose, did his many eyes close and he pushed gently into her palm.

“Solas.” A low murmur left her, awe and love welling pools of emotion in her eyes.

Cyan light shimmered around his form which twisted and shrunk until it was his cheek that her palm cupped, his familiar smile her thumb traced.

A slow grin spread across Lavellan’s face. “Just like old times, huh?  With some added dramatics.”

Solas shook his head, fond but stern. “If by that you mean throwing yourself bodily at the enemy, then yes.”

“I’m efficient.”  Her smile didn’t fade.  She felt his fingers caressing gently along her chin and under her bottom lip.

“You’re reckless.”

“Same thing most of the time.”

“Vhenan.”

She mimicked his exasperated tone. “Solas.”

He kissed her, rubbing his nose against hers, allowing himself a moment to really taste her and feel her breath on his tongue.

When he pulled back, Lavellan felt slightly dazed. “Besides, I have you.”

He stared down at her, his lips twitching at the winded expression on her face. “You do have me.”  He conceded with a soft sigh.  “Better still, I have you.”

A faint glimmering caught Lavellan’s attention, her face turning as she squinted in the direction of the crumbled titanesque body.

Read the rest here

To Where Your Soul Travels, There Go I - Chapter 8 - MysticAwareness - Dragon Age: Inquisition [Archive of Our Own]

[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.” 

[lathbora-virann]

Thinking about potential

✨️Solavellan baby names✨️

for no particular reason don't worry about it and there's so many good options just using already established elvhen words. I've seen a couple used by some amazing artists but not most of them:

 Atish’an (peace)

Bellanaris (eternity)

Dirthara/Dirthera (learn; to tell tales)

Enasal (joy in triumph over loss; a variation of joyful relief)

Halani (help)

Hamin (rest)

Hellathen (noble struggle)

Melana/Melava (time)

Revas (freedom)

Serannas (thanks; gratitude)

Setheneran (land of waking dreams; a place where the Veil is thin)

Shivanas (dedication to duty)

Sulahn'nehn (rejoice; joy)

Suledin (the concept of finding strength in enduring loss or pain)

Sulevin (purpose)

Theneras (dream)

We're really spoilt for choice over here

[psykergirl]

Living up to my tag line of being feral for Solas on main, see below inane ramblings on Dr Solas Wolff MD, PhD (with two effs).

The Blighted Butcher two parter - Heart//Break Part I & II now available.

[chronicsolasapologist]

One would think that after a whole night of worship she would have enough. She never does and he doesn’t mind.

*SCREECHES INTO THE PILLOW*

I can't believe how anxious I can be about my writing one day and then another I'm like:

-> holy fuck i wrote this? ME? lil old me? highfive babes, we rock

[acigarettewouldbegreatthanks]

Just Us

“Even if those you’ve wronged asked you to stop?”

He froze for a moment. Her. He turned slowly, unprepared to meet her gaze that held the same sadness he walked away from all those years ago. The same eyes he stared into when he was just Solas, and she was just Aurya. The same eyes he gently wiped tears from when she found out what had happened to her clan, and the same eyes that would crinkle when he made her laugh unexpectedly. 

Did she see the same eyes? The same hesitation they showed when they were together, walking through Skyhold, his hand loosely holding hers, the same embarrassment they held when she teased his long winded tangents. The same shame he’s carried ever since he left her.

“Vhenan,” it comes out. Not a greeting, not a question, but a memory. Their memory. He drops his head in regret, disappointment. She doesn’t hesitate, she climbs the remaining stairs and approaches him, standing in front of his battered and defeated body.

“Solas.” Just Solas. Just Aurya. Hearing her say his name again could almost bring him to his knees, and he can’t look at her again. She kneels to look at him, reaching a hand out to place on his cheek, and he only slightly recoils. His head finally raises to meet hers, and he’s met with the sadness, the sadness he brought to her. Her thumb gently runs along his cheek, over the bruises. “Solas.” A breath, a whisper from her mouth, and he cries. She continues to pet his cheek as his tears fall, absently wiping them away. He’s small, with her.

“I betrayed you, I lied to you.”

“I know.”

“I… Varric…”

“Say it to me.”

“I killed Varric.” He looks into her sad eyes, like a child admitting they stole candy. Her face is unchanging, soft, guarded, searching his face for something.

“I know.” She sits on her knees as sinks to the ground next to her, leaning to her, a child leaning for a hug. 

“You cannot forgive me for all I’ve done,” his forehead rests on her shoulder. Her arms encompass him. He’s small, for her.

“No,” she whispers to him, rubbing his back, “I cannot. Not right now.” He leans back to look at her again. She’s touching his face again, tracing her fingers over the injuries on his face, shaking her head. “But in time, I will.” She doesn’t smile, her mouth in a straight line. “I am here, Solas. I am here walking the dinan’shiral with you.” Her voice is quiet, a whisper, a secret between them.

“I… cannot.” He resolves, not moving to rise. She reaches out to take his hand, her grasp firm and warm. Kind. Secure. Just Aurya holding Solas’ hand. Just Solas.

“It’s time to stop, Vhenan. You have been released, now you must stop.” He drops his gaze again, unwillingness to be swayed by her, because he knows she can. She’s wrapped around him again, hands gently petting the back of his head as she cradles him against her. He cries again. She mumbles reassurance, and promises of atonement into his ear.

“Where I have to go… is terrible. I couldn’t ask you to come with me.” His voice muffled against her.

“Nothing is terrible now that I have you again,” she replies confidently. “Nothing will ever be terrible now that I have you.” 

“Aurya.”

“Solas.” She stands, bringing him up with her, both of their eyes still sad but maybe, with something else now. Not hope, they know better than that, but still something. Now he’s stroking her cheek, eager to touch her, to never let go. The feeling of her skin against his hand could almost bring him to his knees again. “I am here. And you will not be alone. We will make this journey together, from now on.”

He slides the dagger across his skin, the blood pooling in his hand as he looks up at her again. She nods, taking his arm and walking with him towards the tear. She doesn’t look back, as there’s nothing for her to look back for, back to, or back at. She walks confidently next to him as they’re swallowed completely. She looks up at him before complete oblivion.

“Solas,” it’s quiet, a confirmation.

“Aurya,” it’s a whisper, a celebration.

[teamdilf]

Iris and Solas get married in the latest chapter of Towards Eternity!

Together, they decided that they would marry without an audience - though Dorian is the only person who could have realistically attended, and even then merely by sending crystal.

He does not expect this to be a long ceremony, in any event. Iris looks up at him, wearing the same smile - a joy he once could not have fathomed, on her face that she wore just after they kissed for the first time in eight years.

[inquisitorsenchanters]

Sometimes I think of how when Solas dreams of Lavellan he imagines her as a wolf because his pack is long dead and he yearns for one again😞

[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.

[blightbright]

I'm about to crash into sleep BUT if you've ever wanted what is essentially Solavellan in Silent Hill, you may enjoy catching up to the most recent chapter 22 of my fic, Sea of Frozen Words (currently at 80K, because it's run away from me, but now actually for real has two chapters to go before it's done).

It's not an AU or crossover, it's just that I have no reason to believe the Black City is anything other than DA-flavored Silent Hill, in everything but name. (Plus a lil bit of Lovecraftian R'lyeh, probably?) Anyway, I'm having a delightful time leaning into that right now! I am fueled by sweet romance + existential horror. Happy ending guaranteed but me trying my best to be creepy as fuck before then also guaranteed.

[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

[opal-apparition]

A Matter of Pride Chapter 10 - OpalApparition - Dragon Age: Inquisition [Archive of Our Own]

Chapter Summary:

The aftermath of violence at Vi'Revas.

Chapter 12 Excerpt:

Here was a man she didn't know at all. There were all of his closely kept truths in varying stages of wet paint.

The Viscount was asleep, although barely, and there was hardly a person that would dare to think to stop her from simply… standing. Crossing the space into the parlor to look, as long as she pleased, at whatever works she found within, and assign whatever foul, crude, savage interpretation to highborn artistry that she liked just because she could, and just because she knew it would twist him again to be deliberately misunderstood.

Solas groaned, drawing her attention back in an instant.

His face was pinched with pain, even in sleep. Ellana reached for the basin of cool water on the bedside table and wrung out a cloth, gently pressing it to his fevered brow. How strange, she thought, dabbing the cloth across his temples, to be reaching out to him willingly, gently, like this. Theirs was a relationship of stomped toes and sneaky elbows into ribs. They did not like each other. They did not soothe and comfort, they did not… look… at each other’s face’s like this, up close and unguarded.

Ellana caught herself staring at the severe angles of his face. They looked softer like this, smoothed out by fatigue and vulnerability instead of the haughty disdain he usually wore. The strong line of his jaw relaxed in sleep, no longer clenched in irritation at her presence. His cheekbones, high and sharp, cast subtle shadows beneath them in the dim light. The furrow that typically resided between his brows had eased, making him appear younger, less burdened. His lips, usually pressed into a thin line of disapproval when addressing her, were slightly parted as shallow breaths passed between them.

Had she ever been able to just... look at him without him glaring back? Frowning, Ellana tried to bury the thought, and the need, to take advantage of the opportunity. His long, elegant fingers twitched against the sheets, perhaps fighting battles even in his dreams.

"There," she murmured, smoothing the cloth across his brow one more time. "That should help with the fever, and this…"

She adjusted his pillows with careful movements, lifting his head slightly to ease his labored breathing. The hair at his crown was damp with sweat, and sticking to his skin, with several of the longer locks apart from his shaved sides threatening to tangle against the curve of his neck. Heat flushed up into Ellana’s cheeks, and she glanced back over her shoulder towards the door. Surely no one would find it inappropriate if…?

Ellana bit down on her lower lips, eyes sweeping back to Solas, his closed eyes, the dark lashes over pale skin, then to the would-be knots. It would be more inappropriate to leave them there. With her fingertips only, she swept them away from the hollow of his throat.

"You'd find this terribly amusing, wouldn't you?" she said softly, sinking back into her chair, still blushing. "The savage Dalish playing nursemaid. Fumbling around you like a child. You'd have some cutting remark ready about my presumption to touch you, I’m sure. I’m grateful that you’re not awake to see me making a fool of myself."

His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, the only response to her words.

"... and… perhaps it is because you are asleep, that I feel like I can say this. I… am… so angry with you. What were you thinking? Rushing in without a weapon, without a plan without—ugh! And—worst of all—how dare you make me want to thank you for doing it at all," she continued, voice barely above a whisper. "Though I can't imagine why you did it considering you’ve made the depth of your loathing no secret." She dabbed at the perspiration on his neck, careful not to disturb the bandages. "How am I meant to repay something like this? Did you know I never could? Part of me thinks this was all some clever ploy, and that you’re preparing to trick me into something nefarious. The other part of me thinks… that sounds rather a lot like how you think of me, even when I’m trying my best. What a mess we make."

You can read the rest on AO3!

[citree]

Athanis Tilani for @i-dropped-the-chief from their awesome new Solas/oc fic Annī Mirabilis 💚 Go check it out!!

[psykergirl]

Putting the ENEMIES in enemies-to-lovers.

The Blighted Butcher - A modern Thedas Murder Mystery AU

[beccacoffindaffer]

Chapter 5: Wherein a God Rediscovers How to Laugh (Even Gods Need Miracles)

<< Previous Chapter | Next Chapter >>

Summary:

The move to Skyhold puts distance between Solas and the new Inquisitor, but neither of them are willing to stay apart from one another for very long.

The move to Skyhold changes things.

The Inquisition is no longer a fledgling movement, operating piecemeal from a tiny village on a mountainside. It’s an organization, growing and coalescing around one person: their newly designated Inquisitor. 

Whether this new title sits easier on her shoulders than the one of Herald, he does not know. The first few weeks after their arrival, he barely sees her. The number of directions in which she is pulled has tripled, and the decisions even heavier. The eyes and expectations of everyone in the keep follow her everywhere she goes, haunting her footsteps.

He is relieved when he hears that Vivienne and Josephine successfully convince her to take the grand bedroom at the top of the tower. She objected to the idea, uncomfortable with being so literally set above others, but Josephine is a diplomat and Vivienne is a courtier. They know the importance of portraying and exhibiting power, even if one does not quite feel it themselves.

He cares less about appearances or posturing in this case and more about the Inquisitor having a place of sanctuary. Where she can distance herself from the constant needs and demands of her position and breathe for a moment. The tower bedroom will allow her to do just that.

He should know. It served exactly that purpose for him once, long ago. 

He is assigned his own quarters that are perfectly sufficient, but it is the rotunda that he truly claims as his own. A desk, a fine chair, a soft couch, soft golden light, and space to think. Accessible to the library without the irritation of all the busy foot traffic. Open all the way to Leliana’s operations on the top floor. Leliana herself is far too clever to let anything slip that might echo down to his ears, but not all her agents are so cautious.

And he is nothing if not a man who values information.

He does not have the opportunity to exchange more than a passing word with her, with the Inquisitor, until she comes upon him with Cassandra and Vivienne in the lower courtyard, arguing about Cole. 

“This thing is not a stray puppy you can make into a pet,” Vivienne says sharply. “It has no business being here.”

A true Circle mage , he thinks. Made from childhood to fear the Fade even as it feeds her its power.

If she’d seen the old world, if she knew the beauty of a world with no Veil, she would not hold such fear, so he cannot be truly angry at her for it. She fears what a being like Cole could do, while Cassandra worries because he is an unknown, unseen variable. 

When the Inquisitor steps into their circle, he cannot help but notice how all three of them turn toward her — even himself. Flowers toward the sun. She looks older, more serious than she had before Haven, her expression strained in a way that is unfamiliar. It is only natural after everything that happened, but he hates it all the same. Misses the humor that glints in her eyes and pulls at her mouth.

He has no way to gauge exactly how much she has changed since the battle and her near-death. She listens the same as always, taking in Vivienne’s and Cassandra’s opinions, asking every question she can think of to better understand. He makes his plea to her, to see Cole for what he truly is and not what fear would make him out to be, but he can’t read her face or tell what she’s thinking. 

“I should hear what Cole has to say for himself,” she says after a moment. “Where is he now?”

Solas turns, ready to point her in the right direction, but there is no need. Her eyes find the young man in the oversized hat almost immediately, flitting between patients around the medical tents, and she heads off toward him. 

He wants to follow her, to listen and know what passes between them, but it is better for him to stay back and give them space. Let her come to whatever decision she feels is right. But he can’t keep himself from watching, and even from this distance, he can see how her face changes as she and Cole talk. Softening, twisting with sympathy as she shadows him between injured soldiers. 

When she finally returns to them, her eyes are bright and there are the faint lines of tear tracks on her cheeks. “Cole stays.”

Vivienne frowns deeply. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Inquisitor.”

“I understand and appreciate your concern, Vivienne,” she says gently. “I take full responsibility for all my decisions here.”

Subject closed, Cassandra and Vivienne head up the steps toward the training grounds and the Great Hall, leaving him and the Inquisitor standing together. Alone.

How can a few weeks of distance feel so wide? So difficult to breach? He isn’t sure what to say, a feeling he is very unfamiliar with, and yet he is also desperate to say something , if only to keep her with him a moment longer.

“I…” He pauses, clears his throat, attempting to collect himself. “I appreciate you allowing Cole to stay.”

“It was an easy decision.” Her gaze drifts toward the boy — not quite spirit, not quite man. “You’re right, Solas. He is very special.”

He traces her profile with his gaze as carefully as if he’d been tasked with painting it. “As are you, Inquisitor, for being able to see that.”

Her mouth twists with displeasure, and for one terrible moment, he wonders if he’s misread what had been growing between them. Or perhaps something has happened in the past few weeks that has turned her heart. Not that he should want her heart for himself — that would be foolish, selfish — but the sudden possibility that she might have given it elsewhere makes him feel carved out and hollow.

“Could you…” She brings her eyes back to him, one hand fidgeting nervously with a tiny loose thread on the side of her leather pants. “I mean, would it be all right if you still called me ‘lethallan’? Or Eralen, even? Not in official settings or anything, but when it’s just the two of us?”

It is a struggle to not let the burst of warmth and relief show on his face. “You do not like being called ‘Inquisitor’?”

She shrugs. “It’s fine enough. I suppose it just doesn’t sound quite right when you say it. Given how…close we’ve become.”

“Whatever you wish me to call you will be gladly done.” He inclines his head as he says it, the shadow of a bow, holding her gaze the entire time, willingly trapping himself in her eyes.

“Inquisitor, there you are!” Leliana’s voice carries down into the lower courtyard from her spot high up on the wall above their heads. “Josie is looking everywhere for you!”

She sighs and forces a brittle smile. “Duty calls once again.”

As she heads for the stairs, he calls out, “Lethallan,” and waits for her to stop and turn back to him before adding, “May I seek you out soon? I would hate to go so long again without getting to speak with you.” 

She smiles, truly smiles, for the first time since she joined him. “I would like that very much.”

***

He means to wait three or even four days before he goes to find her and claim some of her time, but he does not make it that long. The urge to hear her voice again, to be in her presence and breathe her in like fresh air after centuries trapped in a suffocating space, is too strong.

He finds her in a small empty courtyard, a forgotten corner of the keep away from the bustle of the rest of the Inquisition. She’s shed her the overcoat and vest she usually dawns against the snowy cold mountain air, stripped down a sleeveless tunic tucked into the worn-in leather of her pants. She’s wrapped her wrists and the palms of her hands to protect them as she wields her long daggers, flowing through a series of movements against an invisible opponent.

He pauses just inside the door and leans against the stone wall, content to watch the lines of her body as they arc and curve and cut through the air. He’d told her before she was graceful, and he’d meant it fully. It was rare for him to take pleasure in watching someone work with blades — they had always seemed more crude and cumbersome than observing magic — but she is an exception. Bending and twisting as easily as a breeze.

She finishes the form and turns toward him, grinning as she flips the daggers into the sheathes that crisscross her back. “Still awed by my grace, Solas?”

“You say that like a joke, but in truth, I am.” He pushes off the wall and walks toward her, hands clasped behind his back. “You are quite gifted.”

She shakes her head, deflecting his compliment. “Not gifted so much as practiced. Any Dalish who’d grown up bored and needing something to do would likely be just as skilled.”

“I doubt that.” She’s breathing hard from the exertion, and this close to her, he can see her warm breath misting in the cold air, the curve of bare skin across her chest exposed by the neckline of her tunic. “You move your body like a dancer.”

She arches a brow. “You’ve paid a lot of attention to my body, then?” 

He shrugs but does not deny it. “I pride myself on my observational skills. You demonstrate exceptional fluidity.”

“Muscle memory. Nothing more,” she says. Deflecting. Again. Unwilling or unable to acknowledge her own skill. “I’d never be able to cast complex spells and handle a staff as you do.”

He tilts his head, his grin turning just a little bit wicked. “I’m sure you’d handle a staff just fine if given a chance.”

She bursts out into a laugh, bright and full-throated, and the sound of it ringing against the stone walls of the courtyard is enough to make him laugh as well. Which seems to delight her even more.

“He makes innuendos and he laughs.” She takes half a step closer, reducing the distance between them to a foot at most. “I wasn’t sure you were capable of either.”

“It is admittedly quite rare,” he says, and then, softer, adds, “Although it seems to happen more often around you.”

Her smile is triumphant. Incandescent. She does not — cannot — know what a gift it is for him to be able to make her smile like that. To talk and tease with someone. To make them happy, make them laugh. To bring joy instead of doom or dread. To be just a man, talking with a woman, marveling at the light inside her.

He has never experienced it before, so he has not known to miss it. But now that he is here, drinking it in, he is not sure how he will ever be able to stop.

“That might be my greatest achievement yet.”

His eyes are on her lips. On the corner of her mouth that curves ever so slightly higher than its opposite. He’s flooded with the urge to press his lips against that very spot and tightens his hands behind his back. “Greater than Inquisitor?”

“Far greater.” She holds his gaze a moment longer and then looks down, a flush creeping across her cheeks. “I’ve missed you this past month, Solas.”

He has missed her, too — aching, lonely weeks — and yet it surprises him still to hear it from her when she is at the heart of so much. “Surely you are not wanting for company here in Skyhold.”

“No, definitely not. It’s not the same, though.”

“How so?”

She takes a moment, considering, choosing her words with the same deliberate care as always before she finally speaks. 

“Have you ever been around someone who is kind and lovely, but when they look at you, you know that they’re only seeing their idea of you and not who you actually are?”

Her words strike him in the chest, and he cannot speak or even really breathe for several heartbeats. 

Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf. He Who Hunts Alone. Lord of Tricksters. God of Rebellion. God of Betrayal.

A hundred names over a hundred lifetimes. Thousands and thousands of faces turned toward him — in supplication, in hope, in despair, in revulsion. Even those who loved him and knew him best stopped seeing him . Solas. For one, he became her second, her right hand, her shadow. For the other, he became a general and a symbol and, eventually, a betrayer.

“Yes,” he says roughly. “I am quite familiar with that feeling.”

She tosses him a grateful look as she unbuckles the sheathes and slips them from her shoulders, setting them on the ground. “They all mean well, but sometimes it’s like I’m trapped behind glass.” 

Behind glass. Behind obligations. Behind a mantle you never wanted to bear but had to yoke onto yourself when it became clear that no one else would.

The weight in his chest is so heavy. All he wants to do is set it down, but he can’t.

 And here she is, seeing him, feeling the same.

He watches her scoop her overcoat from the ground and pull it on. “But you do not feel that way around me?”

“No. With you, it’s the opposite.” She eyes him as she buttons up her coat, that teasing grin sneaking back onto her face. When she looks at him like that, he feels it in his whole body. “Sometimes I wish you saw through me less.”

So do I. If I saw you less, maybe you would not haunt my every thought. “I shall take that as a badge of honor.”

She picks up the sheathes and belts, slinging them over one shoulder without bothering to buckle them back on. “Would it be imposing on your time to ask you to walk with me? I’d like to be irresponsible for just a bit longer.”

He could say no. He could make his excuses and return to the main keep. That’s what Fen’Harel would do because there is nothing to gain, no merit in remaining. 

Except perhaps…he might be able to make her laugh again. He might earn another of her smiles. 

He falls into step at her side, murmuring, “I am at your disposal, lethallan.”

It is difficult to find complete solitude in Skyhold, but they manage it. Strolling along the far corners of battlements until they find an empty fortified tower with a hatch that leads to the very top, the highest point in the keep. The wind is sharp and blustery so far up with nothing to block it, but when the two of them stand along the far edge, shoulders touching, all they can see for miles are the snowcapped mountains soaring around them. All they can hear is the wind and the distant cry of a hunting hawk and each other. Two voices, two heartbeats, two breaths fogging against the air. 

It feels as if they are the only people in the entire world.