#press x to hug solas

[mogwaei]

feeling sad and bad about my art lately. channeled it into a much needed hug for Solas

[chrisevansonly]

theres so much carlos girl dad cotent can i get dad!carlos x reader with a boy whos such a mamas boy and they fight for her attention ? tyty 💜💜 take care!

its blurb night again lets go!!!

you couldn’t help but bite back a smile at your husband and son as they sported matching pouts on their face, eyes looking right back at you. luca was a momma’s boy through and through, and your husband was just as clingy as the 4 year old toddler. so once every few hours they’d both fight for your attention because neither were very good at sharing

“luca why can’t daddy give me a hug and then you can?”

his pout deepened

“because he got the last one!”

“tu tienes a mama para ti sola todo el tiempo, ahora es mi turno”

luca turned to stare at his father, his brows furrowing in anger as he crossed his little arms

“ya tienes suficiente mamá, ¡es mi turno papá!”

“luca esta bien mi amor…”

your voice was soft, sensing the toddlers impending meltdown if carlos kept poking at him, so when he looked at you his eyes a little teary you were quick to take him into your arms, pressing a kiss to his little cheeks

“daddy is just joking around lu, it’s alright honey…you can have all the cuddles you want”

luca held onto you tightly as he hid his face in your neck, carlos sporting the matching frown as he stared at you

“so all i have to do is cry and then i get cuddles too?”

“carlos…” you chastised lightly

“what! i don’t like sharing”

“yes but you share better than our little one..he’s a baby still, you get lots of cuddles from me already”

you wanted to laugh at the look on his face, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, crossing his arms as he scoffed jokingly

“luca, ¿puede papá abrazarnos también?”

you asked the four year old quietly, waiting as he nodded his head, eyes on his father as carlos came and sat next to you both, the three of you getting comfortable on the couch.

“papa?”

carlos looked over at luca, his hand reaching out to fix his hair gently

“¿si bebé?”

“este es el único abrazo que tendrás con mamá el resto de la noche”

you couldn’t help but burst out laughing as you squeezed luca’s shoulder, your husband joining in and laughing as well. if there was one thing you both knew is that carlos was clingy with you, but luca was possessive.

you wouldn’t change it any other way, you felt so much love from your two boys and for that you were grateful…even if they fought for your attention 24/7.

[throneofsmut]

Can't Believe It

Tristan Flynn x Reader || WC: 520 || Warnings: None

Summary: Tristan Flynn makes Reader laugh with a shitty joke he told at work. Based off this request.

A/N: To the anon who requested this, thank you, i haven’t seen many fics for crescent city characters, so I hope you like it !!

****

You threw your head back into the fluffy pillows of Tristan’s bed as your whole body shook with laughter. Tears spilled from your eyes that were squeezed shut while you clutched your stomach.

“Babe. . . it’s not that funny,” Tristan argued in between his own laughs. 

Wiping the tears from your eyes as you sat up. “You did not say that to the cheetah-shifter you arrested last night!” You said through giggles. 

He was grinning. “I did. I swear!”

Your grin matched his. “So you mean to tell me that you arrested a cheetah-shifter for stalking his ex-girlfriend and when he complained about it you said, ‘At least it’s not for speeding.’” 

He nodded.

“And he just blinked at you?” 

“Yeah. He didn’t even laugh.” He added with a pout, but his green eyes still shone with mirth. 

You slapped your knee before falling backwards into the pillows again as you howled with laughter. Then your loud laughter turned to silent laughter as you imagined their interaction in your head. 

Tristan without a doubt wearing a cocky grin—proud of his own joke. 

You shook your head and then took a deep gasping breath. Greedily gulping in air after laughing so hard for so long. 

Head tilted upwards as you wiped tears from your cheeks again, smiling, “Burning Solas, Flynn, I haven’t laughed like that in years.” When you looked at him again he was shaking his head softly, a hint of a grin remaining on his face, “What?”

“I just can’t believe it.” He murmured.

“Can’t believe what?”

“How you look even more beautiful when you laugh.” 

You felt your cheeks heat from his words and from the way he was looking at you. Holding his gaze for another second before tearing it away and looking down at your hands. You shook your head. 

He gripped your chin with his thumb and pointer finger, forcing you to meet his gaze. Bright green eyes bore into yours. “I. . . Sometimes, I wish you could see yourself the way I see you.” His lips curved into a genuine smile. 

Unconsciously your lips curved up into a smile too. 

He smiled wider, revealing straight white teeth and dimples. “Beautiful.” Tristan swore. 

Only a heartbeat passed before he cradled your face with both hands, leaning in and then his lips met yours in a heated kiss. 

When he pulls away, both of you are breathless and he presses his forehead to yours. “Gods, you’re so beautiful it hurts.”

Your chest rises and falls, brushing against his muscled chest, as you slowly catch your breath. Still too caught up in the kiss you just shared, you didn’t even realize you were shaking your head. 

Tristan leans back to look at you, brows furrowed, “You don’t believe me, do you?” He says with a frown.

“Flynn. . . I—“ Your words are cut off by another kiss. 

This time when he pulls away, his arms wrap around you in a hug and he rests his chin atop your head. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you how beautiful you are if I have to.”

[rosella-writes]

my fav fuckboi (or girl, as the case may be) move for dadwc: hugging them from behind, laying their head on the other’s shoulder, after having a heretofore platonic relationship for pride/hope

eheheheHEHEHEHEHEHE

Felassan (Hope) x Solas (Pride) from the Arlathan AU

for @dadrunkwriting

Rating: T

Words: 468

~~~

She usually found him an incorrigible sap, Hope knew. It didn't keep her from lingering in his space all the same, offering advice and criticising his colour choices.

But this painting was his, dammit. He'd make the sky blue if he wanted to.

Pride skated at the edges of the room, drawing her fingers over everything in reach and muttering to herself. She picked up his ocularum research, turned it over once, twice, in her slender hands, then placed it on the mantelpiece instead of back on the table.

"That thesis is too abstract, by the way," she said with a frustrated gesture. "You will think yourself in circles if you limit yourself to it."

Hope grinned and dabbed another streak of blue on his canvas. "Perhaps I like limiting myself to circles."

He heard Pride scoff, but paid her no mind. He was too focused on the lines of his white clouds — so focused that when Pride slid a hand into the gap between his waist and arched left arm and hooked her chin over his shoulder, he nearly jumped with surprise. As it was, he merely clutched his palette harder and pinned her hand with his elbow.

"Rude," he told her.

He could feel her shrug. "Perhaps it is you who is the rude one. I have been here for hours and you have yet to greet me properly."

"I said hello!"

His body burned where she touched. They had always been familiar, yes, but there was something different in the way her hand gripped his waist, in the way she swept his hair to the side and turned to speak into his ear. Her lips brushed his skin and he could not suppress his shiver.

"You stand there," she whispered, "pretty as the painting you make, and do not allow yourself to fully look at me. I see your glances out of the corners of your eyes, lethallen."

"To make sure you don't break anything."

Pride hummed, and he could feel it through her chest pressed against his back, in her lips whisper-close to his ear, in the very air around him. He very nearly let himself lean back against her — he nearly turned his face to lay claim to her mouth. But just as his traitorous heartbeat began to thud against his rib cage at the thought, Pride took a deep breath through her nose, released it in a soft sigh, and pulled away.

"There is no distracting you," she teased, her voice growing fainter as she retreated on nearly-silent footsteps. "Your focus is indomitable. Good luck with your blue sky."

And just like that, he was alone. Hope took a deep breath with lungs he did not realise were starved — he raised his brush to his canvas, trying not to let it tremble.

[crowfootwrites]

The Boyfriend | Part II [Taza Romero x Fem!Reader]

Y'all! I did it! I wrote a second part! I actually sort of struggled with the setup of this, but once I started writing the angry, angsty shit I was like, "OH, WE IN BUSINESS." So, please enjoy.

Warnings: language; family drama (arguing); attempted physical violence; pregnancy | Words: 1,734

Part I of The Boyfriend

“What do you mean he wants to come see your motorcycle?” you asked, panic rising in your voice. It had been a few months since the ill-fated family dinner, and aside from a few texts asking about work, you hadn’t heard from your father. So, you assumed his motorcycle chat with Taza had just been polite conversation.

Taza glanced at you across the kitchen table, his full fork of frijoles pausing halfway to his mouth. His eyes softened when he saw the concern in your expression.

“Relájate, mi amor (Relax, my love). He doesn’t have to come here. I can meet him somewhere else,” he said calmly. He watched as your head dropped into one of your palms on the table and the other rested on the top of your very noticeable baby bump. He paused, then put his fork back down on his plate.

“(Y/N), maybe this would be a good opportunity to tell them,” he started, keeping his tone gentle. “I know you don’t want them involved. I understand that, and I will do whatever I can to keep things the way you want them.” He reached across the table to rest his palm against your knuckles. “But the baby will be here in a few months, and hiding it from them is just drawing out the inevitable.”

Emotions rushed over you. You knew that telling them didn’t have to mean anything more than that; Taza would protect his family no matter the cost, and if you didn’t want them involved, they wouldn’t be. But the prospect of having to deal with your mother filled you with a deep-seated dread. You knew she wouldn’t approve. And you didn’t need her approval, but your relationship with her had always been messy and complicated. And some part of you still wanted her to accept and respect you. Angry tears sprang to your eyes, which made you even more frustrated – the pregnancy hormones made you feel like you were losing your mind.

A tear dripped onto the wooden surface of the table and Taza was immediately out of his seat, tugging you out of yours and wrapping you in his arms. He smiled at the feeling of your belly pressed between the two of you.

“Hey, abejita, está bien (little bee, it’s ok). We don’t have to do anything that will make you uncomfortable,” he murmured against your ear, rocking you side to side slowly. He rubbed circles on your back as you regained your composure.

“No, you’re right,” you said with a sniffle. “We need to get this over with.”

Taza’s lips pulled into a wry grin. “That’s a wise choice, I think.”

***

“Ok, I think everything’s pretty much ready,” you told Taza as you flipped the final tortilla on the comal. He came to stand beside you and pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

“How can I help?” he asked as you pulled the tortilla off with your bare fingers and tossed it into the basket, waving your fingers as the heat sank into your skin. He laughed and gripped your hand, blowing gently on your scorched fingertips.

You couldn’t help the affectionate tears that collected in the corners of your eyes. In an effort to keep you as comfortable as possible, Taza suggested hosting dinner with your parents on the ranch. You would be on your own turf and could call the shots. If anything got ugly, Taza promised that he had no qualms with making your parents leave. To your modest relief, you also felt a little more like yourself today, like you’d happily tell someone where to shove it if they upset you.

“Just being here with me helps,” you mumbled, tucking yourself into his arms.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said quietly. The two of you lingered like that for a moment, enjoying the calm embrace before the storm you knew was about to happen.

And sure enough, a moment later, the doorbell sounded. Your eyes jerked immediately to Taza’s. You struggled to discern if the rolling in your stomach was pregnancy-related or anxiety-induced as perspiration collected on your palms.

He ushered you onto the back patio, helping you to sit in the worn wooden rocking chair before heading back inside to welcome your guests. You listened nervously for the creaking of the front door, which was quickly followed by the drifting voices of your mother and father.

You pulled yourself out of the chair, straightening the soft cotton of your dress over your bump, just as Taza stepped through the door. He came immediately to your side, schooling his features into a calm and neutral mask, tossing an arm around your shoulders. Your father was the next through the door and you bit back a grin at the series of emotions that passed over his face in the span of just a few seconds. Confusion, certainly, and shock, but then pride and excitement and finally, unbridled joy.

Time seemed to slow down as your mother stepped towards your father, her confused gaze traveling from your father’s face to you, eyes widening as they landed on your belly. For the first time in your life, your mother was speechless. She stood on the threshold of the patio door with her mouth open as your father rushed towards you.

“Oh, my baby girl!” he exclaimed, pulling you into a loose hug around your bump, kissing your cheeks delightedly. He turned immediately to Taza, pulling your boyfriend into a strong embrace, clapping him heartily on the back.

“Congratulations, you two! This is wonderful news! Oh, goodness, I’m going to be a grandfather!” he announced in wonderment as he pulled back, turning to his wife, whose eyes were still glued to your stomach.

“Dear?” he asked her, cautiously, but with a hint of something firm in his voice. It was something you had never heard from your father before. You wondered fleetingly what that was about.

His voice seemed to snap her out of her trance. Her eyes met yours and she smiled tightly. “Congratulations,” she forced out and you noted acrimoniously the clenching of her jaw.

Your eyes narrowed. Your heart sank with her false smile and immediately, resentment scrambled into place to protect you. You suddenly felt an overwhelming desire to haul off and smack her, but you quickly chalked that up to hormones. Probably.

Intent on making this a pleasant evening for your completely delighted father, you turned away from your mother with a withering look and plastered on a smile, motioning for everyone to take a seat at the table laden with food you had spent most of the day preparing.

Dinner was an awkward affair. Taza sat beside you, his hand never leaving its reassuring place on your thigh, as the two of you answered your father’s abundance of questions.

Baby Romero is due in November.

We’ve decided to wait to find out the sex.

We don’t really have a preference as long as they’re healthy.

Your mother’s eyes bore holes into you, but she remained silent, except for one question, manifested tersely into the space between the four of you. “Are you going to get married?”

“We haven’t really talked about it,” you replied, surprising even yourself with the strength in your voice. Your mother blinked at you, her expression disappointed, but she said nothing, returning her gaze to her plate.

When everyone had finished eating, your father clapped his hands together and asked Taza if they could take a peek at his Harley.

Taza turned to you, searching your eyes. “¿Estarás bien a solas con ella (Will you be ok alone with her)?”

You nodded at him with a wily smile. “Yo sé dónde están todos los cuchillos en esta casa (I know where all the knives are in this house).”

A loud, deep laugh belted from Taza’s chest as you stood and began collecting plates. You could see him shaking his head out of the corner of his eyes, motioning your father towards the garage.

You were standing in front of the sink, rinsing dishes when you heard the clicking of heels behind you, your mother coming to stop across the counter. You waited with bated breath for the inevitable confrontation, your stomach in knots.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked finally, a bitter edge of hurt creeping into her voice.

You looked down into the sink, realizing you were white-knuckling a spoon. “Why would I?” you demanded. “The last time I saw you, you made it very clear that you don’t approve of Che.”

“I just want what’s best for you!” she insisted, her hands clenching by her sides.

“You don’t know what’s best for me! I’m not you!” You slapped the faucet off and grabbed a kitchen towel to violently dry your hands, coming to face your mother completely. You watched as her eyes flickered quickly to your belly and then back to your face, the sight seemingly fueling her fire.

“I do know that you have no business having children out of wedlock with a man who’s twice your age,” she snapped, stepping closer to you, and your body reacted to the perceived threat, your heart thundering against your ribcage, heat radiating from your face.

“You don’t get to make those decisions for me! Che is the best partner I’ve ever had and he’s going to be an incredible father. Which you would know if you even gave him a chance, but you won’t. You refuse to accept that this is my life, and I’ll live it however the fuck I want!” You could hear your volume rising, but you were beyond controlling it. By the end of your rant, you were screaming, inches from your mother’s furious face, her eyes glinting and her lips set into a scowl. Suddenly, Taza was running into the house and coming to a stop behind you, pulling you gently away from your mother while your father tugged your mother away from you.

“I can’t believe I raised such an ungrateful bitch,” your mother spat, and you swung. Luckily for your mother, Taza had pulled you out of reach, and your fist missed her by several inches.

“Get out of my house!” you hissed, struggling against Taza’s arms, angry tears staining your cheeks.

Your father, looking appropriately mortified, dragged your mother out of the front door and into their car.

Part III of The Boyfriend

[the-dreadful-canine]

I posted 1,573 times in 2021

277 posts created (18%)

1296 posts reblogged (82%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 4.7 posts.

I added 1,020 tags in 2021

#dragon age - 249 posts

#solas - 224 posts

#dragon age inquisition - 114 posts

#solavellan - 88 posts

#oc: elizabeth montes - 76 posts

#wip wednesday - 68 posts

#dai - 59 posts

#lavellan - 54 posts

#oc: fane lavellan - 51 posts

#mellan lavellan - 37 posts

Longest Tag: 131 characters

#these two. i love whatever is going on between them. the 🌟 chemistry 🌟 when they simply interact fills up the serotonin tank 😌💖

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

Story time: Middle-aged dalish elf and former Inquisitor, who had Solas as his brother from another mother is on his way to kick some good sense into the old wolf's fluffy rear, because you don't abandon family, and he's going to save his brother from himself, even if he has to bring Solas back by the ears like a mabari.

Tempted to call this drawing done because my brain can't stand to look at it for not even one (1) second longer, but I'm determined to at least throw some colors before I give up on it >:v

59 notes • Posted 2021-05-27 23:57:54 GMT

#4

The truth is that with how fcking good game graphics are now, I am simply not going to ✨ survive ✨ the sight of 4K Solas striding in front of me 😫💖

125 notes • Posted 2021-09-04 14:58:57 GMT

#3

On my long list of things I'd love to see in the next Dragon Age

Gifting party members

"Press x button to hug/hold hands/smooch"

Day/night cycle

Proper calling out of Tevinter' shitty slavery system

Dwarf LI

The ability to blow up one (1) Chantry

A mage that won't betray me

135 notes • Posted 2021-07-22 14:23:24 GMT

#2

Blackwall has a dadbod going on under all that armor and I will take no constructive criticism on it.

He soft and very warm and makes a prime cuddle buddy, once you manage to corner and drag him for a nap.

193 notes • Posted 2021-08-05 14:13:48 GMT

#1

But who unflips Fen'Harel ears when they get stuck inside out. He's all alone.

247 notes • Posted 2021-08-04 00:10:37 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

[buttsonthebeach]

From Far Off Shores

STORY TIME. When I very first started playing DA:I, Josephine was the first character I was interested in romancing! I then somehow got misled into believing that she was only romanceable by men, and then Solas turned into a smooth motherfucker on me all of the sudden, and the rest is history.

BUT there is an alternate timeline out there where I never fall into Solavellan hell and instead Ellana is happy with Josephine forever and ever and ever.

ANYWAY, all of that is to say that I was so thrilled when @battlecouples asked me to write about Cashmere Lavellan and Josephine! Thank you for the chance to do this, my friend <3 I enjoyed it so much.

Pairing: Cashmere Lavellan x Josephine Montilyet

Rating: Mature. Heavily implied sexy times, but not quite explicit.

*********************

Cashmere Lavellan would forever remember the first time she met Josephine Montilyet. The chantry in Haven was dimly lit, but the candlelight only made the gold of her dress and the amber of her eyes glow all the more.

“Andaran atishan,” Josephine had said. 

The first words Cashmere had heard spoken in her mother tongue since she left Clan Lavellan weeks before, and they laid on her soul like a balm. They conjured the deep green forests of the Free Marches - the smell of venison roasting on a spit - the voice of her Keeper as she imparted the secrets of magic and Dalish life. Everything Cashmere loved and cherished as First of her clan.

Maybe that made it inevitable that she would fall in love with Josephine.

She’d associated her with all things good from that very first moment. With home.

It helped of course that Josephine was beautiful as the wildflowers that covered the fields Cashmere had known and loved all her life, graceful as the halla moving through those fields, gracious as the sun’s warmth in summer. It helped that Josephine was calm, diplomatic, whatever storms faced them - and that that calm translated to Cashmere herself when she faced the legions of nobles that descended on Skyhold as the Inquisition’s fame grew. Josephine never once doubted her, even though their backgrounds could not have been more different - Josephine, scion of Antiva and Orlais and all its intricate beauties - and Cashmere, more at home among her big family in the woods.

Then again - Josephine was Cashmere’s home now.

That thought rang clear as a morning call from a hunter’s horn through Cashmere’s mind one morning, lying in bed with Josephine, the blankets a warm soft sea around them. They’d just returned from the untold beauty and peril of the Arbor Wilds, where Cashmere had seen the fruits of their shared labor. The gathered forces of all their allies, and Josephine orchestrating among them as much as Cullen did.

“I am so proud,” Cashmere had murmured against Josephine’s cheek, hugging her close.

“I am so proud of you,” Josephine had replied, pulling back, cupping Cashmere’s face. It was perhaps too intimate a gesture, given that they were not alone. But neither of them cared at that moment. They had come too far, been through too much, and death was waiting in the ancient trees.

But they were alone now, in Cashmere’s bedroom high in Skyhold’s towers. A luxury it had taken them time to win. There had been propriety to consider, once - but that was before Cashmere dueled for the right to Josephine’s heart in the streets of Val Royeaux, before it was so clear that the Corypheus’s endgame was so close at hand.

Cashmere intended to take every advantage of that luxury.

She moved closer to Josephine, put an arm over her waist, smoothed back the dark curls from her forehead. She slept with it in a loose braid and inevitably it was falling apart by morning, and Cashmere loved her lover when she wore silks and pearls and elaborate hairdos but she loved her most like this - soft, unbound. She rested her forehead against Josephine’s and breathed in the scent of the bergamot and lavender lotion she put on before bed. Josephine stirred, took a deep breath of awakening, and Cashmere savored that last moment before her lover really woke up. The beautiful angles of her profile, her aquiline nose, her lips parted softly in sleep - and then the flutter of her eyelids and her eyes drifting open, meeting Cashmere’s.

“Vhenan,” Cashmere murmured, rubbing her forehead against Josephine’s. Josephine took another deep breath and just that sound could still take Cashmere’s own breath away.

“Mi amor,” Josephine sighed, leaning in, kissing Cashmere, gentle and intimate and perfect, and this was what Cashmere fought for now - for these moments of quiet and warmth with this woman who could dazzle with words and wit and cunning but never dazzled more than she did now as she stretched and yawned and tugged Cashmere closer.

“We should get up soon,” Josephine murmured, and as always her Antivan accent was thicker now than it would be later in the day, less polished.

“No,” Cashmere said, not a command, not a suggestion - just a simple statement of fact. This bed was the world, wide as the sea that separated them both from their homelands. They, in fact, should not get up anytime soon when there was so much of it left to explore.

Cashmere rolled over, on top of Josephine now, and kissed her on the lips, slow and coaxing. Their bed was wide as the sea but their arms and hands and lips were all bridges, connecting them within that expanse, bringing them once again to their new home - the one they’d created together. The creation of that world might seem, to many others, as unlikely as most of the other things that had befallen Cashmere since the Conclave. It had once seemed that way to Cashmere herself. Now it was as inevitable and right as sunrise in her mind.

Josephine murmured into the kiss, looped her arms around Cashmere’s neck, and Cashmere felt the softness of her lover beneath her as the kiss deepened - the curves of Josephine’s breasts and hips and thighs, all barely hidden by a white cotton shift with delicate eyelet lace at the collar. She could not resist kissing around that lace, committing Josie’s collarbone and neck to memory, taking in the brown skin that peeked through the holes in the lace. More importantly, committing to memory the sounds her lover made as she did so, the way she put her arms up over her head in a luxurious stretch, the way she arched her neck to the side so Cashmere could continue to kiss her all over, all the way up to the lobe of her ear.

“Mi amor,” Cashmere said, rubbing her nose against the place where she could feel Josephine’s pulse. The words were foreign and she knew she still did not roll the ‘r’ the way that Josephine did effortlessly, but she did not miss the way Josephine smiled and wrapped her arms more tightly around her.

“Vhenan,” Josephine echoed, and she still separated it into two syllables, as if it was two words and not one, or perhaps as if she was savoring each part of the word. It was as precious now as it had been months before to hear Josephine greet her in her mother tongue.

Josephine pulled Cashmere back down into another kiss, a hungrier one, her full lips parting to coax Cashmere’s own to open. There was teeth, tongue, and an aching tenderness wrapped around all the hunger. That tenderness wiped away thoughts of all else - of the doom that lurked nearer to them every day, of the magic snapping and seething in Cashmere’s left palm. It narrowed the world to the breath in their throats, the rocking of their bodies. Cashmere slipped one thigh between Josephine’s legs, felt their warmth and softness around hers, the heat between them. Josephine shuddered, canted her hips up, seeking that pressure, ran her fingers into Cashmere’s long white hair and kissed her harder, and then three times in a row, feather-soft, each one of them like a promise.

“We really do have meetings,” Josephine said, but her voice was breathless now, and she was rocking into Cashmere’s thigh with every word, needy little motions that only stoked Cashmere’s own need.

“Isn’t making them wait for us a sign of our own power and importance?” Cashmere asked, reaching up to cup one of her lover’s breasts, savoring the weight and fullness of them, the peaks she could feel through her shift.

Josephine bit her lip.

“You are too clever,” she said. “Using my own lessons against me.”

“You are too good a teacher,” Cashmere replied, readjusting herself, their legs fully entwined now so she too could ease the ache building within her, rubbing it against Josephine, feeling their rhythm change as they each tried to please the other.

“Cashmere,” Josephine said, dragging out each syllable of the name, even more lovely in her Antivan accent than it was in a Dalish one, somehow.

Cashmere kissed her again in response, slower and gentler this time. The flame that burned between them was something she wanted to keep alive forever. That thought occurred to her more and more now. She’d fought for Josephine, yes, and that was no small thing. But these small moments - morning sunlight, entwining her hands with Josephine’s as they moved together, breathing in the smell of her hair - were starting to mean even more than a dramatic showdown on the streets of Val Royeaux. These moments were the kind of thing you could build a life on.

Cashmere wanted that more than she wanted air.

“I love you,” she breathed against Josephine’s lips, feeling heat pooling and spreading within her own body at the warmth and press of her lover’s, at the sounds she was making. “Ar lath ma, I love you, Josephine -”

“Ti amo, I love you too -”

There were more whispered words and confessions, more grasping hands and teasing fingers and heady breaths, movements like the tide against the shore, and then they were both there, gasping, together, united in their own world, lucky and in love and alive.

“I will spend the rest of my life learning to deserve you,” Cashmere murmured when Josephine rose at last, stretched, began to assume her perfect posture and the masks she would need to get through her day, her mind already whirling through all its tasks, all the things she would do to make the world a better place. Cashmere could see it in her eyes as she moved to the nearby vanity and began brushing out her hair.

Josephine put down the brush and met Cashmere’s gaze in the mirror, and smiled.

“It is funny that you say that,” she said. “I often think the same thing about you.”

That was the most incredible miracle of all of this, after all. They’d come together from far off shores - Dalish and Antivan, First and diplomat - and each found an equal marvel in the other. They would get to spend the rest of their lives exploring those marvels, their differences and similarities, each one more treasured than the last.

[hornsandthings]

house call

pairing: solas x lavellan!inquisitor 

summary: lavellan’s title of herald of andraste gives her more stress than she realises. in the dead of night, she turns to solas for comfort. 

warnings: fluff!! // word count: 902 // used fenxshiral’s project elvhen for ref! x

It was a quiet whisper that led him away from the Fade; the softest touch, a warm breath. He did not expect to find Lavellan kneeling alongside his cot, shoulders hunched and eyes bruised. Outside, moonlight and owl song – midnight.

“Solas?” she whispered, one hand on the bed as he lifted his head.

“Lavellan?” he asked, voice a bit huskier than he’d like. Images from his dreams were still swirling in his head, half of him still there. Another time she would’ve blushed at catching him so… casual, eyes still blinking slowly as he regarded her blearily, but tonight her mind was caught up with other things.

“Solas…,” she started, suddenly regretting coming at all. She hadn’t wanted to in the first place, fearing what he’d think, what he’d say. Solas put so much stock in tenacity and propriety and grace that Lavellan couldn’t bear to have him see her in a different light.

But it had been another bad night, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Solas, I feel ill.”

He frowned that familiar frown, sitting up on an elbow as Lavellan bowed her head. The way she said it – so small, so fragile, lined with exhaustion. “Have you seen one of Haven’s healers?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want them touching me,” she seethed, but it was a broken hiss. “And what will they say? Water, sleep, rest. But it’s not helping Solas… I can’t— I can’t do anything I feel so ill—”

“Da’len,” he breathed, extending an arm out and Lavellan whimpered, quickly curling up next to him on the cot. She was small, and they were both lithe enough that the bed barely even creaked. “Is it the mark?” She shook her head again, burying it into his chest as she clutched the fabric of his tunic tight. “Where do you feel discomfort?” He kept his voice soft and low as usual, but there was a certain tenderness in his words which he thought Lavellan to be really seeking out in the first place, even if she didn’t know it herself.

“It’s always at night,” she murmured. “My head aches, and then the nausea… I can’t sleep, Solas.” Looking up at him, all glassy-eyed, she asked, “Can’t you make it go away?”

With his arms wrapped around her, she didn’t mind that frown too much – Lavellan was probably pouting herself, anyway. Gods, she felt like such a child, crying to be coddled at the slightest hint of unease. She wanted to be struck with mortification, feel the urge to apologise and leave at once, but the way he had handled this unexpected intrusion – it made her pause.

He was examining her with that grey, solemn gaze of his. “My spells are meant for wounds, Lavellan, not illnesses,” he said, but she felt some of her discomfiture lessen as ease washed over her – perhaps a spell, perhaps just Solas himself. She always thought he’d be cold to the touch, but he was warm, if only slightly so. Letting her eyes close, she took comfort in his presence, in the feel of his strong lithe body against hers. Something to hold. Solas was a quiet, mysterious man, whose emotions weren’t so much masked as they were subdued. Lavellan had smirked at his humour when they were on the road, his pleasures and indignations. Refined and elegant, but quite humble at the same time – when he wanted to be.

She was pulled from the edge of slumber as his hand cupped her cheek, thumb tracing her cheekbone. “I think I know what plagues you so.” He said it so softly that Lavellan thought he must have assumed her asleep already, but she opened her bleary, stinging eyes at him once more. “You, Herald, handle it admirably, but they ask too much of you.”

Immediately her chest constricted as he lay out her heart for her. “The missions, the decisions, the threats, and the consequences,” he listed as she took a shuddering breath, but his face was kind, his touch gentle as he caressed her cheek again. “You see to it all, despite your grievances. I think you’ve forgotten that the emotional burden can manifest itself physically as well.”

Oh. Dismay coloured her features as she squeezed her eyes shut, hiding her face again. This time, he pulled her close, and Lavellan was thankful – disappointment and embarrassment were etched in her clenched jaw. This was merely the same old thing, stress, but in a different form, no longer just the racing thoughts.

Her ear twitched as she felt his lips press against her head – this was new. She had coaxed small touches from him before, brief hugs and chaste caresses. Tonight, slipping into his bed had been but a parallel to their many nights on the road, where she’d lay next to him as he told her of his walks through the Fade. A kiss – still casual, unassuming, yet curiously tender – was new. His breath was warm as it stirred her hair, his delicate, dexterous fingers running through it for a heartbeat. “You must take care of yourself, lethal’lan. We’ll need you for some time yet.”

She croaked a strangled chuckle into his chest, reaching for one of his hands to hold in hers, close to her heart. “Thank you, lethal’lin,” she whispered, the endearment sitting between friend and lover – curiously appropriate, Levallan thought, to what lay between them.

[ellstersmash]

the naughty list: part two

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (modern!au)

Rating: E for Explicit - sexy bits are under the cut

A/N: this absolute nonsense is for @thevikingwoman​ ♥ And thank you @bearly-tolerable​ for taking a look at it for me!

| part one |

As it turns out, playing Santa Claus isn’t the worst way to spend a party. Other than the beard—which still itches—the evening has been rather enjoyable. Josephine is hosting, which means two things: firstly, that the food and drink are top-notch, and secondly, that the already-elegantly-furnished conference room at the local hotel has been decorated to within an inch of its life.

Solas has to admit; it does make for quite the effect.

Everyone is in attendance that was invited, and all are in good spirits. As a result, he’s been kept very busy. But with the gift-giving done and the novelty of his role a little worn, it seems he’s finally found a moment of respite.

Athi walks his way, an open bottle of champagne in one hand, a slender half-empty glass in the other, and his favorite black dress hugging every one of her curves. She hooks an arm around his neck and perches on his knee.

“This seat taken?”

“Taken? No.” He strokes the small of her back with a gloved hand. “Though it is almost certainly bruised.”

Another bewildering custom, this sitting on Santa’s lap. Most of their friends had taken a turn, and Bull had nearly crushed him for the sake of a picture.

“Poor baby.” She sips from her glass, then refills his empty one and fiddles with the trim on his coat as he drinks. “Hey, how would you like to take this thing off?”

“Is that an offer of assistance?”

“Maybe.”

The way she smiles at him then does wonders for his imagination. What with her green eyes glimmering and the edge of her lip caught between her teeth.

“We should probably ask Josie,” she continues, “but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you changed. All the fun bits are over with anyway.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that.”

She tugs on his earlobe—“Insatiable.”—and downs the last of her champagne.

Solas does the same. Abandoning the party, he follows her down the hallway and into the coat room, tugging off the beard as he locks the door behind them. By the time he turns around, she is rifling through the shopping bag in which he’d brought his change of clothes.

“I tossed another tie in there. Not crazy about the—”

But he has his mouth on her before she finishes the sentence, pinned between his knee and the small stretch of wall left uncovered by coats. Champagne and peppermint; sweetness on her lips, down her neck, at her collarbone.

“Thought you wanted to change,” she says, and her breathlessness only serves to spur him on.

“In time.”

First, he has a debt to repay.

Well, first, he has to get this coat off so he can think about anything other than how warm he is. Then he has a debt to repay.

He’s halfway finished with the buttons when she pushes his hands away to do it herself.

“In a hurry?”

“Better at it.”

“You think so?”

She smirks. “Not my first time.”

And she’s right, she has him free in a few short seconds. He flings the coat into the middle of the room, but he’s still uncomfortably hot. The hat—he takes it off.

“No!” Athi snatches it from his hand before it can join the coat on the floor. “It’s iconic.”

“Perhaps you should wear it, then. I, for one, have played my part for the evening.”

She tugs it down over the crown of her head. “Fine. Looks better on me anyway.”

“I can hardly disagree.” And he descends upon her once more.

Her body presses against his own, straining up to meet him despite the help of those heels. He slides his hands up the smooth twin curves of her thighs, familiar ground that feels deliciously forbidden when he dips underneath the fabric of her little black dress. Yet she makes no move to stop him, not when his thumbs hook into her panties. Not when he tugs them to the floor.

Not even when he slides his hand between her legs.

In fact, she shifts to give him access.

“All right,” she says, “but if we're doing this, we should at least try to be quiet about it. For Josie's sake.”

“No,” and he grins, “ you should try to be quiet.”

And she does, his shoulder muffling her surprise at his firm, deliberate touch. Two fingers, to start, sliding wet through her lower lips.

Oh, he wants to taste her. Mollifies his desire with a nip to her exposed jaw as he presses one finger deep inside her. She stifles a cry by crushing her lips to his; he adds another. Finds a rhythm that she likes, then rubs her pearl in steady circles with his thumb.

Despite the added elements of urgency and risk, this is hardly new territory, and she’s not difficult to read. For him, she melts so easily, all broken breaths and selfish hips, her hands on his head, in her hair, at her breast.

“You are making quite a mess of my hand, you know.”

She shushes him.

Steady circles; he curls his fingers toward her other sweet spot, again and again and she writhes into his touch, one red-painted lip drawn between her teeth in concentration.

He pulls his fingers free, slick with her arousal, and kneels. Taps her ankle. She shifts her weight to one of those beautiful legs of hers and lets him hook the other over his shoulder.

From here, his every inhale is full of her scent. It curls over his senses like a fog, heady and sweet and salty like the taste of her, but without its brightness. His cock twitches, trapped inside his briefs but interested and he indulges in a few more deep breaths before lowering his mouth to her slit.

She gasps softly as his tongue delves inside her, parting her folds and plunging into her soaking cunt.

There, there is the whole of her. He's heard some lovers don't like the taste, but he finds it pleasant. Comforting, even. Overwhelmingly sensual. It changes somewhat, day-to-day, yet somehow is always undoubtedly her.

Her head is thrown back in pleasure, eyes shut tight and he can hear her straining at her own rule, muttering barely-there encouragements: yesyesyes and rightthererightthere. As though the ceaseless movement of her hips was not encouragement enough.

He comes up for air reluctantly. Licks his tongue up through her folds to spiral around her clit until her fingers dig deep into his scalp. All he can taste, all he can smell, all he can see, all that exists—despite the very faint sound of A Holly Jolly Christmas wafting in from down the hall—is her.

She whispers his name. That is all the warning he receives before she comes in a crescendo of shaking, shuddering breaths, coating his chin in a fresh wave of her slick. He coaxes her through the aftershocks. Slows when she does. Simmers as she cools.

Or perhaps she doesn't.

“So, Santa. That as naughty as you get?” She whispers it loud, breath still heaving.

“I would say that depends.”

“On?”

Her skin is so damn tempting; he cannot help but kiss it on his way back up. “Whether or not you can take any more.”

His lover laughs, impatient fingers sliding into his pants. “Have I ever said no to more?”

She has not.

He has her turned around in half a second, pushed up against the wall in another. The heels help dramatically, though the angle will still be a strain. Worth it, though. He hopes.

She does not wait for him to be ready; he has barely enough time to yank up her hem and stroke his cock twice before she practically impales herself. A curse tumbles out of him as she sinks backward, enveloping him in her heat. Then again, as a long low moan, once he's fully hilted within her.

She clasps her hand over his mouth just as the doorknob rattles. They both freeze.

The attempt is soon followed by a knock.

“Anyone in there?”

It's Bull.

“Ah, yes! I was just changing,” Solas replies, doing his best to keep his voice level as Athi snickers.

“Right, okay. Hey, Solas, you know where Lavellan's at?”

“She's, ah—” He winces. “She's here too.”

Bull pauses. Then: “I see.”

The amusement in his voice is damning.

“Well,” he says, “I'll leave you to it, then. Must be pretty tough work getting out of a suit like that.”

Athi wriggles, the slight movement drawing a surge of blood and sensation back to his groin. Solas can't think of a valid response besides a strangled “Yes.”

“Oh,” Bull adds, “Lavellan, I've got that recipe written down for you. Let me know when you're, uh . . . finished.”

She grins. “Sure thing. Thanks!”

The carpeted hallway gives little more than a creak to signify his departure.

Solas hesitates. He could stop. Even buried inside her as he is, even so, they could call a cab right now and be in the safety and comfort of their bedroom within ten minutes. But then she looks back at him over her shoulder and wets her lips and rolls her hips and whispers, “Now fuck me already.”

All thought of delay evaporates.

All thoughts of any kind evaporate.

So he does fuck her. Hard and fast, while the ill-fitting velvet slips off his hips and pools at his ankles. She clutches him desperately, pulls him close with her nails digging into all she can reach of his ass. With her spine arched into a harsh curve to meet him. With what might be blood on her lip from the effort of silence. He misses her sounds, but the whispers she leaves for him to catch— “Oh gods, oh fuck yes, that’s so good, so good.”— and the soft lewd slap of flesh on flesh very nearly make up for it.

His thighs and calves burn and his willpower wanes and the thought crosses his mind that he might not be able to hold out.

“Are you—”

“So fucking close, don't stop.”

Her hand slides off the wall, reaches down, then she comes again. Violently, almost, with a sharp sob that he doesn't care is uncontained. And as her muscles clench tight around him, begging him to fill her, he follows, growling, pressing so deeply that her heels come off the ground.

She takes all he has to give, every pulse of blinding pleasure like cool relief until he is emptied. Spent.

And the fog in his mind empties with it, revealing another problem. Namely, that of gravity.

He considers how to clean his spend from between her legs. Considers the hat, but she's right—it looks good on her. Considers her panties, but they’re mostly just string. Considers his hand, but then what?

So he slips out and turns her and kneels and brings her leg back up to his shoulder.

“What are you—”

He drags the flat of his tongue up her inner thigh, catching the slow drip of his own spend, only barely saltier than her skin.

“Oh,” she says on an exhale.

It is a different motion than before, not intended to excite but the way she watches him—lips parted, cheeks flush, eyes dark—implies it might be dual-purpose.

When he is done, she's still not exactly clean, but clean enough at least to make it home.

On board as ever, she returns the favor, then they quickly reassemble. He does not bother with the tie; they can't return to the party like this.

Her kiss, before they go, is deep, love and heat and the taste of them both.

And she giggles when they part.

“Looks like we're both getting coal this year.”

[mythalsknickers]

For the DADWC: "things you said under the stars and in the grass," for the pairing of your choice!

Title: Speak Right to the HeartPairing: Cullen x Drysi Amell-TrevelyanRating: TBDWarnings/Tags: Lyrium AddictionWord Count: 1822For @dadrunkwritingI hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing this, I somehow managed to emerge victorious from the pit of angst I had fallen into.

Cullen stood over his desk, watching the sky turn from blue to a rich purple and gold. Patiently, he waited as the candles created shadows that danced in the waning light. He glanced out the door,  stomach tightening as his heart leapt into his throat. It would be tonight. If he waited, he was not sure he would ever ask her.

Reaching up, his armor shifted, ringing in the silent room he carefully tousled his tamed hair. It had been a chance, the first time he saw her climb the ramparts and began patrolling. Some nights she was out until the very first light of dawn crept through the mountains. A smirk tugged at his lips, for just a moment he had caught the sight of a pale silver gleam of her leather robes.

In a moment it shattered, his brows knitted together as his eyes narrowed. Hunching over his hand fell instinctively to his sword as his head throbbed, and every bone in his body cried out thirst. The all too familiar icy pit of need filled his stomach and his throat tightened. His eyes almost devoid of emotion scanned the room before locking onto a faint blue glow from his desk drawer. He could hear it singing to him. How could he protect her, what she was building without it? He needed it.

Squeezing his eyes closed, his hand clenched his sword. He tensed as he straightened out of his hunch. He forced himself to take a deep breath, before slowly exhaling, he just needed to let go of it. He needed his freedom from the Chantry more then he needed the Lyrium. It seemed like hours, as he just fought against the need to open the kit up.

“Never again.” He promised hoarsely to himself, finally tearing his eyes away from his desk he scanned for the flash of silver leather.  She stood out against the wind as it tore and battered at the argent dyed leather, and her short, almost raven colored hair. He reached up and scratched the back of his neck as he watched her. It was hard to imagine, that this woman he had been taught would need his protection, no longer did. She stood against the icy wind, rather unfazed, in leather and chain armor. She looked like a warrior Teyrna.

He stepped around his desk, eyes flickering to that faint blue glow for a moment. He lifted his hand away from his sword and pulled open a drawer, tearing his attention away from that blue glow, in favor of a small coin and a worn silver ring around a delicate chain. A smile tugged at his scarred lips before he gathered both up. Shoving the drawer closed, he left his office in a few strides, breathing in the night air.

It was now or never.

It was near silent tonight and the cold wind that howled down from the peaks of the mountains wrapped around her like an icy hug.  There was so much from Adamant that needed to be decided. She wrapped her arms around herself and let out a soft sigh, watching it hang in the cold air, turning to fog for just a moment. Her shoulders were drawn tight as her mind raced. Only two things had been made clear at Adamant, leaving so much undecided. She and Loghain were no longer wardens in the sense that those in Adamant were, and Corypheus’ dragon was little more than a familiar. There had been no familiar song, deafening as it attacked them.

She reached up to her neck, long fingers ghosting over the dark ink that shaped mountains into weather-beaten skin before wrapping around the tarnished silver chain, tugging the heavy medallion free from under her collar. Instinctively, her fingers traced over the worn sword of mercy, while her eyes searched the mountains for a sign.

“Bit for your thoughts?” A rich voice spoke.

Her fingers tightened as she fought the instinct of her magic to lash out as he spoke. It was just Cullen. For a moment, her icy eyes stared at the mountains as if to argue with them, before she turned to face him. She let her eyes soften, and gave him the slightest of smiles.

“By Andraste’s pyre Cullen, how are you so quiet!” She laughed as he reached up to rub his neck. “I doubt my worries are even worth a bit.” She offered with a soft shrug and glanced over at him. He always seemed to smell of shortbread cookies, the ones with just a bit of orange zest in them.

“Well if they aren’t worth a bit, how about…” She canted her head as he paused, scratching at his neck. “How about we leave for a few days? I have something I wish to show you.” The way his eyes sparkled sparked nostalgia, a time that felt like a lifetime ago; stolen kisses between the rows of books, soft laughter as they snuck out onto the shore to count the stars, desperate hands as they never wanted to be parted. She could almost feel it all.

“Can we just leave?” She breathed fervently. She glanced over at the mountains where they met the budding night sky. Each beat of her heart hammered her chest. She was afraid to breathe.   It had to be too good to be true. By Koth and the Lady, it sounded like… She didn’t dare hope, did she?

“Cullen…Am I understanding right? Are you wanting to go…” She paused, trying to find the words, her brows furrowing in frustration as nothing came.

“I am wanting to take you away from here…For a moment just to ourselves. I can’t go back in time, but Drysi; I want there to be more than that kiss that Leliana’s poor scout interrupted.” He offered as her breath hitched, catching in her throat before fits of giggles broke loose. The sounds of her mirth loosened something in him, and she was soon met with his rich laughter. A moment just for them was a dream come true. With a breath, she smiled at him, finally finding the words.

“A trip…away with just us.” Her eyes closed as she pictured it; just as they had always talked. Somewhere quiet; just them, away from the world, hiding in a single tent and curled against each other for comfort, the heat of passion coiled into them both in the still of the night, where no one could hear them. “It sounds like a dream Cullen, let me get together a bag.”

It was just a moment as he reached out, catching her hand and giving her a smile before giving a slight tug to bring her in close.

“I will meet you. Outside of the gate.” He whispered under the light of the stars.  He pressed a quick kiss to her hand as he pulled away from her. She stepped back and fumbled, grabbing ahold of the rampart. He had, in a single moment, uprooted the budding plan she had to finish this with Corypheus. Her heart hammered as she tried to recompose her mask, no one would be in the hall, not at this hour she hoped.

It had been ten years ago when the planned this. She turned and looked back at the mountains,  shaking her head with a small smile. A sign from gods that actually listened, a chance for her to find happiness. She pushed away from the rampart and dashed down to the rotunda door. There was no caution as she flung it open and slammed it closed before dashing into the hall, past the silent enigma that was Solas.

There was no race but she wasted no time flying up the countless flights of stairs to her quarters, tossing the door open, the clash of wood and stone echoed through the too large room. Grabbing her bag from the road, she tore open the wardrobe.

“Where did you put it Leliana.” she grumbled, sending clothes and shoes flying out onto the thick furs. Under everything, her fingers found it. A thin golden box that symbolized a trip to a rather specialized boutique in Val Royaeux.  With reverence, she pulled out the package opening it up. She didn’t dare wear them when she left on missions. Pulling out her prize she laid it out on the bed before removing her armor, long enough to conceal it under her armor for tonight.  The remainder of her packing bore no ceremony as her clothes were tossed into the bag with no real care, along with her traveling gear.

As she left the great hall the sky had darkened considerably, a ride down south by the moonlight, she couldn’t help the blush that crept up her cheeks. Carefully she crept through the gates before walking down to where Cullen held a pair of horses as they grazed. She took a moment just to watch him pat the horses and listen to the night. How…how in any god’s name had she gotten this lucky, to have another chance with him. After all bitter hurt, forgiveness, and timid friendship here it was, a chance for them to both be free to love each other finally.

“Shall we Cullen?” she offered walking up to the familiar black Forder who had carried her around Ferelden quite contentedly. Reaching up she stroked the mare’s nose while he watched her with a smile she could feel without looking up at him. It was a moment before she stepped up onto the stirrup and swung over onto the saddle.

“Let’s we aren’t going far tonight, but tomorrow we will be out of range of the guard towers.” he offered as he mounted the almost golden stallion and urged him into a quick canter. Shaking her head in a moment of amusement she gently tapped the mare before she was off after him into the night.

There was no competition, it was just a canter in the moonlight enjoying each other’s company, the laughter, and pure joy of just being able to do this together. The trail wove and dipped following a small stream off the mountain. As Cullen slowed, she slowed her mare following as he passed through a small arch of ancient willows into a mostly secluded grove.

“This is beautiful,” she whispered as the stopped the horses dismounting. She laid out in the tall grass looking up at the stars as Cullen chuckled beginning to set up the one tent. She just laid there watching the night sky whispering the names of the constellations.

“Cullen” she called finally mustering the courage. The only response she had was the rustle of grass as he made his way to her.

“Hm?” he kneeled down before joining her in laying back in the grass and the horses grazed on the grove on a simple tether to the tent.

“I love you.”

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

Relationship Tag - Dorian x Da’Fen

Disagreements:

Who is more likely to raise their voice? Da’Fen, but he raises his voice whether he’s happy or angry. Dorian prefers to get quiet. Who threatens to leave but never actually does? Neither, because they feel it is an “unworthy” threat to make  Who actually keeps their word and leaves? N/A  Do either of them get physical? If really pressed, Dorian may grab at his own hair or grab Da’Fen by the arm, but other than that, no.  How often do they argue/disagree? Rarely  Who is the first to apologise? Dorian, but that’s because he says it immediately after stepping out of line. He’s conscientious of himself and his more venomous side and tries not to let it touch Da’Fen if at all possible.

Sex:

Who is on top? I headcanon Dorian as a vers, but with Da’Fen he’s a top 90% of the time  Who is on the bottom? Da’Fen is an enthusiastic bottom.  Who has the strangest desires? Da’Fen is really fixated on Dorian’s nipples for some reason. He likes to suckle them long enough for it to seem a bit obsessive, like “Okay, darling? As far as I’m aware, I haven’t begun lactating. Could you j-u-u-u-s-t --” *pries Da’Fen’s head from chest with a POP* “--Ah! There we are.”  Any kinks? Dorian mentioned in-game that he looks good in rope, so there’s that...Both are really into praise kink, whether it’s themselves or each other. Da’Fen loves/hates tease & denial. Dorian likes making Da’Fen beg and overstimulating him. Dorian also likes worshipping Da’Fen’s body because he is a lithe little thing reminiscent of the nude busts found in Tevinter (Roman youth sculpture reference!)  Who’s dominant in bed? Dorian  Is head ever in the equation? Almost always  If so, who is better at performing it? Dorian, only because of age and practice. Da’Fen has so much fun he often ends up giggling and has to stop.  Ever had sex in public? No. Dorian doesn’t want to ruin Da’Fen’s reputation any more than he has.  Who moans the most? Da’Fen.  Who leaves the most marks? Dorian  Who screams the loudest? Da’Fen  Who is the more experienced of the two? Dorian by far  Do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’? Da’Fen views all sex with Dorian as making love but for Dorian himself he is coming to terms with the fact that this relationship with Da’Fen is different from what ever affairs he managed to snag in bath houses and taverns as a young man  Rough or soft? Da’Fen allows Dorian to pound him into the mattress once in awhile because “primal” is usually what Dorian wants, but Dorian understands that Da’Fen is a bit more delicate and needs something a bit more … touchy-feely. He’s totally fine with supplying that, and he likes being able to love a lover in all the ways that word entails.  How long do they usually last? Foreplay varies between just a few kisses and lube to really drawing it out – 5 – 20 minutes.    Is protection used? No. Shame shame shame.  Does it ever get boring? Da’Fen treats every round of sex like a new adventure so even the most tried and true maneuvers and techniques are still made fresh with Da’Fen’s bright eyes and eagerness.  Where is the strangest place they’d have sex? A small nook in the Archives, if it was at all possible.

Affection:

Who likes to cuddle? Da’Fen so so so so much.  Who is the little spoon? Da’Fen. Yes, I hug you and now you must cuddle ME in return.  Who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? Dorian, honestly.  Who struggles to keep their hands to themself?  Da’Fen. He must. Hug. Everyone.  How long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? Da’Fen can cuddle indefinitely. Dorian can go for an hour or so and then needs to move around.  Who gives the most kisses? Da’Fen gives the most friendly kisses. Dorian gives the most loving, deeply emotional kisses.  What is their favourite non-sexual activity? For Da’Fen it’s hunting and exploring the forest. For Dorian it’s research and drinking.  Where is their favourite place to cuddle? For Dorian it’s in bed, naturally. For Da’Fen it’s literally any place where there’s a warm body.  Who is more likely to playfully grope the other?  Dorian, but he does it discreetly

Sleeping:

Who snores? Dorian, but only if he’s drunk a lot that night.  Do they share a bed or sleep separately? Da’Fen can’t conceive of sleeping alone. He has always slept with someone, whether his mother or another clan member, very close by. If they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart? Da’Fen is glued to Dorian like a koala

Who talks in their sleep? Da’Fen. It never used to happen but ever since he and Solas gained a connection in the Fade, snippets of their conversations can be heard spoken by Da’Fen in the waking world.  What do they wear to bed? Dorian goes nude in the summer time or wears a tunic in winter. Da’Fen wears a makeshift fundoshi sort of deal. Dorian was floored to learn it was in fact his sleepwear and not some gimmick to try to seduce him.  Do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? The day Dorian doesn’t wrap his arms around Da’Fen to hold him close while they sleep is the day Da’Fen figures they’ve stopped loving each other.  Who wakes up with bed hair? Dorian. It’s always styled before breakfast, though.  Who wakes up first? Depends. Da’Fen is used to waking up at 5 AM (7 AM at the latest) to help his clan with chores and that didn’t stop when he became part of the Inquisition. But since becoming Inquisitor he’s had some run-ins with some dangerous and harmful entities that have put him to sleep on numerous occasions. Essentially, unless it knocks him out cold and puts him out of commission, he is getting up before Dorian.  Who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? Da’Fen tries his best.  What is their favourite sleeping position? On their own: Da’Fen sleeps on his side hugging a pillow. Dorian sleeps on his stomach with his arms bent upwards.  Who hogs the sheets? Da’Fen  Who has nightmares? Dorian sometimes has recurring dreams of that night he left his family estate. He also has dreams of Da’Fen becoming seriously injured and being helpless to stop it.  Who has ridiculous dreams? Da’Fen dreams up a lot of weird shit, mostly harmless, but very bizarre in trying to explain it.  Who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed?  Dorian, sometimes.  Who makes the bed? Neither, but if it has to be done, then both will make it because they figure that holding each other accountable is better than holding one person to do the job.  What time is bed time? 11 PM, but for Dorian it could be 2 AM  Any routines/rituals before bed? Teeth brushing, Da’Fen writing down any lingering thoughts he has that ‘can be answered tomorrow, amatus—please, come to bed’ just so he won’t forget them.  Who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Dorian, especially if it’s before 10 AM (which it always is)

Home:

Who does the washing? Da’Fen for his own clothes (out of habit). Dorian has a maid do his clothes cuz Da’Fen still doesn’t quite understand “dry clean only”  Who takes out the trash? Da’Fen  Who does the ironing? Da’Fen: ??? You just let it dry and put it on? Dorian: Maid  Who does the cooking? Da’Fen  Who is more likely to burn the house down just trying? Da’Fen  Who is messier?  Da’Fen  Who leaves the toilet roll empty? Da’Fen  Who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? Da’Fen  Who forgets to flush the toilet? Da’Fen  Who is the prankster around the house? Da’Fen  Who does the groceries? Both of them together. They know what they themselves want to eat and they always only remember their half of the shopping list.  Who takes the longest to shower? Dorian. Double time if Da’Fen decides to hop in.  Who spends the most time in the bathroom? Dorian. Gotta make that hair look luscious.

Miscellaneous:

What do they do when they’re away from each other? Dorian drinks, researches, attends get-togethers with his fellow snobs, listens to Classical, Disco, and Salsa records. Da’Fen is somewhere in the brush climbing trees or anything climbable or visiting family out in the boonies.  Who spends the most money when out shopping? Dorian. He has very expensive tastes  Who’s more likely to flash their assets? Dorian (purposely), Da’Fen (innocently)  Who finds it amusing when the other trips over? Dorian  Any mental issues? Dorian is a borderline alcoholic. Da’Fen has major ADD  Who’s terrified of bugs? Neither are terrified, but Dorian is a bit more unnerved by large ones. Da’Fen just thinks they’re interesting.  Who kills the spiders around the house? Dorian kills them, Da’Fen sets them free outside  Their favourite place? One of the numerous cafes in Val Royeaux  Do they have any fears for their future? Dorian wants the relationship to last forever and fears it’s just a temporary thing. Da’Fen worries about Dorian worrying.  Who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? Dorian  Who uses up all of the hot water? Dorian  Who’s the tallest? Dorian  Who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? Da’Fen  Who wanders around in their underwear? Dorian rarely wears it except when he knows company is around. Da’Fen spends the first hour of the day making multiple trips everywhere trying to get ready, putting pants on last cuz he always forgets those.  Who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Da’Fen  What do they tease each other about? Da’Fen teases Dorian about worrying about things like his hair and clothes not looking right. Dorian teases Da’Fen about being a baby because he’s much shorter, younger, and childish than him  Who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? Dorian does not understand Da’Fen’s insistence on “comfort over couture.” Excuse me, what?  Do they have mutual friends? Both consider Sera to be mutual friends.  Who crushed first? Dorian  Any alcohol or substance related problems? Dorian has a problem with alcohol. He’s a functioning borderline alcoholic, the kind that is acceptable and expected in high society, but when he’s depressed he really lets himself go.  Who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? Dorian  Who swears the most? Dorian. Da’Fen can swear, it’s just he doesn’t feel the need to.

[pb1138]

Fictober Day 3--Roasted ft Iron Bull x Inquisitor

Super short, like less than 1,000 words. No warnings I don’t think? Let me know, though, and I’ll add them. 

They were attacked in the late night, or early morning depending on who you asked. Solas and Belladonna had placed runes down around the camp because everyone was far too tired from a day of intense travelling and fighting to have even attempted to keep watch. They had known it would’ve been tough going, but they were nearly two weeks from the nearest Inquisition encampment and they were all feeling the strain. Belladonna had been the first to awaken, the sound of one of the runes activating startling her form her dreams. She didn’t hesitate to jump to her feet and grab her staff. As she parted the flap to her tent, another three runes were set off and an arrow flew past her head, narrowly missing her nose.

“We’re under attack!” she yelled, though Bull and Solas were already clambering out of their tents and she could hear Varric cursing from within his.

The fight seemed to wage on for hours, an unusually large amount of bandits coming one after another. The four of them fought hard and nonstop until the last man was standing. Belladonna was casting furiously, and the three men had taken to standing back, watching their Inquisitor with awe. Finally, Belladonna cast a large fireball that overtook the enemy entirely, burning him until he was just a skeleton falling to the ground. Belladonna stood bent over, using her staff to hold her up, panting heavily with exertion.

After a few moments, The Iron Bull burst out laughing, his deep bellows echoing off the trees all around them. Belladonna looked at him incredulously, and he was nearly doubled over with the depth of his laughter. He pointed at the man she had just slain and coughed out between bellows, “You…He’s…absolutely roasted! I mean there’s nothing left of the bastard!”

Belladonna struggled to stand up but she turned to face him entirely, incredulous looks on not only her face, but on Solas’s and Varric’s as well. After a moment, Bull strode over to her, still laughing, and scooped her up in a bone crushing hug. She gasped for air, struggling against his tight embrace, and he loosened slightly. He pressed a sloppy kiss to her cheek and beamed at her. “I absolutely love you, Kadan.”

She smiled at him and wiggled her arms free to slink them around his neck and she kissed him gently. “I love you too, nerd.”

[shift-shaping]

(Talesfromthefade) 👗 formal dress night for the DWC?

Glimpses: It Was Varric

@dadrunkwriting

Rating: Explicit

Genre: Romance/Smut

Verse: The Lion and the Wolf

Pairing: Solas x Surana

Warnings: Age gap

Eirwen moaned as Solas grasped her hips, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her dress as he drew her body flush against his. “You look magnificent,” he whispered, and his breath tickled her ear. He pressed her back into the wall of a dark closet hidden away in the Winter Palace, where they’d pushed aside antique chairs and some kind of taxidermy bear to make room for him to ravage her. 

He grinded his hips against hers, letting her feel how hard she made him, and she grinned. “How long have you had that?”

She could almost hear him roll his eyes. “I am not a boy, vhenan.” His term of affection for her sent a shudder of warmth into her chest, but she refused to think about it. He didn’t know she’d found out the significance of that word, and likely did not want her to know: that level of affection never failed to make her terminally uncomfortable, and he hated to see her retreat. 

But this. This she would not retreat from. She dragged her nails down the velvet fabric of his uniform and let one hand cross his broad chest to rest at his buttons. “Mm… of course. You are clearly mature enough to resist fucking me in a closet during a ball.”

“And yet…” He kissed her suddenly, hard and passionate and dominating. She moaned again, fumbling with his clothes, trying to feel his bare chest beneath her hand before he broke the kiss and stopped her. “How much time do you imagine we have?” He teased, and tsked softly as he shook his head. “I am certain someone has already noticed your disappearance.”

“Let them,” she breathed before pulling him in for another kiss. He pushed her hard against the wall, his lips colliding with hers hard and fast before he broke off again. 

“It will take us far too long to redress in the dark.” His voice had fallen, a low growl lending an edge to his even tone. “Keep it on.”

Still she pulled at his clothes, helping him to unbutton his jacket and pull the heavy pants down just enough to ease his erection out and into her hand. He hitched her up higher, lining her hips with his, and she pulled aside her underwear. He eased inside of her, groaning as he felt her warmth squeeze him. Her walls stretched to accommodate his impressive girth and she shuddered with pleasure. 

There was a loud knock on the door just as he sheathed himself fully within her. Eirwen opened her mouth to speak and he shook his head. “Ignore it.”

“Wait but --ngh...” He thrust into her and she clutched his back, her thoughts abandoning her as his thick, hard cock split her walls. “Oh, Solas...” His name, spoken so breathlessly from such soft, warm lips, sounded like a prayer in its desperation. He rocked his hips into her again, rolling his cock deep into her tight cunt, drawing another pleading moan from her lips. 

There was another knock, more aggressive this time, and though Eirwen tried to ignore it she couldn’t help herself. “Solas. Solas, why would someone knock on a closet door?”

He kept his eyes closed, trying to stay focused before his expression changed from breathless arousal to pure puzzlement. “That is... an excellent question.”

The knock came again and they both looked at the door. With a loud, exasperated sigh it swung open, revealing to them a very jovial dwarf in an outfit nearly identical to Solas’s. “Oh! I was wondering where you two went.”

“Close the door!” Solas yelled, his face suddenly red and shot through with embarrassment. Eirwen hugged him, hiding her own laughter against his shoulder. Had it been Cole or Cassandra or, truly, anyone else, she might have shared his mortification. But it was Varric. 

The dwarf in question laughed and held up his hands, backing away as he followed Solas’s angry order. “I saw nothing. You don’t have to worry about me.”

As soon as the door closed Solas leaned into his lover, so embarrassed now that his face was hot on her skin. He mumbled a string of Elvhen curses against her shoulder and shook his head. 

“You’ll have to teach me what all of that means sometime,” she cooed, and he let out a soft groan.

“I am certain you can guess.”

“Worried we’re going to be in one of his books?” She still clung to him, her arms wrapped around his back and her walls tight around his softening cock. 

“If we are not, I will be disappointed.” He sighed and pulled back, looking at her with a heavy frown. “Ir abelas, I am unsure if I can...”

She shushed him softly and helped him ease out of her. “I think we can get past this, somehow.” 

He kept hugging her, holding her against him. “You have some plan?”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled in the dark before kissing him. With gentle, slow hands she made him release her and she slipped down to her knees. “I have several.”

[zolanhras]

DWC! How aboutttt “Shooting star, make a wish.” :-) Any characters/pairing you're feeling!

Ah! I’m back! Feels like forever. Anyhow, I am so sorry on the late ask, this thing must’ve been sitting in my inbox for well over three weeks now. Thank you so much for the prompt!

For the @dadrunkwriting!

So I took this seemingly innocent prompt and twisted it (sorry!) beyond recognition. 

Pairing: Solas x Ellana Lavellan

Warnings: Depictions of pain? 

Words: 942

She didn’t deal well with pain. She never had, but she never before had to deal with so much.

She had been shocked when he’d left the first time. A sad longing that had become all too familiar to her, a knife to her gut, was the last expression she saw on his features. Leliana had searched, but if he didn’t want to be found, she didn’t want to be the one to find him.

She had never loved someone like him before, in both meanings of the phrase. He was thoughtful, kind and creative, so different from the ones that had tried to win her affection in her old clan. He didn’t speak loud, but each word held weight. She could listen to him speak of his journey’s forever, lost in the worlds and memories he painted for her.

She had never loved so deeply before, either. She had always thought that the right man would come along, no need to rush things with someone who wasn’t right. It didn’t mean she had never fallen in love, but it seemed wrong to call the other times love now.  

So when he left a second time, she was left broken. She heard his voice, speaking a foreign language, but feeling like music to her heart. She rushed to where she could see him, only to find him changed. Still Solas, just… plus one. He spoke with a confidence she was used to, but it was laced with other things. Duty. Regret. Sacrifice.

He was going to destroy the world and she believed him. She searched within herself for some bitter emotion, but found nothing. He was here. There was still time.

“Var lath vir suledin,” she cried, clutching her hand. The pained look that had never left his face intensified.

“I wish it could, vhenan,” he said, looking down, breaking eye contact.

Another course of energy surged through her. Every nerve was being branded with a hot poker then set sizzling into the water. She yelled, another twisted sound escaping her lips.

“My love,” he breathed, and leaned in close.

His gauntleted hand wrapped firmly around her unmarked one as he brought her up to his level. His other hand wrapped around her head. She didn’t need anymore guidance from there.

Their kiss was bittersweet. As he pressed into her, she deepened the kiss, asking, pleading him to stay. And for a moment, a flicker of a second, he gave in. Hope ran through her, bringing them from remembrance to passion. Their kiss lit alive.

Stay, vhenan, she wanted to say. Stay with her now, and she would love him as long as she breathed if he would just stay.

He slowed for a moment, and she opened their eyes and him, the electric blue fading from his irises. They acknowledged something neither wanted to face. He gripped tighter on her hair, bringing her in close. She closed her eyes, letting the the hidden part of her heart hope, even as she knew what would come.

He broke away in a sudden motion, shuddering, and stood up. She tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. He didn’t meet hers.  

“I will never forget you,” he said, turning away.

Hands swaying at his side he walked away. She watched him go, one traitorous part of her hoping against hope that he would turn back.

He didn’t. He continued to the huge eluvian, stopping for a moment before the watery surface. She couldn’t see very well through the tears, but he could’ve turned back to look at her for a moment. He could’ve looked torn, hateful, but she would never know. She blinked, and he was gone.

She curled in on herself and found a wretched anger clawing through her chest. She wept, cursing her foolishness, her stupid false hope, before collapsing into despair.

Dorian found her first. She didn’t realize he was there until he sunk down into the cool water and hugged her. She cried into his shoulder, before remembering that soon he would be gone too.

She had forgotten about her arm. It bristled with new energy, but she found that the pain was beginning to disappear. Meanwhile, she found she had no feeling in her hand. She hugged him tight with the arm she did have, and kneeled there, vision swimming, eluvian still in sight. The surface glittered, serene and calm, unmoved by her emotion. If she focused, she could see bits of energy skittering across the surface. They flew across the glass, looking like shooting stars.

“In the days of Arlathan, shooting stars were thought of as a sign,” he said, arm wrapped around her waist. It was a nice and warm against the wind that blew through the battlements at night. “One of torment and destruction from the heavens.”

They both gazed up into the sky, taking in the view.

“Oh?” she said, looking over at him. “So, ancient elves were grim and fatalistic as well? You would’ve fit in nicely.”

Some indecipherable expression flicked across his face, darkening his eyes.

“I think not,” he said, and pulled her closer, joy gone from his eyes. 

No, don’t brood, not tonight. She leaned in close.

“How about you make a wish instead?” she said. Their lips were warm, barely touching. She shivered.

He hesitated for a moment, but she pressed closer, and looked into his eyes. She knew, rather than actually saw he smiled, but it soon melted into a soft kiss.

“What have I to wish for, vhenan?”

She cried harder, and thought if all else proved false, the ancient elves may have been right about the stars.

[findsarahh]

Beyond the Veil

Summary: AU. The Gods are said to exist above, but she has never seen them. Her mother is a high priest of Mythal, her twin brother a loyal hunter of Andruil, but they have never seen them. The Gods don’t come to the beds of the tired, the hungry, and the sick. She does. If Isera were to meet a God that came to the bedside of the sick and dying, then she would bend the knee. Until then, she stands tall and in defiance.

But…who is the man trying to heal the sick? And doing a poor job at it.

F!Lavellan x Fen’harel (Solas)

AKA: An AU fic about Isera and Fen’harel, where the Gods exist, but live on the other side of the Veil and only come to help or to damn the People. And Fen’harel falls in love with Isera, but she rarely prays to the Gods, so he has to disguise himself to interact with her.

AO3: Ch1

@playwithdinos @star--nymph @giselegrosvner It is beginning....

Isera is floating in the middle of a crystal-clear lake staring up at the night sky that is dancing with colors. She can feel the giant sea creature circling around her, singing her a song. The Gods are said to exist above, but she has never seen them. Her mother is a high priest of Mythal, her twin brother a true hunter of Andruil, but they have never seen them.

Her father is said to be among the favored of the Gods, able to control the Veil and the very Fade itself. She hasn’t met him either. Maybe he is a God then.

But she is the problem child. Consistently refusing to bend the knee to pray to a God. When she was blessed with the same power as her father, an i've'an'amelan. The People thought she would cease her personal rebellion and follow a God.

They called it a blessing. They called it a gift. But still, she refuses.

She sees the world differently now. The Veil above her head still dances in colors, but they are brighter, and the sound of magic sings louder than before. She can feel the Veil breathe with every shimmer of color. But she still won’t pray for them.

She feels the spirits follow her. One, in particular, has become fond of her. Unlike the rest of the spirits, it does not speak to her. Just silently observe her for the last year. Spirits are finicky things—come and go as they please. But this spirit stayed, always near in her dreams. Sometimes she feels it while she is awake, but today the spirit is not with her.

Eventually, her mother stopped trying to force to go to the Temples. After her brother obediently picked a God to follow and to pray to their mother just gave up. Of course, Isera attends the holiday mass because she knows this action greatly pleases her mother, but she could not bring herself to do anything more.

Isera spends her time running through the force, reading in the library, talking to the People and the slaves. The nobles find her odd and whisper behind her back, but they would not do anything about her defiance. Her mother is the high priest of Mythal. Mythal, the Protector, the All-Mother, and goddess of love, is the patron of motherhood, justice, and vengeance.

Isera knows how to play the perfect child. She answers all the questions she gets politely and correctly—she just ignores the rest. She smiles with the devoted, talks as though she is devout. The devoted tell how she can be better, take the higher place. She smiles and nods. Then walks away.

She can tell you that the World was created by Mythal who tamed the anger of Elgar’nan. Their children taught the People: Falon’din and Dirthamen carry the people into uthenera, and the June taught the People to build, Andruil taught the way of the three trees, Sylaise brought fire and healing, and June the crafts.

Fen’harel, the youngest of all of her children did not care to teach. He is said to be the god of rebellion, betrayal, and tricks.

She can sing the songs to praise the Gods, but her voice never soars far.

The chill of the water against the warm breeze of the summer air brings Isera back into reality. The sun will rise soon. Isera takes a deep breath as she allows herself to sink under the water, relaxing in the silence that is so rare before swimming to shore. It is late—or early, depending on who you ask. Isera pulls herself out of the land as she mumbles a heating spell that dries her off before changing into her clothing.

She begins walking to the fields. The slaves will be waking soon, and their wounds will need to be tended to.

When she arrives to the field, Isera climbs the tree and perches herself on a branch that overlooks the field. The noble who owns this land worships Dirthamen, the God of Secrets and Knowledge. He makes his slaves bleed for the God. She watches as the sun lights up the golden field of wheat as the slaves slowly make their way into the field, using their scythe to cut the plant.

Isera watches, waiting to see who is the slowest to move. The slaves who move too slow are beaten harder the in the evening. She watches as a slave falls to her knees in pain. Isera dashes forward, her body being consumed in smoke as she turns into a pure white fennic as she crosses the field to the injured slave.

She knows this slave. Her name is Anise, and she is a single mother of three daughters. Isera slowly approaches the slave. Anise hisses at her trying to scare Isera away, but she is not afraid. Isera dances around the Anise’s hand as she casts a healing spell over the fresh wounds on her legs.

Anise gasps as she realizes what is happening. “Lady Isera!” She whispers in fear. “If he sees you here, he will kill you!” Anise cries as she tries to hide Isera’s fennic form.

“Mythal curse him!” Anise mutters. “Fen’harel take him!”

Isera ceases her healing. The wounds will need time to heal without the assistance of magic, but the pain should have lessened. Once Isera does this, she begins bouncing through the field assisting as many slaves as she can. When the sun is high, Isera flees the field to head to the village that the slaves and poor castes live in.

Isera pulls the hood of her cloak over her head as she walks into the village, pulling her healing bag closer. The children squeal with delight as she approaches them. Isera smiles and drops to her knees to hug them. They are all talking at once telling her about their day and their family.

The children lead her into an empty shack as Isera conjures food for them. They squeal at this feat. Being an i've'an'amelan grants her abilities greater than normal mages. Isera can create life, conjure food, craft buildings in the physical world and in her dreams. The Order of the Keepers has attempted on many occasion to have her join their cult, as Isera calls it. But she has refused.

The Order hides from the People claiming they are doing the work requested by the Gods. Isera doesn’t understand how hiding and ignoring the People does anything to please the Gods. Thus she remains trying to impact the world in little ways.

“Isera!” A child rushes into the shack calling her name. “You must come!” He begs, tears falling down his face. “My mamae, my mamae!” He jumps up and down to get her attention.

Isera stands, murmuring for the rest to stay here as she rushes forward. The child rushes away, leading Isera towards his home. The tears never stop as she catches up to him. “My mamae, my mamae,” is all he says to her.

Isera steps into the shack. It is dark and smells of sickness. She blocks the child from entering his home. “My darling, I will look at your mother, but I need you to stay here.” She asks, her voice soft as she holds his small hands. “Can you find me some elfroot, my dear?” She whispers as she runs her fingers through his hair.

He nods tearfully as he turns and rushes to find the herb.

Isera turns her attention back to the woman within the shack. She realizes someone else is standing over her, another hooded figure. Isera quietly enters the room as she watches the man attempt to heal her.

Isera glances around, looking at what is strung across the home. Herbs and other scavenged food. This woman was hungry and desperate to eat.

The hooded figure curses in frustration as he pulls back his hood. He jolts slightly at Isera's presence. He turns to look at her. He is bald wearing simple cotton clothing covered in dirt with an open healing bag next to him. Her eyes flutter to the dark jaw bone necklace against his beige shirt for a moment before staring back at him.

“You should go.” He tells her. “There is a sickness here that cannot be cured.”

Isera hums as she continues to stare at him, her face still covered. “I haven’t tried.” She states as she steps forward to look at the woman.

The man stops her. “It would be best if you did not.” He stands as he blocks her route. He is close to her, and she can smell the scent of moss and dirt on his clothing.

Isera smiles as she cocks her head to the side. “Move aside,” She orders. “You are preventing me from looking at my patient.” He frowns, clearly not expecting her to challenge his word.

“She is going to die.” He announces as he moves to the side. Isera drops to her knees and begins assessing the woman. She is cold and sweaty. Her heartbeat is fast and breathes shallowly. Isera pulls out her healing bag and removes a vial. She presses the tip to the woman’s mouth, whispering for her to drink the contents.

The woman releases a long sigh as her body begins to relax. She will live.

Isera stands and turns to head out of the shack. “You have her something to relieve the pain then?” the stranger asks.

Isera stares at him. She hasn’t seen him in the village before. “No.” She answers. “I gave her the antidote to the poison fungi she ate.” Confusion flashes across the man’s face as he looks around, noting the mushroom on the ground.

Another man rushes towards Isera as she steps out of the hut. “By the Gods, you came!” He cries as he collapses onto the ground. “I prayed to all of them for weeks. No one answers. But finally", he explains. "Fen’harel must have sent you.”

Isera cocks her head to the side. “Faron, I visit the village weekly.” She announces as she pulls her bag close as she prepares to leave. She has another village to attend to.

“My lady, you came early. You usually come on Ghi'lan'vun'in, tomorrow.” Another villager calls. “He had to have sent you, my lady.” Others chime in with agreements. Isera sighs, but does not bother trying to change their belief. They do not have the luxury of being able to doubt the belief in the Gods as she does.

Isera approaches one of the villagers as she watches the man begin to leave the hut. “Have you seen that man before?” She whispers to the elder. The elder stares up at the man. “Never in my life, my lady.”

Isera frowns as she begins following the stranger, who is walking out of the village. “Excuse me!” She shouts as she jogs to catch up to him.

He stops walking and turns to look at her. “Yes?” he asks as she stands before him.

“Who are you?” She asks, placing her hand on her hip as she stares at him.

“Just a traveler.” He answers. His face remains unmoved as they both assess each other. His presence feels familiar as they stare into each other's eyes.

“Traveler from where?” She presses. It is rare to see another solo traveler helping the poor. There are organizations with in the cities that are meant to assist the slaves and poor, but they only come out when it is the popular thing to do.

“A village in the North.” He answers. He doesn't break his stare.

Isera frowns, eyes narrowing at the vagueness in his answer. “There are many villages in the North.” She responds.

“There are.”

Isera scowls at him. “You would have let her die.” She states. “If you are going to heal these people, you should at least be aware that that species of fungi varies from the north and southern region. It’s poisonous here.” She remarks tersely before walking past him.

There is a part of her that is angry. If she had not shown, the stranger would have given that woman a potion to ease her pain and ending her life sooner than not. He had deemed the woman a lost cause before evaluating his surroundings.

The man rushes to catch up with her. “The villagers, they know you?” He questions. His face is softer than before, clearly attempting to see if she is trustworthy. Isera stops in her tracks and glares at him.

He is rather attractive despite his wardrobe choices. He has a strong jaw line and high cheekbones. His blue-gray eyes sparkle with interest. He lacks the vallaslin, so he is not a slave.

“You don’t.” She answers as she picks up her pace. She has never seen him before, and neither have the villagers. The issue that remains, if he is to stay and assist the very people she is helping, he cannot make mistakes that he almost made.

The villagers are superstitious people--if enough people were to die under his care, the villagers would ask her to leave. They would claim that she is no longer in favor of the Gods and if she were to stay and try and help, more people would die.

“You’re right.” He answers as he also picks up space. “Why do you help them?” He asks. His eyes sparkling with questions and curiosity.

“No one else will.” She mutters.

He nods in understanding. “Yet they call to the Gods for help.” He states. She can see him watching her intently.

“Do you see any Gods here, stranger? I have traveled these parts, helping these people for years, but I have never seen anyone else assist them.” She pauses, “which begs the question, who are you?” She asks again.

He does not answer her, but there is a smirk on his face as he continues to follow her.

“Do you find this amusing?” She questions after a few moments of silence. She is upset that her annoyance brings him pleasure and enjoyment.

“I find you quite amusing.” He answers with a smirk, his cocked to the side as he continues to watch her.

“Is that so?” Isera snorts. 'What an ass.' She thinks as she scoffs to herself, pulling her cloak closer to her. He isn't the first man to comment on her anger, with a patronizing tone and words.

“Yes, you are care passionately for the People. Is that why the villagers trust you?” He asks.

Isera snorts, shaking her head at the idea. “They trust me because I have been doing this since I was a child and because I treat them with respect. My passion has nothing to do with it.” She answers as she glances at him through the side of her eye.

“Is that why you help them escape?”

Isera freezes at his words. She can feel her heartbeat in her ears as she turns to fully look at him. She tries to suppress her fear. It is true. She had been freeing slaves and getting them to a place of refuge for years now. It is a crime to do so--punishable by death. He has to know that accusing her of freeing slaves can inhibit her from helping the People. It could cause an investigation against her if someone else overheard his statement.

“I’m afraid I do not know what you are referring to.” She answers coolly. Isera had always been careful to not attract the attention of the nobles. The slaves kept quite as did the villagers.

The stranger hums as they continue to walk. “Why do you think the villagers called for Fen’harel?” He questions, changing the subject without a care to the panic that Isera is feeling.

Isera looks at him in annoyed confusion. “They prayed to all the Gods during times of stress,” Isera replies, her words curt and to the point.

“The man said—“

“If you want to know why the villagers called upon Fen’harel, I suggest you go ask them. I am not a mind-reader.” She brushes off his words as she picks up her pacing walking.

He pauses but then a grin forms on his face as he does the same. Isera rolls her eyes as she continues to walk into the village.

After a few moments of silence, the stranger is still following her with a smirk on his face. She can feel his eyes glancing at her every so often.

“Why are you following me?” She asks. “It’s creepy.”

“I am not following you, I’m only walking in the same direction as you.” He pauses. “As I recall, you chased after me first, perhaps it is you who following me.”

Isera scoffs. “I make my way through the villages.” She tells him as she sees the form of the settlement appearing quickly over the horizon.

“So was I.”

Isera gives the stranger an incredulous look before rolling her eyes once more. She does not respond to him, but she will yield for now. If the stranger wanted to follow her around the villages, fine.

He walks next to her with a pep in his step as he hums a tune. Isera restrains from making a face to display her annoyance as she walks into the village. The children, like the village, before are excited to see her.

Isera quickly forgets about the strangers as she is pulled away from him by excited little people. She entertains the children for a few before making her way to the village elders who are ill but are unable go into the deep sleep as most have. There are rites and offerings needed to be able to go into the holy chambers, but these elves are too poor to afford such luxuries.

She refills the medicine jars to easier the pain in their joints and gently massages their hands as they tell her stories of the past. Some are slowly forgetting their lives, their loved ones, and her. She is doing as much as she can to ease their suffering.

She makes her way out to the community garden. Isera taught a few of the villagers how to grow hearty plants. She assists with monitoring the progress and growth of the plants, guiding the People on what to look for.

The stranger returns to her side as Isera is checking on the plants. He wordlessly watches her as she assesses the stems and leaves of the plants for any signs of blight. She pauses, glancing up at the man, who now has a stem of a plant hanging from between his lips.

“The villagers are quite fond of you.” He declares as he continues to look at her.

Isera stares up at him, a leaf still between her fingers as she doesn’t reply. She can already hear in her mind the whispers from the villagers asking who the man was and if she was being courted by him.

Isera sighs loudly as she stands, slapping her hands together to clean the dirt off her palms. She walks past him without another word. When she turns around to ask him why he continues to follow her, he is gone.

Isera frowns and glances around for a moment before walking away, back to the city.

There is a howling behind her, but she does not pay any mind to the call.

[buttsonthebeach]

The Turning of the Year

@scharoux did me the honor once again of asking me to write about Rhaella, and this time I got to write about my favorite seasons EVER at the same time! Hurray for fall and fluff! Thank you as always dear friend <3

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots currently open as of 10/16/19)

Other pieces about Rhaella I have written include:

1. All Things Green and Growing

2. The Long Road Back (**this new piece takes place the closest in time to this one)

3. The Same Kind of Scar

4. World Without End

5. The Last Game Pt. 1, the Last Game Pt. 2, and the Last Game Pt. 3 (contains explicit content)

Pairing: Solas x Rhaella Lavellan

Rating: Teen for some smooches and vague sexual references

**********************

Fall had come to Skyhold. Rhaella could see it from her balcony. They'd struggled to the castle through the last, vicious winter snows, and then they had melted away into a delicate spring, and at some point it had become summer, hotter than she had expected, muggier. It seemed like every time she left for a mission she returned to a different season, like Skyhold was a person who wore many faces, like she would never really know it. Then she managed to stay long enough - bogged down in preparations for their march to the Arbor Wilds - that she saw fall creep over the peaks and valleys surrounding it, one pinprick of color against grey slate at a time. First a flash of orange, and then red, and then the whole mountain was that riot of color she associated with her favorite season. The heat of summer was melting away and while some members of the Inquisition grumbled about it, Rhaella sought out the chill, relishing the gooseflesh it raised all over her skin. 

That was how she found herself standing on the balcony, with a blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders, admiring the waves of color proceeding down the mountain into Ferelden like the folds of a woman's gown, realizing that this would be the first fall that she did not celebrate Soulsday.

It was her favorite holiday - the one she had the most cherished girlhood memories of, the time many of her best memories of her parents hailed from. There'd be the same chill in the air, the same dazzling colors, the smell of woodsmoke and the snap of dried twigs underfoot. Her mother always made the best dolls out of those dried twigs, and the clan elders would do the same, except they would use them to tell stories of the Creators by firelight, and all of them knew they would culminate in the ultimate story on Soulsday itself: the tale of Fen'Harel. The hunters would go out for long hunts on those chilly days, catching enough food for the feast to come. It was around Soulsday that Rhaella's father first let her try her own small bow, began teaching her how to anchor the arrow to the corner of her lip and to keep her elbow down. 

The rest of the clan would busy themselves with gathering the gourds and squash growing in patches - skin thick and colored bright orange, pale yellow, and green, covered in strange knobs that all the children would touch and squeal over, that teenagers teased each other about because they so resembled the blemishes covering their faces, or the faces of the old. They hollowed them out, roasted and ate the meat and seeds alike, and then the most skilled among them began to carve them into scenes from their history, or the faces of gods and demons. Maybe that was the thing that had recalled those nights to her most clearly - the taste of the squash, sweet and smoky and soft. They’d had it in a soup in the great hall the night before. Maybe that was why she stood on the balcony reimagining all of these scenes, replaying them.

They would never play again in real life. Rhaella’s clan was dead now. The words still hurt to think, but that was a good thing. It was a pain she deserved. It was hero own fault, after all. She only hoped she would do better by the Inquisition.

Rhaella watched two birds wheeling in the sky - hawks perhaps - and thought of her flight from Skyhold. How she’d sought to protect the Inquisition from her failures, how she’d been so certain it was the right thing to do. How Solas had gone and brought her back. They’d shared a night alone in the Emerald Graves then, bodies pressed close, breaths coming harsh, but no barriers has been crossed. Whatever his reservations were about crossing it, she respected them. But standing there, alone on the balcony, she wished suddenly that he was there. Sidling up behind her, perhaps, having just woken up from the bed they both shared. Sliding underneath the blanket she had around her shoulders, his chest still bare, the two of them sharing each other’s warmth while they looked out over the gold-lined mountains and the brilliant trees.

Rhaella shook herself from her reverie. It wasn’t an impossible dream. They were both here in Skyhold, both in the same holding pattern of waiting for troops and trebuchets and letters from the Orlesians pledging aid. She was Inquisitor. If she declared she was taking a day to train outside the fortress with her most experienced mage, no one would question it. Or, if they did question it, they would not do so to her face. She went back into her room, the matter decided. It was her favorite time of year. She would spend it with the person she loved the most, away from all of this. She deserved that much. He would tell her so himself, silencing the little voice that tried to say otherwise, snaking like a thin trail of smoke through her mind.

*

“Soulsday?” Solas asked, an eyebrow quirked, when she came and found him.

“Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“Only a little. It shall be an opportunity for you to educate me further.”

“Well, I suppose the first thing I should mention is that it’s actually later in fall. After the equinox and the harvest, just as the days start to grow short. But we will likely be on the road to the Arbor Wilds by then, and all that really matters to me is that it feels like fall now. Well, and I’ve seen patches of squash and gourds further down the mountain, and they look ripe enough for our purposes. That’s important, too.”

Solas raised his eyebrows further.

“Has Dorian had it wrong all this time? Will we be dancing naked in a patch of gourds rather than surrounded by flowers?”

Rhaella laughed. “Only if you want to. I have to say that isn’t part of the Soulsday tradition.”

Solas smiled. He shifted so their bodies were closer as they both leaned against his desk. Not quite touching, but close enough to thrill.

“I look forward to learning the rest, vhenan. May I have an hour or so to wrap up what I am doing here?”

“Of course. I need to gather a few things anyway.”

Her gathering consisted of going to the kitchen and requesting two canteens filled with apple cider they’d just imported from Ferelden, plus a few actual apples besides; a bundle of cinnamon sticks; two small, sharp paring knives as well as two sturdy metal spoons; four small beeswax candles; and some of their usual trail mix to tide them over, along with cheese and peppered salami. Her last addition was two hand pies that the cook insisted she take, which she said were filled with spiced apples and currants and dried cranberries. They were an Orlesian delicacy, not something that would remind her of home at all, but they smelled divine, and Rhaella could not say no.

That done, she went to the great hall to wait for Solas. He emerged from the rotunda dressed warmly, wrapped in dark green and brown woolen clothes that she was sure would give Vivienne, Dorian, and Leliana a fright if they saw them. True, they were simple, and ragged at the edges, but there was something about those very qualities that soothed and endeared Rhaella to him. He was formidable in his armor, especially the newest set Harritt and Dagna had made for the journey to the Temple of Mythal, but this made him look more at ease. She wanted to hug him at once, breathe in the smell of wool and him.

“Inquisitor,” he said, smooth and professional, when he reached her. They were in public, after all.

“Let’s go,” she said, and they set off together down the great staircase and across the courtyard, to where their harts were saddled and ready for them.

They rode down the gray stone path that led away from Skyhold and Rhaella breathed in deep, drawing as much of the crisp air into her lungs as she could. This high up in the mountains, you could already taste the frost on your tongue. Fall would be shorter here than it was back in the Free Marches. She would need to enjoy it while she could.

There was always the chance that this would be her last fall, after all. Who knew what Corypheus had in store. There was no guarantee that she would succeed. She had already failed Clan Lavellan after all.

Rhaella clenched her left hand, though the Anchor was quiet in her palm, though Solas had told her over and over again that she should not give in to the snarling voice in her head that wanted to lay those deaths at her feet. Today would not be about those thoughts. Today would only be about the season that she had always loved, and the man she had grown to love.

“Where are we headed?” Solas asked. The difference in his voice when they were alone was subtle but it was there - the softening of it, the warmth. They weren’t Inquisitor and Fade expert here. They just were, the same way the mushrooms crowding in the underbrush on either side of the road were.

“There’s a grove I noticed on our last trip back from the Storm Coast,” Rhaella said. “There was a patch of vines that I think might have grown some fall squash now. Pumpkins, maybe.”

“Ah. I think I know the one, and I agree. It did look like that sort of vine.”

A smile tugged on the edges of Rhaella’s lips. It was one of the first things they’d bonded over, after all - their shared love of the natural world. Of course he’d noticed the same thing she had.

The grove was not far - only an ambling twenty minute ride away - but it was around a bend in the road, nestled in-between two high cliffs, so that you could not see Skyhold at all, and that made it feel a world away. It was as grand as the castle Rhaella’s forces called home, for all that it was only a grove; tall pines marked the entrance to it, defiantly green in the face of the mountain chill and the change of seasons. Interspersed between them were scarlet maple trees. She dismounted, and, not even bothering to tether Thistle breathed in the smell of damp, loamy earth, the sharp herby notes of the elfroot that had sprung up between all of it. Solas dismounted near her, and came to stand close, not quite touching.

“It is lovely here,” she said. “I was just thinking how this is as grand as Skyhold, in its own way.”

Solas smiled, though it did not quite reach his eyes.

“Our people would have agreed, in ancient times. They lived intertwined with nature in a way that I think even the Dalish do not understand. If they had built a house here, it would have been part of these very trees, this very earth, instead of simply resting within it.”

“I see,” Rhaella said, arching an eyebrow. “Shall I show you how we Dalish live within nature, then?”

Solas’s cheeks were already pinked by the cold, but she suspected some of it was shame, as he turned from her and began to tether his own mount.

“Yes, you shall.”

Their harts tethered, they went further into the grove. Solas took her hand as they walked. It was almost cold enough that she regretted not wearing gloves, but the feeling of his palm against hers, warm and calloused, was well worth it. Soon the trees parted and the patch of vines was visible, and Rhaella’s hopes were rewarded: it had yielded three perfect pumpkins, untouched by any frost, still vibrantly orange and plump.

“Oh, these are perfect,” she said as they drew close to them, running their hands over the leathery skin.

“Should I start building a cooking fire?” Solas asked.

“No. We won’t be cooking them. I brought other food for us. But a small fire for warmth would be perfect.”

Solas looked curious, but he did as he was told. Rhaella harvested the three pumpkins while he worked, cutting them free of their thick, prickly vines and setting them up neatly in a row. One was taller than the rest - exactly the sort the hahrens would choose to carve a more dramatic scene. Perhaps Mythal rising up into the form of a dragon, or Elgar’nan raining his wrath down from the skies, or Fen’Harel howling with glee, the Creators trapped in a prison above him. The other two were fatter and wider, the sort they would give to the younger craftsmen of the clan to do a simpler image - perhaps a halla with its curving horns, or the pattern of vallaslin, or the leering face of a demon.

Behind Rhaella, the fire crackled to life, filling the grove with the scent of woodsmoke. It already clung to Solas’s clothes and she breathed deep when he sat beside her, drinking it in.

“What are we to do with these, then?” Solas asked.

“We’re going to carve them and put a candle inside when we are finished. My clan used to have dozens of these carved and ready by Soulsday. They’d light up the whole camp with images from myth and legend and history, and demons and spirits besides. The idea is that Soulsday is when the Veil grows thinnest, when our ancestors can peer through and see us, and these lanterns guide them here. Even the Creators are able to look down from their prison on that day, and we want them to know that we have not forgotten their names or their stories.”

Rhaella found herself leaning in to Solas as she talked, looking up at the pale blue sky above them. His arm was around her waist, his thumb tracing idle circles there. The rest of his body was oddly tense, as though he had not fully relaxed into the embrace.

“Of course, if they can see us, and so can our ancestors, Fen’Harel can as well. So we also carve the faces of terrifying demons and put them around the perimeter of the camp, trying to ward him off. I was thinking this shorter pumpkins on the left and right would be good for one of those faces. The taller one is good for a more intricate scene, although I don’t know if I have the skill to do one justice. What do you think?”

Solas was quiet a moment, his body remaining still and tense. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, the kind that made her whole body shiver.

“Whatever you would like to do, my heart.”

“Let’s do one of each,” Rhaella said after a moment’s thought. “Something to scare away the bad things, something to attract an ancestor, and something to honor the past.”

“Very well.”

They had to break apart to have enough room to work. Rhaella spread out a blanket and they sat on opposite ends of it, their feet brushing one another’s, the pumpkins they’d selected in the space between them.

“I will work on one to frighten away your Fen’Harel,” Solas had said, taking one of the smaller pumpkins and one of the exquisitely sharp knives Rhaella had borrowed from the kitchen.

“I’ll do one to guide my parents,” Rhaella said. 

It was what she did every year - what she and her father had done together in the years after her mother died. She felt bad sometimes that she usually only had the time to do one. Other families within the clan - larger ones, with siblings and cousins and aunts and uncles - could do whole groups of pumpkins so that the area surrounding their aravels blazed with light. If there was an afterlife, their ancestors would surely have no trouble finding their way home. She hoped the one small candle she lit every year was enough to guide her parents back.

She and Solas worked quietly together for a while. Rhaella got up at one point and went to her pack to retrieve their trail mix, cheese, and salami, and lay it out for both of them to enjoy. She watched Solas work out of the corner of her eye as she did so. She always loved to observe him when he was at his least guarded. She knew those moments were precious, meant only for her, that the way he dropped his guard when they were alone was one of the deepest signs of his love for her. She did not need to know why he carried his guard so high in the first place to know that. 

He looked very serious as he carved, the way he did when he was painting. His eyebrows were knit close together and he chewed on his bottom lip from time to time as he regarded his canvas, treating it with no less care than he treated the walls of his rotunda, where he painted the story of her time as Inquisitor. There was a similar heaviness in his shoulders, the set of his jaw. As if he considered this as important and as permanent.

“What are you thinking?” She asked at last, passing him a canteen of cider.

He took a drink before answering.

“That the Dalish belief of what would frighten Fen’Harel is an odd one. He is the Bringer of Nightmares, and yet the face of a demon is meant to ward him off?”

“Not just one demon. The whole clan helps carve all of these. There would a ring surrounding the entire camp on Soulsday. If a clan can command the loyalty of that many demons, Fen’Harel probably should be afraid. But it’s all superstition anyway.”

Solas nodded, his lips still pursed. Rhaella tried to lean over and see what he was carving, but he pulled the pumpkin protectively closer.

“Ah - not yet. Wait until I am finished.”

“Fine,” Rhaella sighed, adding a dramatic weariness to the word. It made Solas smile, and that warmed her from head to toe.

For her part, she worked on a variation of a design she had done many times since her parents died. A wreath of prophet’s laurel, and a bow and arrow in the middle. The natural world, the plants and medicine she’d learned from her mother, and the hunting she’d learned from her father. They were gifts she still used to that day. If they could see this offering - and she hoped they did - she hoped that they knew that.

Our time together was short, she thought as she worked. But you taught me well. Maybe it’s better that you didn’t live to see these times. If you had been among the dead of Clan Lavellan -

She would not have been able to stand that. Nothing Solas could have said when he pursued her would have worked.

The day wore on as they carved, each enjoying the silence, each stealing glances at one another. They paused now and again to enjoy the food Rhaella had brought, though she saved the hand pies as a secret treat. It turned out that Solas had brought the small cooking pot he took with him on the road, so they were able to heat up the cider she’d gotten from the kitchen and enjoy it warm from the small tin cups he always carried. Rhaella put a cinnamon stick in each one, and the air was rich with the scent of that warm spice, along with the anise and clove that the chefs had used to prepare it. Solas let out a quiet exhale of enjoyment after his first sip that made Rhaella curl her toes. They so rarely got these moments. She wanted to commit every bit of it to memory.

Rhaella finished her carving first. Solas, ever the artist, insisted on going over every detail a second time before he allowed her to see his work. When at last he turned his pumpkin around so she could see, her breath caught in her throat. He’d carved the face of a Pride demon, so real, so covered in crags, that a chill passed through her. Its six eyes seemed to stare directly into her, and the sneer of its lip captured the essence that it embodied.

“Well done, vhenan,” she said finally.

Solas shrugged. “Of all the demons, it seemed the most likely to frighten Fen’Harel.”

Something was bothering him. Rhaella could sense it, even if she could not put her finger directly on it, could not identify the exact source. She walked over to him, sat behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist. It was the reverse of what she had imagined that morning on the balcony - her comforting him with the weight of her body, rather than him slipping in behind her.

“Then I am confident he will not bother us tonight,” she said. A little chill ran down her spine at her own words. The implication there, the idea that they could spend the night here in this grove, undisturbed, just the two of them and the autumn stars above, the whistle of the wind in the pine trees.

Solas said nothing in reply. He only leaned his head against hers. She turned and kissed his jaw, and then the pulsepoint just behind it, felt his sharp intake of breath, the way he always melted into her when she showed him tenderness. She kissed him on his neck, felt the gooseflesh rise on his skin. She tightened the hold of her arms around his waist and just held him, and he let her.

“You’re a much better carver than I am,” she murmured finally. “You should do the big pumpkin.”

“We shall do it together. You must instruct me in what I shall carve.”

“Well, we’ve done one for my ancestors, and one to keep the Dread Wolf at bay. We should do one to honor the Creators, for the sake of tradition.”

Solas played with his carving knife, idly twisting it this way and that. “Mythal, then?”

“That’s what I was thinking. Sometimes we’d just do their vallaslin or some other object related to them, and sometimes it would be a scene from one of their stories.”

Solas nodded, drawing the last uncarved pumpkin closer to them and studying it, turning it this way and that, probably looking for the flattest, smoothest side of that.

“I have an idea,” he said. “But you have a very important job while I work. You must tell me stories of the Soulsdays of your youth. And you must not move from where you are right now.”

Rhaella felt warm from the tips of her toes to the crown of her feet at his words. She buried her face against the back of his neck, and he chuckled, and she felt the sound vibrate through her whole body.

She did exactly as he asked, talking while he worked. Her memories were not always happy ones - certainly not after her parents died, after the isolation set in - but she found the light where she could. She left her place behind him only once, to his joking admonishment, to retrieve the apples she’d brought and cut them up so they could eat while he carved. Sometimes she went quiet and watched him. His movements were deft and sure, and though it was chilly in the grove, he paused to roll up the sleeves of his sweater, baring his forearms. She could see the muscles working there as he expertly carved away pieces of the orange skin, sometimes just exposing the membranes beneath, other times carving all the way through. He’d already cut off the top and hollowed it out, of course. They’d tossed all their seeds near the patch, and Rhaella imagined that if they came back a year from now, there’d be another patch of pumpkins, and they could carve even more. It would be their secret, their tradition.

I’d have to survive another year for that to happen.

“Are you well?” Solas asked, pausing and turning just enough to see her out of the corner of his eye. She must have stiffened, or gone quiet for too long.

“Yes. I was just thinking about the seeds we threw over there. About whether or not they’d take root by this time next year. About whether or not we’d be here together ever again.”

She regretted the words as they were leaving her mouth. They rarely, if ever, spoke of the future. Too many things were uncertain, unknown. But Solas simply set down his carving knife, put the pumpkin gently aside, and turned to her, cupping her face with his hands. He smelled sweet, like the pumpkin itself, and his hands were sticky, but Rhaella loved both of those things. They grounded her in the here, in the now, in the present moment.

“It does not matter where we are a year from now or a hundred years from now,” he said. “The spirits will remember the memories we have made here today. I swear it.”

And then he kissed her, full on the mouth, deeply, his breath shuddering out of him as he parted her lips with his own. Rhaella made a helpless, pleased little sound against his mouth, and he returned it. They were both off balance, fell quickly backwards, with little grace, but that did not matter because Solas was warm and heavy on top of her, and Rhaella never wanted to let him go.

They did pull apart eventually, both sensing that precipice that they had not crossed yet. Solas’s pupils were blown wide, his eyes dark as a winter sky, his lips pink and swollen from the intensity of their kiss.

“Another memory for the spirits?” Rhaella asked, surprised how breathy she sounded.

Solas smiled. “I think I shall ask if we can keep that one for ourselves.”

They rearranged themselves, finished the carving of the pumpkin. It was a marvelous thing - the top part covered in the intertwining branches of Mythal’s most elaborate vallaslin, with a pair of eyes beneath it - her own, Rhaella realized with a shock that curled and uncurled in the pit of her belly, a racing, excited feeling. No one had ever memorialized her like this before. Beneath that was a statue like they’d seen in their travels - a woman with wings instead of arms, and at her feet, a wolf standing guard.

“This is the most marvelous thing I have ever seen,” Rhaella murmured. She looked around, took in the waning daylight. They’d been here longer than she intended, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty. She needed this. “Shall we light them?” 

They arranged all three in a row, put in the beeswax candles she had brought, and lit them. They glowed at once with life, that same magic she remembered from childhood, all the more mysterious because she could not explain it with theories of the Veil or the Fade. How was it that flickering orange light took this hollowed out pumpkin and made it seem to breathe, to live again? How was it that after all of these years she could still almost believe that the glow would draw the good things home again, and keep the bad things at bay?

It was just dark enough now that fireflies had emerged in-between the trees, winking at one another like stars that had come to earth. Solas put his arm around her waist and kissed the crown of her head.

“This is a lovely tradition,” he said. “I hope -”

He did not speak his hope aloud, but Rhaella felt it there between them like a third person. Like a ghost, or a spirit. He did not have to speak it aloud. That was the magic of this night. Not the supposed thinness of the Veil, but the lights amidst the coming darkness. The way they faithfully sent each hope and memory into the cold night air in trails of smoke - the way they winked and fluttered but did not go out.

Rhaella and Solas stood there until night had truly fallen, sipping cider, enjoying the Orlesian pies, watching the fireflies and the shifting red leaves on the maple trees, surrounded by hope and light. Then they put out the candles and packed up their things and rode home under the stars, feeling lighter themselves than they had when they left that morning - feeling ready for whatever was to come.