#seeing him in skyhold was so thrilling…… | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

broodsys · 8 months

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been a long time since I've felt like I HAD to write something, but I rly connected with Nessa's playthrough and I'm still kinda reeling even tho I knew what was coming. so, there's this, taking place immediately after the end of the main game. hopefully the formatting isn't fucked bc I'm on my phone and not using the app, but we'll see

They had won. It seemed an impossibility, yet here they were, celebration reaching all corners of Skyhold. She was happy, thrilled even, that Corypheus was gone, that the sky was mended, that she and her friends were no longer at risk.

The impromptu party Josephine had thrown was great fun.

Still, she felt hollow. He should be here.

When she slept that night, she expected to find him in the Fade. He had promised that all would be made clear. Instead, she fought Corypheus again. Instead, he left her again. Instead, she saw herself without her Vallaslin. Despite everything, she was relieved when she woke and saw the familiar markings on her face.

She knew she needed to remain strong, to not let her people see how torn she was, but it was hard. She kept remembering holding his hand, the simple joy she'd felt, the sense that he was finally acknowledging their relationship in truth. Instead, it had been the start of the end. A thin comfort before the storm.

Things had faded since that conversation, as though she was observing her life at a remove. She tried to hide it. She thought she had managed.

"Inquisitor, a word?" She was on the battlements, looking at the mountains, distracted enough that she hadn't heard Leliana approach.

"Of course. What is it?"

"I do not mean to be untoward, but…" She was confused as Leliana approached her, stunned as the other woman's arms wrapped around her. "Those who care about you can see your suffering. I am so sorry, my lady."

Nessa hesitated, momentarily uncertain, before returning the embrace. No one touched her casually - first, she had been seen as a criminal; next, touched by Andraste. Finally, she had become the Inquisitor. People don't just hug the leader of the Inquisition.

She hadn't realized how much she'd missed it until she realized she was crying, uncertain how much was despair and how much was relief. Leliana still did not pull away.

"I loved him. I- I don't know why he left." The words were pressed against Leliana's shoulder, thin and private, still catching in her throat. The tears were hot on her face.

"Nor I. I wish I could have found him for you."

"He does not wish it." These words were even smaller, as though to say it risked making it real. But she knew it was real. It was all real - the love and the pain. The hollow he'd left behind. Finally she pulled away, wiping her face, certain she looked a mess. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to…" She gestured weakly at her face, her tears. Leliana's smile was soft, warm. So genuine it took Nessa by surprise.

"Think nothing of it, my lady. My friend. You may lead the armies of the faithful, you may have sealed the Breach, but you are still a person. Those who care about you have not forgotten this."

Gratitude swelled in her as she turned back to the mountains, letting the cold breeze hit her tears and chill her. A sensation stronger than her grief, at least for the moment. "We walked together, the night before we faced Corypheus. I haven't told anyone…" Leliana came to stand by her side, also looking out at the mountains. Trying to make this moment easier for Nessa, she knew. "He told me about the Vallaslin, our markings. Corypheus spoke of it, too." She took a deep breath - this pained her as much as his flight. "They are the marks of a slave." Leliana, so often calm and in control, gasped and turned to stare at her. Nessa continued to look out. She needed to say it. "Long ago, owners used the Vallaslin to mark their slaves. They do represent our Gods, but… they are not as the Dalish thought."

"That's… that's horrible, I had no idea. Solas told you this?" Nessa nodded, new tears hot in her eyes but cold as they slipped down her cheeks.

"He offered to remove mine. But, I couldn't… no matter what they were, what they meant, they have meaning to my People now. It was an honor to receive my Vallaslin. He accepted my answer, he seemed to respect it, but…" Leliana put a gentle hand on her shoulder, a small touch that grounded her, helped her finish the thought that she hadn't dared articulate even to herself. "... what if it is why he left? What if he couldn't stand knowing I kept myself marked as a slave? What if he couldn't understand that it meant something to me as a Dalish, regardless of what it had meant in Arlathan?"

"My lady… I cannot speak for him, he always has been a mystery, but one thing I will say: he has never seemed to say something he does not mean. I do not think his acceptance of your decision a lie, although I can no more explain his flight than can you." It was a comfort to hear, because the words rang true. He was not one to lie - to avoid answering questions, certainly, but not to make his answers explicit lies. It helped, a little, to be reminded of this.

"I know he wanted the orb preserved. I saw that he mourned its destruction. But he left me before the fight, before it had been broken… I know it hurt him, that much was obvious." She shook her head, armor jangling slightly. She used to wear leathers. After their conversation she had switched to scalemail. She was still getting used to the sound, the weight of it, but the difference helped keep her in the moment. "He said all would be clear after the battle. Perhaps, at the time, he meant it. But nothing is clear." She finally turned to look at Leliana. The other woman had changed so much… when they'd first met, Nessa had been more than a little afraid of her. More afraid of her than of Cassandra, even. The longer they'd worked together the more she'd grown to trust her, although Leliana's willingness to go so far still scared her somewhat. But now the other woman had… softened. She'd found herself again. She still did what was needed, but no longer sought violence as a means in and of itself. "Except that I belong here, with all of you. Thank you for coming here, for listening. It means… more than I can say." Leliana's smile was so warm.

"You did the same for me, my friend." So simple, but the second time she'd called Nessa friend. A warm sentiment, a balm on the raw edges of her pain and grief. Leliana left her to her solitude, but she felt lighter. Her grief would keep, she knew, but she still had her Clan, still had her Vallaslin, and she still had her… family, here. She would live despite her grief. She would live. And in time, she would thrive.

For now, she left the mountains to their solitude and went back to the main hall. She no longer wanted to be alone.

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inquisimer · 2 years

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cullavellan this dadwc pleeeeeease -- a song lyric: covered with scars I did nothing to earn // maybe there’s somewhere a lesson to learn // but that wouldn’t change the fact // that wouldn’t speed the time (the last five years)

ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE

you know I love some borderline angst somft cullavellan🥺🥺

for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

At night he mapped her body with her lips, covering her skin and scars in kisses and adding bruises of pleasure to those of war. They fell asleep, tangled in limbs and blankets, seeking comfort in each other’s embrace.

Dawn rose, early and frigid even with Skyhold’s protections against the weather. The soft light of morning filtered through the edges of the hole in his roof, casting Neria in a bluish light. The blanket had curled around her midsection in her sleep, leaving her legs and chest exposed. He drew his eyes across her body, the slightest of blushes heating his cheeks at the memories it called to mind.

Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, though her face wasn’t calm even in sleep. His gaze traced over her, noting the signs of a life hard lived—a life she’d chosen, but never should have had.

There was the obvious: the vallaslin—not scars, through whatever magic the Dalish used to seal the ink underneath the skin. He didn’t know how they chose the pattern of the markings, but hers complimented her features, swiping across her sharp cheekbones and lining her eyes. If they were to open, he knew that the green, cat-like features would linger somewhere between contrasting and complimenting the tattoos, depending on the lighting.

At the juncture of her collarbone and breast, a too-famililar mark was seared into her skin. An incomplete circle, with two lines protruding like a gateway. In the middle, a loopy letter K.

Kinloch Hold.

He’d never wielded the brand himself, but he’d been trained in its use, practiced the procedure on swine brought in to mimic the apprentices. There was a terrifying thrill, between resting the instrument in the coals, restraining the target, and pressing the red hot brand to their skin—it had scared him, then, and it sickened him now.

Her arm bore the mark of a serious injury, the kind that would have been fatal in a more serious location. It was too jagged to have been made by a blade; perhaps an improvised weapon, a broken pipe or a sharpened branch. He didn’t know the story and he made a note to ask her sometime. He wanted to know her, inside and out, the pieces that made her her.

Amidst the bruises on her stomach, silvery slivers of finer injuries decorated her skin. Idly, he wondered why she didn’t just heal the bruises. It was possibly, he knew. Perhaps she just couldn’t be bothered?

These scars were more delicate, fine, white lines crisscrossing her midsection. He let his fingers drift across them now, close enough to feel the heat of her raised skin, but light enough to not disturb her sleep. They were from blades, surely, possibly the ones she’d faced between her escape and taking up residence in Kirkwall.

Further down, a stripe of burned tissue wrapped around her thigh. And beyond that a long, trailing pattern that looked like claws. All a roadmap of the trials and tribulations she’d faced because a life of captivity was so much worse than this pain.

And could he even blame her?

She wouldn’t want it, but the guilt and hatred rose up in him like a geyser anyway. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply of the laurel and mint that permeated her skin.

The motion finally made her stir from her rest. One hand lifted, sluggishly cupping around his jaw.

“Ma lath?” Her voice was similarly heavy in the way of the just woken. He didn’t answer, just pressed himself closer and hummed against her shoulder.

“Are you alright?” She spoke clearer now, and with justified concern. They’d woken together enough nights now, him shaking in her embrace, remembered ghosts clouding his consciousness. He propped himself up so she could see the smooth planes of his face, his cleared eyes. The worry in her gaze faded into fondness as her hand slipped around to brush over his cheekbones.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he murmured, his breath ghosting across her lips. She closed her eyes and stretched, arcing herself against him so they were skin to skin from legs to chest. A squeak emanated from within her throat, passing vibrations through where her lips were pressed against his collarbone.

“I need to get up anyway. Josephine will have my head if I sleep in again.”

“That she will,” he chuckled and she drew back, tipping her head against his pillows so she could stare into his eyes. Hers glittered in the rising sunlight and he felt a surge of something at the satisfaction, the contentment, the happiness he could see within.

Each year that had passed since his transfer to Kirkwall had felt like an age; another burden, another chronicle of pain and burdens to bear. Now, here in her arms, holding a body that was traced with the markings of the same years, passed in similar tragedy, he felt as light as he ever had.

He threaded his fingers through her loosening braid and pressed his smile against her lips, and hoped she could feel his joy through it all.

#my writing #dadwc #oc: neria surana lavellan #surana lavellan au #cullavellan #cullen rutherford #dragon age #dai #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfic

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nirikeehan · 2 years

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Happy Friday! I'm really interested to know more about the Nightmare!AU 👀 So maybe: "Composed characters losing their composure" for anyone of your choosing in that AU?

AAAHHH thank you. I’m obsessed with this AU because I like it when everything is hideous. The previous fic in this verse set up a conversation between my Inquisitor Thalia and Samson, so I went with that. Things got long, weird and terrible. I’m so sorry.

For @dadrunkwriting

Also thank you to @inquisimer for the encouragement and the vital piece of headcanon that made the ending possible.

Rating: M

Word Count: 4593

CW: Some mild non-con elements, because Samson is a creepy sad sack. Also a situation that is construed by one character as a suicide attempt.

---

At least I’m still alive, Thalia thought grimly, peering through the bars of her cage.

She had been imprisoned in this metal rectangle for untold days in Skyhold’s freezing Undercroft, under a sheet to blind her to everything but the sound of the falls. She had feared going mad there. Only hours ago she’d been moved, and the sheet had been reveal a nasty quartet of Red Templars, and the room was her own.

“What’s happening?” she’d demanded.

“Boss wants to see you,” grunted the Red Templar.

“Corypheus?” Thalia asked, but the guards said nothing more, and left.

Seeing her quarters like this filled Thalia with sadness and dread. She had loved the luxurious tower in Skyhold she had been afforded as Inquisitor. More decadent and spacious than her rooms in the Trevelyan estate — and a far cry from the cramped dormitory she’d shared with half a dozen other mages in the Circle — it had felt, for the first time in her life, like a space that truly belonged to her.

Now it was marred and violated: furniture ransacked, her beloved bookshelves bare, the beautiful lute gifted to her by a discerning noble smashed into kindling. What hadn’t been destroyed was replaced by ghoulish ornamentation: overflowing chests of gold and jewels, stolen pieces of artwork, divans and carpets and ornately carved tables littered with the foul remnants of vice: empty bottles of all shapes and sizes; rotting, half-eaten fruit; scraps of clothing belonging to both men and women.

Footsteps on the stair forced her upright. She squinted through the gloom, her blood pounding in her ears. A man cleared the landing. A thrill of joy and relief shot through her: she’d know the silhouette of that fur-lined coat anywhere. She grabbed the metal bars and pressed her face between them. “Cullen?”

The man stepped into the dying glow from the fireplace, and shot her a nasty smirk. “Sorry to disappoint.”

A horrified gasp escaped her throat. She shrank back. “You— you—”

“Yes, me,” said Raleigh Samson, Corypheus’s general. “I’m king of the castle these days, so to speak.”

Thalia had not seen Samson since the siege of Skyhold, when he and his men had breached the battlements, followed by Corypheus on his archdemon, framed by swirling black sky. With her remaining companions, she had stood behind Cullen as he’d drawn his sword, determined to make one final stand. They’d been separated in the ensuing chaos. She’d hoped, even in the bleak solitary confinement of the Undercroft, that others might have survived.

“He’s dead, then?” she whispered.

Samson drew closer. He had a face that might have been handsome once, but now his skin stretched over his bones. Premature lines criss-crossed his face, and his hair was thinner than the last time she saw him. Dark circles seemed a permanent fixture under his grey eyes, and his smile pulled on dry, cracked lips.

“They all are, love,” he said softly. “You’re the last one left. Too valuable for the master to kill, of course.”

His gaze dropped to her left hand, emanating a sickly green light.

“Yet.” Thalia swallowed.

“Yet,” Samson agreed. “He’s still got business to attend to before he has need of the anchor. You’ve been left in my care for the duration.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Samson sighed, turning from her abruptly. “Now, now, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I don’t know what your boyfriend might have told you about me, but I assure you I’m a perfect gentleman.”

“Perfect gentlemen don’t usually have to assert themselves as such,” Thalia retorted. “Nor do they usually work for crazed demigods bent on destroying the world.”

“I’m wounded,” Samson murmured, staring into the hearth’s embers. “You’ve built your opinion of me on rumor and hearsay.”

“What else could I do? It’s not like you ever stopped by Skyhold for tea.”

“Sounds nice, actually.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Would you care for some?”

Thalia stared. She was kneeling in a cage, her wrists and ankles shackled, cold and dirty and hungry from the untold time spent in the Undercroft. “You’re offering me tea?”

“Why not?” Samson turned to face her. “Or are you thinking I’m too barbaric for such a thing?”

A sense of unease crept along Thalia’s ribs. He must want something from her, but she couldn’t figure out what: unequivocally, Corypheus had won. She was at his mercy, and Samson’s. She swallowed against a lump in her throat. “I’ll take some, I suppose.”

She expected, at best, to be handed a cup through the metal bars, but Samson fished through the inner pockets of his stolen jacket and produced a ring upon which hung a set of skeleton keys. He inserted one into the lock on her cage door and turned it. The door creaked open.

“You must be toying with me,” Thalia said.

“Does it look like I’m toying?” Samson stepped back, palms up as if in surrender. “Where you going to go, exactly?”

He had a point. The exit was downstairs, in an area surely crawling with guards. Her only other option was the balconies, with a hundred plus foot drop into the icy ravines surrounding Skyhold. Thalia limped out of the cell cautiously, the chains on her ankles too short to allow for a normal stride. The shackles on her wrists pulsated with imbedded shards of red lyrium. In small amounts, it had not been enough to cause corruption, but something about it prevented her from summoning enough mana to work a spell. She’d desperately wished Dagna were here to study it. To Samson, she was completely harmless.

He nodded toward the door off the bedroom. “Go on. Washroom’s over there. Clean yourself up, you look a fright.”

“I know where the washroom is,” Thalia retorted. “I used to live here.”

“So you did. You always stick your nose up at hospitality, or is that a newfound practice of yours?”

She bit back another flippant response. Her time as the Inquisitor had emboldened her, but before that she’d endured over a decade in the Ostwick Circle, where the mages were always one sarcastic remark away from discipline at the ends of the Templars. She could see something of the Templar bearing in Samson, in fact; a rigidness in his posture that reminded her, painfully, of Cullen.

“Thank you,” she muttered through gritted teeth, and turned away.

The guise of washing gave her a few precious moments alone to collect herself. The washroom behind the main room of the tower was largely unchanged. A basin full of clean water awaited her. She cupped some in her hands and stared at herself in the mirror. Samson hadn’t been kidding: her hair was a greasy, tangled mess, face streaked with dirt and dried blood.

She splashed the water on her face and took to scrubbing at her skin with a washrag. The grime melted away to reveal a face paler and thinner than she’d recalled, the circular tattoo of the Ostwick Circle standing out prominently on her brow and cheekbone. She had no means to wash her hair, and the shackles made styling it difficult, but she managed to pull out the half-unraveled plaits. She pulled the unruly mass back from her head in a simple bun and looked almost respectable afterward.

She paused with her hand on the door knob. Surely Samson would become suspicious if she took too long, but she relished a moment alone to think through her strategy. Samson had her bested in every way. There was no point in trying to fight him, but at the very least she might be able to learn something by conversing.

His motivation was likewise a mystery. He was trying to get her to lower her guard, but why? Did she possess vital information in turn, something that Corypheus’s forces had been unable to uncover? She couldn’t imagine what that could be.

She hobbled out into a brighter room. Samson had stoked the fire and lit a number of candles, cleared some of the mess off the low table. He put down a teapot of finely crafted porcelain and a matching set of delicate teacups. The image jarred her — this rough and grizzled man setting a place for her, as well as a tin of biscuits, a pot of jam. She wondered which noble’s manse had been ransacked for the finery.

“Sit,” he said, in a tone that was both kind and a command.

Thalia perched on the edge of the divan. She recognized it. It had been moved, and stained with a number of untold substances since she’d last seen it, but it was hers. She recalled a number of times sitting here with Cullen as the light outside turned golden and faded, curled up with a book, her feet in his lap. She thought of the smile he would give her each time she peeked over the top of the tome. Her heart ached.

She clutched her hands together, the weight of the shackles pressing down on her lap. Samson leaned over and poured the tea into her cup. She watched his hands tremble, another familiar sight.

“Low on lyrium?” she asked before she could stop herself. “I’m surprised Corypheus would deprive you.”

He halted, jerking his head up to catch her gaze. His eyes looked more red than grey now, but perhaps they were only reflecting the firelight.

“I’ve plenty,” Samson snapped, standing upright.

“I see.” It’s just not enough, then. His addiction is that bad. She’d known Cullen had considered Samson a cautionary tale, an example of a future where he could not resist the lyrium’s siren call, and she was beginning to understand his fear. Even world domination could not cure Samson’s sunken eyes, sallow skin and constant need for a fix. She reached out and took the teacup off its saucer. “My thanks.”

He only grunted in acknowledgement, and Thalia knew she’d hit a nerve.

Samson sat down heavily in a chair across from her and picked up his own cup of tea. She didn’t drink until he’d taken a sip himself, though she knew if he wanted her dead, he could have killed her weeks ago. He watched her closely as she drank. She tried to maintain the posture she’d been taught as a child, but her stomach was so empty she experienced a ravenous desire to fill it. She eyed the biscuits hungrily.

“Go on.” Samson slouched in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Didn’t put them out for decoration.”

Thalia hesitated. If she resisted, she would maintain the moral high ground but not much else. A full stomach would help her more in the long run. She leaned forward and snatched a biscuit, shoving it in her mouth in a decidedly unladylike manner. When she looked up, Samson’s gaze still bore into hers, with an intensity that made her uncomfortable.

“Ostwick, eh?” he said.

She leaned back, to put more space between them. “What do you mean?” she asked, licking crumbs from her lips. Surely word had traveled far enough that even Corypheus’s forces knew the Inquisitor had hailed from the Trevelyans of Ostwick.

He waved his hand in front of one eye. “The mark of the Circle.”

“Oh. That.” Her fingers crept to her cheekbone, where the tattoo began, curving its way around her eye. “Most people forget that’s what it means.” An absurd statement — as if there was anyone left to care.

“I didn’t.” Samson squared his shoulders. “Worked with a few mages from Ostwick once. Heard about the things they did to you there. Branding you like cattle.” He looked away with a grimace. “Made my stomach turn.”

Bits of biscuit caught in Thalia’s throat as she swallowed. His disgust sounded genuine, a disgust that she shared. As if collecting blood for mage’s phylacteries hadn’t been enough, the Templar leadership in the Ostwick Circle had decided that the best way to ensure mages didn’t escape was to tattoo a symbol of the Circle onto their faces. Phylacteries could be broken, went the logic, but disfiguring someone’s features was permanent.

“I don’t remember the First Enchanter sending anyone to Kirkwall while I was at the Circle,” Thalia said quietly.

A grin quirked at the corner of Samson’s lips. “Didn’t work with ‘em while I was a Templar. I helped ‘em escape.”

“You — what?”

“Oh, did Cullen not tell you that part? That after I was tossed out of the Gallows, I ran unhappy mages to freedom across the sea?” Samson tilted his head. “Typical. He was always trying to shut us down, after all.”

Was Raleigh Samson trying to tell her that he understood the mages’ plight — the biggest issue she’d once clashed with her advisors on? Even Cullen, who sympathized with her point of view, having been on the enforcement end of the mages’ oppression, who had ultimately supported her decision, had his misgivings about giving them their unconditional freedom. And now, was Corypheus’s general truly trying to say he supported that cause?

Her eyes narrowed. “Hang on. Cullen told me you used to traffic people. For money.”

Samson let out a disappointed sigh. “A man’s gotta eat, love.”

“Or feed a lyrium habit,” Thalia retorted. “Sometimes those mages ended up in the hands of slavers, I heard.”

“Hey. That wasn’t my doing. Some people can pay more than others. Or at all.”

“How magnanimous of you. And when the Mage-Templar war broke out, your customer base dried up. Then you turned to smuggling lyrium. Red lyrium, for Corypheus.” Thalia shook her head. “Forgive me, but you aren’t going to win much sympathy from me, painting yourself as the courageous freedom fighter. Where are all those mages now? Dead or enslaved, just like everyone else.”

“There you go, sounding just like Cullen.” A muscle in Sams’s jaw clenched. “Thought maybe, given your background, you’d be more reasonable. But I suppose he has you wrapped around his little finger after all.”

Thalia bristled. She wanted to throw the remainder of her tea in Samson’s smug face, but her fingers halted gripped around the cup.

He’d spoken about Cullen in the present tense.

Thalia slowly returned the teacup to its saucer, struggling to keep her composure. “Is that what this is about? Proving Cullen wrong?” What else might she be able to wheedle out of him? “Is that why you’re sitting there, wearing his coat, trying to convince me you’re actually the hero here? Do you wish you were him that badly?”

“Ha! Me, wish I were him?” Samson leapt to his feet and began to pace. “Why on earth would I wish to be that simpering dog lord? Oh, sure, he was always the golden boy on the surface, kissing Meredith’s arse all the way to the top. But you didn’t know him like I knew him, love. Always battling the demons inside his little head. I helped him out when he needed it, filching an extra dose here and there to take the edge off. I was a good friend, see? And what did he do, when he’d made Knight-Captain and Meredith kicked me out into the gutter, copperless?”

Samson leaned down, leering at her. Thalia tried to inch away, but Samson grabbed her chin and forced her to look him in the eye. His pupils glowed with a scarlet fury. Thalia’s heart hammered against her ribcage.

“What did he do?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” Samson growled. “He did nothing. For years. Even when I tried — I tried to help round up the mage extremists and get reinstated, but he couldn’t take the risk. Too much of a junkie — too addicted to the lyrium the bloody Chantry poured down my throat. I was a liability to him, don’t you understand? I was worthless.”

Pain cut through every word of his rant. Thalia watched him with a mixture of fear and sorrow. He was a deeply broken man, that much was evident. Thalia found herself recalling the long afternoons spent with Cullen, trying to track Samson’s movements, how every clue seemed to remind her that there must still be humanity inside him. Cullen never budged. He was moved only by rage at his former friend, the exact same rage she now saw fueling Samson. How did it end up like this? she wondered.

“And then— and then.” Samson sat on the divan beside her, clutching her hands. “I see him running the Inquisition. Following the so-called ‘Herald of Andraste,’ — a mage! When I’d had far more sympathy for their cause — when I’d done far more—” He let out an agitated huff. “Some men are just bloody lucky, I suppose. Good looks, charm, obedience, is that truly all it takes? He gets the fame, the glory, even the girl…”

With one shaky hand, and a gentleness that surprised her, he cupped her cheek. His other hand clenched her palm, engulfing the light from the anchor, nails digging into her skin. Thalia froze, not daring to breathe. Cullen was right. He’s gone mad.

A desperate smile spread across Samson’s face. “Well, I’ve showed him. Who’s laughing now? I’m here, second-in-command to a living god, and he’s below us, rotting in the dungeon…”

He embraced her, clinging to her like a man drowning. Thalia let him, too stunned to fight back.

“I thought,” she breathed into his ear, “you said Cullen was dead.”

Samson jerked back, eyes narrowed. “Technically, you said that, love, not me. Who the fuck cares about Cullen, eh? I can offer you so much more than him.”

She stared, aghast. “You brought me all the way up here, let me out of that cage, tried to entreat with me… because you’re lonely?”

“Why not? ’S very isolating at the top.” He drew a stray piece of hair behind her ear, making her shiver. “I thought you of all people would know that.”

Trying not to recoil, Thalia took a deep breath. “And what does Corypheus think of this plan?”

“Well. He don’t exactly know about it yet.” Samson scratched at the stubble on his chin. “But I think he’d come around eventually. He did with that Dorian bloke.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

Samson chortled. “That’s right, he was a friend of yours, wasn’t he? Heads the Venatori now. See what I mean? Corypheus can be reasonable.”

Thalia opened her mouth and closed it again, shocked. The Dorian Pavus she knew would have chosen death before siding with Tevinter supremacists, never mind agreeing to be their leader. Yet — all the rules of her reality had already been broken. If Cullen was alive, why not Dorian? Cullen was here in the Skyhold dungeons, and Dorian must be wherever the Venatori had set up their headquarters. Minrathous, probably. How many of her former allies might still be out there? Were any of them biding their time, looking for a sign, a glimpse of hope?

“Dorian’s a Tevinter,” she said with feigned blitheness. “I imagine he has a leg up from a lowly mage from Ostwick who accidentally got the anchor stuck in her hand.”

“Perhaps.” Samson slouched beside her, leaning on an elbow to prop up his jaw. His gaze was feverish, a mix of hatred and desire — though she couldn’t be sure if it was her he lusted after, or merely the sense of superiority she would provide him. “But if I were to vouch for you, Corypheus wouldn’t have need to kill you anymore, would he?”

“You mean work for him.” Thalia’s tone was cold.

Samson shrugged. “You got anything else going on at the moment?”

“And— what? Agree to be your—” She searched for a polite term and tried not to shudder. “Paramour?”

“Hey, don’t put it like that. I told you, I’m a gentleman. I ain’t forcing you to do anything. I just want you to give me a chance, that’s all.” He leaned forward and took her wrist, holding it up for her to see. “There’s a lot I could do for you, love. You’d like your freedom back, wouldn’t you?”

Thalia looked down at his clammy hand, but something aside from the shackles caught her attention. Cullen’s coat hung open on Samson’s slighter frame, revealing an inside lapel pocket she knew all too well. When the jacket had been Cullen’s, he was forever stuffing missives and scraps of notes to himself in there. The fabric dipped open, revealing the ring of skeleton keys he’d produced to let her out of her cage.

I wonder what other locks those keys could open. She thought of Cullen, in the dank dungeon, any screams being drowned out by the roaring of Skyhold’s falls. She swallowed hard.

“I suppose that would be nice,” she said softly.

Samson let out a smug laugh and dropped her wrist. “Good girl. Glad to see you’re not as thick as Cullen. ‘Reckon she’s got a brain in her head,’ I said to myself. ‘I bet she’s not too proud to refuse me.’”

“Is that what Cullen did? Refuse you?” Thalia felt a painful pang in her chest, because that sounded just like him. He would never bow down to the likes of Samson, now or ever. It was a wonder his stubbornness hadn’t gotten him killed already.

“Not only that, but he was an absolute tit about it,” Samson spat. “But I’ll show him. Oh, I will. Was being too lenient before now, outta the tenderness of my heart. Nah, I’ll get him in the end, when the red lyrium’s song consumes him.”

“What?” Thalia cried.

A slow smirk crossed Samson’s face. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. He won’t be a problem much longer. No one can resist the crimson melody for very long, ‘specially not a Templar. Soon he’ll be as compliant as the rest.” He stretched out slowly and luxuriously, like a cat. “And you’ll be mine, eh?”

Panic gripped her. If anything was being done to Cullen with red lyrium, she didn’t have time to play the long game. She couldn’t afford to be sweet and obedient until she lulled Samson into a false sense of security. She didn’t have days, or probably even hours. All the while, Samson sat beside her, offering her treats and pretty promises.

“Cullen was right,” she hissed. “You are a monster.”

“Eh, maybe. C’mere.”

He grabbed the chain around her wrists and yanked her closer. In his eyes she saw rage and fear and a cruel triumph; underneath it loomed a fierce, fathomless sadness.

He raised her chin with his finger and kissed her. She could feel the desperation there, all the loneliness and agony, the shadow of his addiction and the bitterness it had formed inside him, thinking he was unworthy, believing it damned him forever — unless he reached out and took the world by sheer force. It made her feel, for the briefest of moments, sorry for him.

She kissed back. Not because she wanted to, but because a man so starved for attention would be distracted by any drop of the thing he craved.

When they parted, Samson leaned his forehead against hers to catch his breath, and Thalia held a set of keys in one hand. “You’re lovely,” he murmured, and his cadence twisted a thread of pity deep inside her.

She tried to slip the keyring behind her and under a cushion, but the shackles made her clumsy. She spoke to hide any noise they might make. “You could be better than this,” she blurted.

“Nah,” Samson said. “I’ve made my choices.”

She tried to think of something else to say, but he leaned in again, too soon — knocking her hand and sending the keys clanging to the floor.

Samson pulled away, gaze dropping in confusion. “Wha—?”

Thalia grabbed the teapot from the table and shattered it against his forehead. Shards of porcelain and lukewarm tea flew everywhere. Samson let out a shriek of fury, clapping a hand over his brow where blood poured into his eyes. He lurched to his feet, but Thalia moved faster. She scooped up the set of keys and staggered away.

“You little bitch,” Samson seethed, swaying. “Get back here right now.”

He swung for her, but clumsily; Thalia dodged and tried to run. The chains on her ankles limited her movement and she nearly went sprawling. She shored herself up by leaning against the metal cage. She gripped the bars and tipped it over to put an obstacle between them. The corner of the cage clipped Samson’s ankle and he let out another pained yell. “Guards! Guards!”

Thalia limped out onto the balcony. A darkness black as night engulfed her, but the sky was roiling and starless. The wind was colder and more biting than she remembered.

She had to get away from Samson long enough to see if the keys fit her shackles, but there was no time. He was storming drunkenly after her, one hand nursing his forehead.

“Don’t be difficult, little girl,” he crooned. “Come back and I’ll be forgiving. There’s nowhere to go, anyhow.”

Thalia hit the marble balustrade, breathing hard. She knew how utterly she was trapped. How many months had she spent on this very balcony, gazing out at the snow-capped mountains? How many times had Cullen stood here with her, slipping his arm around her shoulders to warm her while the sun set?

It’s not going to work, she thought desperately. Cullen was directly below her, and she could never reach him. Soon the Red Templars would appear on the stair landing, and they would help Samson drag her back inside, and then…

Thalia gritted her teeth and hoisted herself up onto the balustrade. With effort, she rolled into a sitting position, the keys in a vise-like grip in one hand. She looked around; Samson stood only feet away, one side of his face a curtain of red. The anger had drained from his gaunt face. In its place, lighted only by the emerald glow of her anchor, stood naked fear.

“Come on now, love,” he said, his voice breaking. “Surely it can’t be that bad?”

She recognized his tone. It was the one Templars at the Ostwick Circle had taken with distraught mages — the nice Templars, anyway. The ones Thalia had thought might still have a conscience beneath the facade of duty and protocol. The realization slashed something savage through her heart. She swung her legs onto the far side of the balcony.

“This is the world you built,” she shouted. “Look around you, Samson. Yes. It is that bad.”

Samson stared at her, stricken.

“Then I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I am. Come down from there and we’ll talk about it, yeah?”

He held out a hand, sticky with blood. Thalia looked at it, and then, her stomach lurching, into the chasm below. She could see nothing but darkness, but if she concentrated, she thought she could hear vast, rushing water. She thought of the falls that ran through Skyhold’s dungeons, eating through so much stone that some cells could never be repaired, lest the keep’s entire foundation collapse.

Was it Solas who’d told her that there may be some ancient magic warding Skyhold’s walls, making it impossible to hurt oneself by falling? Or perhaps it had been Cole. She’d never tried to verify the rumor herself, for obvious reasons. And what counted as “within” the walls, exactly? She swallowed hard, clutching the keys to her chest.

“Thalia,” Samson said. He drew closer, his hand trembling in the frigid air. “Please. Don’t.”

“It’s too late,” Thalia whispered, and jumped.

#nightmare!au #thalia trevelyan #raleigh samson #cullen x trevelyan #thalia x weird tension with samson???#sobs #i'm so sorry #fics #dragon age inquisition #dragon age drunk writing circle

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conversationswiththemoon · 2 years

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My OCs: Asha Lavellan

Asha Lavellan Race: Dalish Elf Class / Specialization: Tempest Rogue Faith: Atheist, anti-Andrastian Romance: Josephine BFF: Cassandra and Vivienne Mages or Templars?: Mages Wicked Eyes: Celine and Briala reconciled Here Lies The Abyss: Wardens are brought into the Inquisition Who Survived?: Hawke What Pride Had Wrought: Petitioner’s Path, Drinks from Well Cole Choice: Spirit The Chargers: Alive The Divine: Petitioned for Vivienne but was overruled Inquisition status: Disbanded

Character Notes: this character is non-binary.

Don’t let their placid face fool you. Their full name is Asha “the fuck you just say to me?!” Lavellan.

A gifted scout but a hothead, Asha was not the original choice to be sent to the conclave. They were swapped in at the last minute when the clan’s First was injured in a fight against a great bear.

Asha has an instinctive distrust of shemlen that slowly softens on a case by case basis. They came to deeply trust Cassandra, and the two became best friends after Asha realized that Cass was into men and thus not an option for anything more romantic.

Despite their anti-Andrastian stance, Asha is pragmatic and didn’t mind pretending to be Andraste’s Herald as long as it made their life easier within the Inquisition. They take their duties in the field very seriously. but absolutely hate any of the diplomatic nonsense involved with the position. They’re happy to let Josephine handle as much of that as she wants to. Frequently has to be roused from bed for war table meetings by an increasingly annoyed Cassandra. Needs one full cup of black coffee with three sugars before they can even form a sentence.

Most missions were done with the Ideologically Divergent Girl Gang -- Cassandra, Sera, and Vivienne.

Asha is very neutral on mage politics. Growing up in a clan where magic was safely managed, they did not fear magic wielded by elves. Shemlen, on the other hand? Yeah, maybe they should be in Circles, they thought, after dealing with Alexius, Erimond, Samson, Magister Hallward Pavus, Corypheus... They generally feel that Circles need to be overhauled and run by other mages, but are preferable to unchecked mage freedom. Does not see mages or templars as a binary choice and broadly finds templars uncomfortable to be around.

Relishes the thrill of big missions and feels the most clear-headed when in the heat of battle. Usually tries to spend as much time as possible on the road, only coming back to Skyhold to meet with the advisors and sneak in time with Josephine.

The choice in the Fade wasn’t hard. The Wardens caused the problem, and a Warden would pay for it. They didn’t personally dislike Loghain, and thought his likely death to be an honorable end.

Thought the physical sensation of closing rifts was actually kinda nifty.

Josephine rather of snuck up on them. Cassandra is definitely more their “type,” but Asha realized that Josephine always felt like a calm center in the constant bustle of Skyhold, and so they began spending time together. One thing led to another. And that’s how you end up in a duel.

Corypheus wasn’t even a blip on the map compared to some of the monsters of the Deep Roads. They dispatched him quickly and without mercy, then proceeded nearly directly to aid the dwarven kingdom. Truth be told, they found the Wellspring endlessly fascinating and probably would have stayed with Valta on an extended scouting mission if it weren’t for Josephine.

#my ocs #asha lavellan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #lavellan #josephine montilyet

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queenaeducan-writes · 3 years

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Apodyopsis

Pairing: Solas x Lavellan Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition Rating: Mature Warnings: Suggestive

Apodyopsis: the act of mentally undressing someone. Solas finds himself hoping something more will come of tonight, but knows his desires are not the only ones which count.

Canon divergent, featuring a non-Inquisitor Lavellan and a universe where Solas revealed the secret he had meant to that evening in the grove. Originally written for a meme prompt.

Read it on AO3 here!

Minutes pass in the span of a sigh, the passage of time unimpeded by their tryst. This world is apathetic to their affection, the stone floor beneath their feet the same as it was when they awoke that morning. Solas reminds himself of this in the gap between their kisses, centers himself in reality before he loses himself in Ian’s. They stand toe-to-toe in the center of the room– their room. The sun has set, their surroundings lit by candles that had gasped to life when he wasn’t looking. Everything is cast in warm colours, a halo glows around the crown of Ian’s head, through the wispy ends of his hair. When their eyes meet, he smiles, and the laugh lines around his eyes smile with him.

“You’re staring,” Ian says with a breathy giggle, his eyes fluttering toward the corner of the room before they return to him.

“Am I?”

Solas finds himself drifting, head bowing to brush Ian’s. He still smells of Skyhold’s gardens, of elfroot and sweet alyssum, and though the sun had long since dipped below the horizon, Ian’s scent carries its memory. Hands cup the back of his neck and pull him the rest of the way down, parted lips there to greet him. He sinks against him, forcing back the urge to smile at how eager Ian is to slip his tongue between his teeth. It is not always he is so daring, though it has been more often, of late. Perhaps Ian had at last noticed how his blood runs hotter, his whole body flushed pink. He strains against the fingers at the nape of his neck, just to feel them resist, drawing him deeper.

Their kiss breaks with two quiet gasps. The next is placed at the corner of his lip, a taste of where Ian’s affection may wander. Then, his jaw, then Ian sways forward on his toes to reach beneath the lobe of his ear. He giggles and sways forward, laughter tickling his neck, daring him to laugh. His mouth draws a thin line, hands moving to check his sides before Ian falls forward. Undeterred, the gentle lips at his neck turn to teeth, unafraid to pull.

The thumb at Ian’s waist slips beneath his shirt, stroking the outline of his hipbone. He shivers under it, pleasure warm against Solas’ throat. He contents himself a while with teasing forays just over his waistband, blindly exploring while Ian peppers his neck with nips that may bloom into purple flowers the next morning. Fingertips ghost over the fine trail of hair that grows up from below his waist, refamiliarising himself with the way Ian feels to the touch, without his eyes to aid him.

But Ian’s confidence is contagious, and inspires bold action. Fingers curl around the uneven hem of his shirt, the intention clear, but difficult to protest without words to couple with. He tucks his lips beside Ian’s ear, brushing the tip before he poses his question: “May I?”

Ian goes tense beneath his palms, though it isn’t the same as a moment ago. Gone are the short, breathy sighs, the tension that begs to be released, succeeded by a sharp intake of breath that finds no relief. “Solas–” he lets out half of it, speaking his name as if it were an apology. “I, ahn, I…” Solas waits, ears pushed forward to catch even the softest of refusals. “I’m–”

It is as close to ‘no’ as he fears he will get this evening, boldness fleeing from Ian. He drops his hand to his hips, smoothing down the wrinkled ends of his top. Once he may not have recognised it for what it was, now it is stark as night and day. “Say no more,” he says, straining a reassuring smile for Ian’s sake.

What he dreads is not the refusal, but the moment where all the warmth drains from the room, and Ian withdraws from him with an apology on is lips. They always come together later, his arms falling across his chest beneath the covers, folding over Solas’ heart, but he does not relish the uncomfortable in-between. It isn’t his fault, nor is it Ian’s, neither asked for this nor inflicted it upon the other. That knowledge, however, does not assuage the guilt that closes around his throat.

Tonight, no apology comes. Ian’s arms pull him closer, face pressing against his naked chest as he breathes in through his nose. Outside, Solas hears the sounds of Skyhold in the late evening, the distant prayer of the faithful from the gardens below and the rush of magic through the valley, racing the wind. The room’s warmth is not chased away, but nestled safely between them, nurtured by their heartbeats. Ian pulls his face away, lifting his gaze to meet his, soft resolve behind his eyes. “Can you–” He cuts himself off, teeth press into his bottom lip as he rethinks what he wants to say. “Give me a moment, please?”

A simple enough request. He nods, head bowing an inch to press his lips against Ian’s brow before he pulls away. The cool rushes in where Ian’s arms were wrapped around him, and a quiet longing steals over him as he pads towards the foot of their bed. He settles down, mattress sinking under his weight, naked heels flat against the floor. Ian angles his back away to the far corner of the room, elbows bending at sharp angles while his hands gather the bottom of his shirt together. It would be easy, Solas thinks, to summon the memory of undressing Ian, but even staring feels like an invasion he needs express permission to indulge, and so he averts his gaze, but he cannot mistake the sound. His shirt flutters to the floor, his pants follow shortly thereafter, whispering against his skin as he pulls them down his legs.

Bare feet move across the floor, hesitating for a step before they come to a halt between his legs. “You can look up, now,” Ian murmurs. He leans over, taking one of Solas’ hands and guiding it toward his hips. His eyes follow, skirting up naked skin to meet Ian’s eye.

Apprehension creases his brow, the unshakable feeling that Ian would push himself to stave off his disappointment creeps over him. “Are you certain?” His other hand find uneasy purchase upon his waist, thumb stroking small circles into his skin. He hopes to see not a trace of doubt in Ian’s expression, but then, that would not be who he fell for, would it?

Doubt aside, there is determination in his smile, a hint of confidence that had not left him yet. “Yes,” he says, “you can trust me.”

The response elicits emotion deeper than the pleasure he seeks in Ian’s body. Indeed it almost makes him cry, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. It hearkens back to lonely groves and tearful reunions, trust extended and accepted. Perhaps it was meant to. “Very well.” His head bows, brushing a kiss against the base of Ian’s ribs. “Tell me if I ought to stop.”

“I will.”

That is reassurance enough for him to begin in earnest. His grip tightens, taking Ian between his palms, skin bunching between his fingers. Ian is a different beauty from this angle, longer than his short stature might lead one to believe. Soft in the places he covets most. Solas reminds himself of how his heartbeat feels against his lips, hammering fast behind his ribs as the first quiet sigh slips between his teeth. He marks all the places upon him the sun has not yet kissed, pale skin shining pink where his teeth meet Ian’s flesh, pulling until he hisses with pleasure and pain. Where impossible freckles dust Ian’s sides he plants gentle kisses that ease small, delighted sounds from him.

He pauses, nose dipping against the hollow of his hip, his own breath hot upon his face. Bare hands settle against him, curling loosely across his shoulders. “Solas…” His name, spoken a second time, sounds sweeter upon his lips.

“Hm?”

“I didn’t–” He snorts, bemusement halting him, rather than discomfort. His belly spasms, pushing against Solas’ cheek. Laughter sends thrills through him more dangerous than his touch, a sound he had fallen for long before he knew. Ian breathes in, holding it a moment before he allows himself to speak again. “I didn’t ask you to stop.” There is pride in his voice, satisfied by his own remark, and joy, too, albeit tempered by his attempt to feign disappointment. His voice drops an octave, a low whisper above his ear. “Did I?”

Affection blossoms in the pit of Solas’ chest, rising up his spine, manifesting as a grin upon his face. He cannot help but hide it, face still buried against Ian. There is no hiding how his back flecks with gooseflesh, nor the sudden shiver that moves shoulders, steadied by Ian’s grip. The palms of his hands slide down to Ian’s thighs, fingers spreading to grip as much of them as his hands can hold. “My mistake,” he murmurs, punctuating the apology with a penitent peck to where Ian’s hips meet his legs. “Allow me to make it up to you.”

#solavellan #bi solas #solas x lavellan #solas #dragon age #fandom: dragon age #pairing: solas x iander #character: iander lavellan #character: solas #rating: mature

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a-shakespearean-in-paris · 3 years

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Reflections in the Mirror

“Scars” theme for Cullen week. NSFW. Cullen x Inquisitor <3 @cullensource

The relationship Lydia had with her body always changed.

Once, her body was simply her body. Then came the Circle and the unflattering robes and flat shoes. Children could be cruel with their jibes, crueler still the older they became. As Lydia grew older and as her body grew a bit wider from her sedentary life, Circle robes didn’t obscure her wide hips. One of the common jests thrown her way was that it was a shame she had no breasts to go with her hips or arse. Yet when melancholy ceased her appetite and made her start to develop that body she so often wished for, she found it didn’t matter. A caged bird never truly felt pretty, much less beautiful. Mirrors were her enemy until time and purpose made her happy with herself and her choices. Sometimes mirrors still challenged. She could look to her reflection sometimes and still see that lonely girl in the Circle.

A gloved hand brushed against her shoulder, against the new scar, followed by soft lips. She hadn’t felt lonely in a long time.

“Look at you,” Cullen said, her back against his front and his lips caressing her ear, the two standing in front of her mirror in her room. Though he was tall and encompassing the mirror showed his full height with her frame nestled against him. She had been thinking on her reflection in the mirror that day when she peered at herself that evening after readying for bed. A new scar marred her shoulder, subtler than the one on her other received in Redcliffe during the early Inquisition. Cullen read her thoughts in that secret way lovers could. Standing in front of the mirror, he wanted to show her what he saw.

His lips were soft against her cheek, stubble a pleasant frisson. “Beautiful, brave woman,” said, his hand against her hip, thumb caressing. She was nude while he still wore his armor and yet it thrilled to have the metal plate hard against her back, edges of buckles neither hard nor soft as they pressed into her. Thrilling of all was his gloved hands glide across her flesh, the soft leather pleasant and buttery. He secured and made a sanctuary in his arms, her reflection grinning mischievously as he hardened against her wiggling hips. The curve of her hips contrasted so with the slimness of his, his broad shoulders dwarfing her frame. Perhaps her body could not be called “dainty” or “petite,” but with his exploring touches and reverent lips against her shoulder, she banished every ill thought she had of her body and her scars. She saw every inch the beautiful and lived woman he called her.

“Let me love on you,” he whispered in her ear as his gloved finger lightly traced the scar that curved under her breast. She remembered showing it to him the first night he ever gave her his mouth. He spoke of the scars that littered his body and implied the fear he had that she wouldn’t want to touch him because of it. Her reply was to push down her nightgown past her breasts and show him where she’d been scarred. He didn’t understand at first. He looked longingly at her bare form and called her beautiful with her small breasts. He didn’t understand till she took his hand and let him outline the pink and silver thread across her skin between her breasts. He’d done it all times together ever since, with his hand or with his tongue.

Through the mirror she watched him outline it once more, watched as he grasped her hips and said “let me love on you always.”

"Let me show you something.”

He watched as she shifted in his arms, intrigued as her nimble fingers began the slow removal of every buckle and belt of armor. He helped her, bare soon enough. In front of the mirror the two stood as the Maker first intended, painted in the evening light that spilled through her open balcony. She marveled. Cullen was radiant, time and hardships fashioning and tempering his body. Shocked she was when they first became lovers to learn that he had never been proud of his body. Each new year brought new scars and reminders of his hard life, from tiny pinpricks, to more obvious marks along his abdomen along with the bigger pinkish burn against his chest. Their first night together he admitted he despised the reminders. Endless kisses during long nights alleviated the worries she wouldn’t find his body worthy of lusting. Her body was hers and Cullen’s body was his. They found each other beautiful because they had both lived.

Gentle caresses in reverence shifted to desperate touches as his cock pressed against her belly. She had an inkling to kneel and take him in her mouth. Temporarily however, she refrained as his callused palms slid down her body to her hips, grasping the plump flesh. She observed them through the mirror, the long line of Cullen’s naked body pressed so perfectly to hers, his broad hand on her curved hip. They kissed and it tasted like fire and home.

“I want your taste,” he said when they parted.

She pooled at the sound, his lusty and heady request. “Let me see you.”

The back of her legs hitting the bed, she sat. He kneeled before her, left warm kisses to her knee and thigh, his strong palms grasping her calves and kneading the sinews. He spread his large palms on her thighs. She parted for him. She observed through the mirror as his head dipped down. Strands of brown hair kissing her shoulders, cheeks flushed with pink, she watched herself grasp the pretty head of golden curls. She looked like a woman in love, a woman slowly unraveling at her lover’s ardent mouth that left wet kisses to her outer lips before his tongue darted across her seam.

Her gaze fell to him. She wanted to watch him. His back was strong and ropey, scarred but not as scarred as his chest as he remained kneeling before her, offering everything he had. Briefly her eyes flitted to his face between her, his eyes closed in bliss with only the vaguest peeks of amber behind golden lashes. He wrapped his lips over her clit and she cried out, twisting her fingers through his hair as she watched him grasp himself in his hand, touch himself while tasting her. She came against his mouth, riding it out and grinding against his face as he tasted her end and her wet traces. He rose and they kissed each other, wrapping her body to his.

She drew moans from his parted mouth as her lips glided across his neck. “Come here,” she beckoned, stretching and laying herself on the bed. On his knees with his cock leaking and erect, his hands grasped her legs and calves. He was luminescent against orange sunset with his scars here and there, silver and pink against the sunset, with golden hair slightly darker than the hair on his head peppered on his chest, thighs and on his abdomen leading downward. He was beautiful. Fuck anyone who didn’t think so, or thought he was too scarred or broken. Her Cullen was never broken and the sight of him was to drink cases of holy wine.

When he stroked himself the sight was so erotic her own fingers drifted to her clit to draw tight circles. They touched themselves, enamored by the sight of each other, until she outstretched her hands, her ideal to have the press of him engulf and encase her frame. He sunk against her body, to that space between her breasts. He kissed her there, his fingers rolling against pert nipples and down to her belly to kiss her there too. She was never ashamed of the slight plumpness, the softness there. Not with him. Her body was fashioned for no one but her, and in her life she allowed one soul to touch her, to make love to her. She could imagine no other mouth but Cullen’s to paint her body, no other pair of hands to slide and grasp her flesh, and truly she could imagine no one else buried inside her, no one else that could love her body the way he loved her. The day he took her in the grove outside of Skyhold, eyes asking is this alright before he lifted her skirts, Cullen parting her thighs before he slipped inside was the day she was ruined for any other lover.

He rose to his knees. He was inside her, slow to fully bring himself to the hilt. She slipped her ankle on his shoulder, closed her eyes as he began to move. So often had they done this ritual. Still he took her hand like it was the first, caressed her like it was the thousandth and still in awe.

“So beautiful.”

She hummed as he moved, touched her body for his eyes. “Yours.”

“As I am yours.”

She glowed and he beamed, and she turned her head to their reflections in the mirror. She reveled as he fucked her, pace gradually growing to a steadier rhythm. Their eyes spoke a thousand words, a thousand I loves yous and a thousand you’re beautifuls. Then she wanted his body to press her into the mattress, wanted him to engulf once more. He understood her silent plea and he brought most of his weight for her to bare, her legs wrapping around him. Nails lightly scratched the back of his neck as a stubbly mouth pressed warmly to her neck and throat. Their reflections compelled her, the line of his body long, his legs and back sinewy and scars silver pink threads along his shoulder blades. His back flexed as he moved, and she saw him smirk through the mirror, watching her watch him. She held her gaze through the mirror with sweet, possessive euphoria. He performed for her viewing, kissed her neck and took one of her hands, pressing it against the mattress. Her free hand wandered to touch him, grasp the curve of his arse. She could feel the smirk against her neck, and there was a sharp clap in the room as her hand affectionally smacked.

He chuckled before he took his revenge, stopping his movements. She mewled with displeasure, yet before she could compel him to move, his fingers fell to her clit, rubbing and making her arousal pool further onto her thighs and sheet bellow. He attended to her, knew only the tightest drawn circles could make her come quickly. Seconds or moments passed and he kissed her as she came, breathless and hazy and bright.

Her head angled toward the mirror, her body rose, his lips pressed against her ear. “You’re beautiful when you come,” he whispered softly, placing another tender kiss against her forehead.

“I only saw you.”

She both felt and saw his smile. “Get on top of me.”

She wrapped her arms around him, blissful and content and still wanting to watch. “Fuck me some more.”

“I want to watch you.”

Her palms against his chest, she caressed the faded burn. She’d let him watch. With a kiss, his arms wrapping around her, he moved to his back, her body flush against him. It took a moment to adjust, Cullen helping her straddle him. She lost herself to him, shared his joy and wonder as she slowly slid down on his cock, observing and drinking in his brows bent in bliss, his parted lips and flushed cheeks. He moved to grip her hips, moved to meet her movements. Ecstasy. She took one of his hands, kissed the rough palms and scars from battle. Maker, how she loved his lived hands and loved them on her body.

“Look.”

At what, she wondered, at you? She always looked at him. He caught her eye from the first and always had a glow about him different from others she had known, and only later did she recognize it as love. She’d never stop looking at him.

“Look at yourself,” he said. “You’re beautiful.”

She looked. Unashamed, proud, beautiful, she looked. She saw what he always saw as she rode him, her cheeks flushed and her hair in a wild disarray. She saw their bodies join, her and him in their blissful togetherness. The scar between her breasts didn’t mar, nor the ones on her shoulders. It outlined her past and what she had done. She’d been bruised and beaten but withstood to be loved on. Their pasts forged them, their scars reminders. They were beautiful.

She touched herself, eyes drifting from herself to him. She brought her own end with his hands steadying her. She didn’t allow herself to fully leave him after he came a beat after, warm inside. They rode out their mutual tides, Lydia acknowledging his scars, his own outlined past of strength, leaning down and paying attention to one scar in particular, the one across his lips. She felt it when she kissed him, the rough fissures from the healing against her tongue.

“Cullen,” she whispered, kisses leaving her breathless and sated. “You make me feel so beautiful.”

“Now you know how you make me feel.”

He smoothed the hair away from her face. She could have lived a life of only gazing with him.

“We were made to be like this together.”

Did he think it true? She wasn’t so sure he agreed. He admitted as much, moving to bring her back to the mattress and entwine his limbs with hers. Life fashioned their bodies he said, making them a work of art in their own right. When they joined they were a different sort of art, home. Lydia smiled with the thought, kissing the soft lines on his forehead.

Beautiful apart, beautiful together. It was her last thought before she glanced away from the mirror to kiss him.

#cullenweek #it's my smutty addition #i dond think i'll have time to finish my last thing?#cullen rutherford #cullen x inquisitor #shakeswriting #lemons #this is a rewrite of another piec #*piece

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writtenjewels · 3 years

Text

Tradition part 4

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

How in the world had it come to this? How had they gone from doing some ridiculous “wedding” to pass through dwarf territory to calling each other “husband” as an endearment? It made Dorian's head spin a bit. The way Cullen had seized his chin and kissed him that morning had the mage shivering in pleasure. He clearly should have taken Cullen to this dwarf territory ages ago if it evoked this sort of response in the man.

The decisive Cullen was the one he knew well: the one who teased him as they played chess together, the one who gave out orders and somehow kept it straight in his head where every soldier in the Inquisition was stated, the one who supervised training sessions and guided with a firm but patient hand. The shy and awkward Cullen was endearing as well, and such fun to tease. All part of a man who Dorian thought of as a friend until very recently. Now... he wasn't sure what to think of Cullen. What were they?

He twisted the “ring” around on his wrist as he thought over the matter. After so many heated kisses, there was no going back to casual friends. As Cullen had so efficiently pointed out, what they were now meant something. He had only been wearing the ring for a few days and already was getting used to the weight on his arm. Dorian even wore it while he was bathing in the river. That meant something, too.

That night he took the first watch. He couldn't stop his mind from dwelling on Cullen. He sighed and headed to the man's tent. Dorian opened the flap before he could second-guess himself and slipped inside. Cullen was asleep on his side with his sword close at hand should trouble arise. Dorian took a moment to appreciate how Cullen's hair looked out of its usual style, giving away the curl that earned him Varric's nickname.

“Cullen.” The man didn't stir, so Dorian tried: “Husband.” Cullen grunted and shifted, eyes fluttering open. Oh, you respond to that. That knowledge made Dorian's heart flutter.

“Dorian?” The sleep left Cullen in an instant and he was sitting up, alert. “What is it?”

“Hm? Oh, it's nothing. I only...” Dorian absently reached to push back a strand of hair that dropped onto Cullen's forehead. “You're still wearing your ring,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” Cullen agreed, glancing to the gold band around his wrist. “And so are you.”

“It looks more tasteful there than hanging around my neck like Varric wears it.” He moved his hand down to caress Cullen's cheek. The commander was allowing it, watching him steadily with those wonderful brown eyes. “I was thinking,” Dorian began, “that since we're married, shouldn't we be sharing a tent?”

“And who will be on watch?” Cullen challenged, his lip quirking up in amusement.

“We'll only be sharing it together when Varric is on watch, of course,” Dorian reasoned.

“Of course.” Cullen's eyes were still bright in amusement. He reached for Dorian's free hand and linked their fingers together. The casual way he did this was unexpected and thrilling. “And what about when we return to Skyhold?”

“We certainly won't be sharing a tent,” Dorian said pompously. That made Cullen laughed and he actually turned his head to kiss Dorian's palm. Sweet Maker, this man was in a mood. A mood Dorian very much liked. Where have you been all this time? It was a side of Cullen he wanted but never thought he would have. “I don't know where your quarters are,” Dorian realized.

“Of course you do: they're right above my office.”

“Cullen,” Dorian groaned, rolling his eyes. “Have you ever heard the phrase 'don't take work home with you'? No, that won't do at all. You'll simply have to stay with me until we find you another place.”

“You're a very demanding husband,” Cullen noted.

“I am.” Dorian pressed a swift kiss to his mouth. “I want you to myself with no risk of interruptions.”

“Hm.” Cullen kissed him back. “So all it took for you to be direct with me was to marry you in front of some very strange dwarfs.”

“It's all that it took for you to be decisive with me,” Dorian pointed out, kissing Cullen again. Letting the contact linger and heat this time. Cullen was answering him, using his teeth to make Dorian gasp. “This isn't some... dalliance on the road, is it?” Dorian asked between kisses. “You won't change your mind when we get to Skyhold?”

“Dorian.” Cullen's hand left his hand to glide up and down his back. “I cared for you before this. I just didn't admit to myself how much before you kissed me.” Dorian hummed against his lips; the same was true for him.

“Rally ho, then. Happy fit,” Dorian purred. Cullen let out another soft chuckle.

“Shouldn't you be on watch?”

“You are a very demanding husband.” Dorian stole one more kiss before pulling away. “I'll be back when it's Varric's turn.”

“I'll keep the sheets warm for you,” Cullen promised. The words made Dorian pause. His heart pounded hard in his chest. No, Cullen couldn't mean... Maker help him, he had to ask.

“Do you mean for us to share the bedroll?”

“Yes.” Cullen's brow furrowed in confusion. “Isn't that what we've been talking about? Sharing a bed?” He made it sound so simple, so straightforward. It made Dorian nervous, and excited. “Nice to see you flustered for a change,” Cullen remarked with a smug look on his face. The same sort he wore when he beat Dorian in chess. A look that always made Dorian want to grab and kiss him, an impulse he could now obey.

“When my watch is over, I'm coming back for more,” he promised, and somehow managed to tear himself away.

He realized that he hadn't settled what they were to each other. They had at least another two days' journey before they returned to Skyhold. Plenty of time to sort it out.

#dorian x cullen #dorian pavus #cullen rutherford #cullrian

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ellenembee · 3 years

Text

King of the Griffons

I pushed off his sword and backed away to circle around into a ready position.

"Ah-haha!" Alistair cried out in his most nefarious tone. "No matter how hard you may try, you will never beat the King of the Griffons! I will smite you with my mighty sword of... Errr... Smitiness!"

"Oh, you don't say?" I rejoined with a lunge forward as I tried to keep a straight face.

We danced in a back and forth of attack and block, our swords clashing, shields raised, until I finally managed to push him off again. He staggered back, a small smile and a tilt of his head acknowledging the rebuff. We were both tiring from the several hours we'd been sparring, and the silliness showed it. Still, he set up in ready stance again, and I glared at him with faux hostility.

"Well I, the Queen of awkward conversation and ill-timed jokes and... uh... worthwhile cheeses will never allow my illustrious kingdom to fall into the hands of a dastardly King such as you!"

His face - and his sword - immediately fell lax with exaggerated shock. Then, before I knew what was happening, he'd dropped both sword and shield and caught me up in an embrace, his eyes staring into mine with unabashed and over-the-top adoration. Surprised by his exuberance, I let my own sword and shield fall to the ground with a bark of laughter and grabbed onto him to keep my balance.

"Did you say... Cheeeeese? Forgive me my lady! I didn't know."

Without another word, he began spinning me around the Skyhold sparring ring in a dance that resembled a waltz. I let him lead as I had no idea what I was doing and could barely breathe from my laughter.

"In that case, I will instead woo you and win you," he nearly shouted in his overly jubilant tone, "so I may be the King of Cheese, and when you succumb to my superior charms, all will bow to the Gouda King and Queen!"

I laughed even harder at his ridiculous pun, nearly falling over in merriment. His arms tightened all the more, holding me up, and my laughter gradually subsided as he stopped suddenly, holding me close, his eyes twinkling as he gazed into my face.

"And then, when you least expect it, I'll lock you up in the dungeon and steal all the cheese for myself."

He'd begun loudly, but with each word, his voice softened, and his grin faded into a hint of a smile. I tried not to be affected, but his golden brown eyes held me captive. I knew just what to say next, but the words seemed to come from someone else. Someone speaking in a low, breathless tone.

"Curse you and your inevitable betrayal."

His arm around my waist tightened further until our chests nearly touched. For the first time, I noticed he seemed just as out of breath as me. His eyes never left my face, but a thrill catapulted through my chest and down to my very core as his eyes flicked away from mine down to what seemed to be my lips. When he spoke again, his voice hummed low in my ear.

"What can I say? I can't control myself around cheese."

Even knowing better, knowing I shouldn't encourage... whatever this was... the soft words tumbled from my lips before I could stop them.

"Ahh, now you've most assuredly lost, wicked King of the Griffons, for I have discovered your weakness."

By this point, all hint of a smile had fallen from his face. His adam's apple bobbed with the strength of his swallow, and then-

"Only one?" His voice dropped impossibly lower, his eyes darting to my lips yet again. "I have other weaknesses, my Queen."

It seemed as if all the air had been sucked out of the courtyard. I couldn't break away. And with a shock of clarity, I realized I didn't want to.

----

So, I was looking for something in the notes on my phone, and way down at the bottom, I found this. It's a tiny snippet of a much larger MGIT fic that lives in my head and will (likely) never see the light of day. (It was also an attempt at first person, which is something I haven't done before.) So... I guess enjoy this little look at Riven and a Warden Alistair in the "furiously pining but divided by duty and responsibilities" stage? If you're curious about details, the story is pretty much written in my head, so feel free to ask anything. XD

#warden alistair #alistair theirin #dragon age #modern girl in thedas #OC Riven #alistair x OC #fun little snippet #words from a book i'll never write

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shutupaboutandraste · 3 years

Note

“ you keep using that word. i do not think it means what you think it means. ” for Adaar x Dorian? Welcome!

Excellent choice let’s goooo! I mention another Adaar Inquisitor in this little drabble and that’s because my Inquisitor is brother to my friends’ Inquisitor so I usually try to include them both ^u^

Words: 1565

Pairing: Dorian/Inquisitor Adaar

For @dadrunkwriting

Tramping around Ferelden was hardly Asaara Adaar’s favorite activity. In fact, he would consider it one of his least favorite. The entire country seemed to be made of mud and mountains with nary a plain or decent stretch of flatland to be found. Weather in the Free Marches was far more predictable, more comfortable, far better than anything Ferelden had to offer. Yet, his distaste didn’t have anything on Dorian’s.

“Inconceivable!” Dorian hissed, for probably the fifth time since they had started their trek through the Hinterlands. Asaara rubbed his palm around The Mark, reminding himself that at least Dorian was easy to look at.

Varric laughed, “Sparkler, believe you me, it’s conceivable.”

“The King of Ferelden can’t be chosen by single combat,” argued Dorian, “That’s horrible politics. Hilarious, but horrible.”

“It’s how they do it here, I swear!” promised the rogue, adjusting Bianca over his shoulder with a winning smile, “Hell, I think Hawke would have preferred that too. Not that they ever got the chance to become Viscount.”

“Didn’t they kind of prove that by beating the Arishok?” asked Asaara, turning his head slightly to ask. It was always a way to check if their last companion was still around. Or, at least, if it was visible. When his teeth grit at noticing the very obvious lack of Cole, the spirit hybrid appeared at the side of his eye. Good. He was getting better at reminding them that he was there.

Another deep rumble came from Varric, “I guess you’re right!”

Dorian scoffed, but said nothing. Clearly, the ways of the South were too much for his delicate sensibilities. Asaara didn’t mind it--his mind wandered to his elder brother Arug, who would have reveled in such simplicity. In another life, the two might have been Arvaraad and Sarebaas, but Asaara liked to think their own style of mage and protector worked out just fine. Fine enough that Arug had felt comfortable staying back at Skyhold at any rate.

Besides, it was hard to actually talk to Dorian when Arug hovered. Magic unsettled Arug on a good day, but Dorian seemed to do so in particular. And, whether Asaara liked to admit it or not there was something undeniably charming about the Tevinter altus. (Not magister, he had to remind himself, just the son of one.)

To be fair, it could be hard to talk to Dorian in general. The man was proud, charismatic, and bold like a pristine sunset that reflected itself back in a lake. He talked quickly, usually in circles around other people, but not Asaara. He could hang on every word like gospel. It had begun with inquiries into the time magic that Dorian had studied. Devouring the information had been thrilling, but Asaara came out with plenty of notions. Notions such as the obvious understanding within Dorian’s eyes, but that his speech could twist the truth to get even the best to believe in his work. Or, perhaps, more worryingly, that Dorian’s eyes sparkled when he was excited. That his smile made Asaara’s heart twist ever so slightly. Asaara was rarely tongue-tied, but he had to focus on his words more when Dorian was around.

Still, it didn’t mean Asaara had endless patience. Dorian could be a vain, proud braggart who thought that he was the Maker’s gift to magic. Once one knew him better, that shed slightly, but he could still be pretentious. And, Asaara reminded himself constantly, Dorian was still of Tevinter while Asaara was a Vashoth Qunari.

The conversation moved, Cole whispering to himself. Asaara was glad of it-- Cole was muttering his thoughts again. His fingers gently tapped Cole’s wrist which got the other to stop, apologizing quietly. There were many people Asaara found easy to be angry at, but Cole wasn’t one of them. Where he could argue with Vivienne until they were both blue in the face or ignore Cassandra until she looked ready to hit him, Cole was just trying to help. Not berate him with opinions or Chantry nonsense. That didn’t always make what Cole had to say easy to hear.

So, when Dorian exclaimed, “Inconceivable!” again over something very conceivable-- something about Ferelden fashion and shield maidens-- it was Cole who said Asaara’s thoughts out.

“You keep using that word,” hummed Cole, “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

“...Pardon me, Cole?”

“The word,” Cole continued, “Not believable. It blocks the idea of possibility. An unending wall for the dream of something strange. You use it for things that have already happened that you simply don’t understand. But Adaar understands the difference.”

“...So are these thoughts your’s or his?” asked Dorian, directing the question toward Cole but looking at Asaara. He grimaced.

“They were his…” admitted Cole, “But I began to wonder, too.”

Asaara shrugged, trying to offer Dorian a charismatic smirk, “He’s not wrong. You aren’t using that word correctly.”

“Yes, I am. Varric--” Dorian’s face dropped as Varric gave him a sheepish smile. He huffed, “Alright then, I’ve been made a fool of. Let’s move along through this horrendously massive forest before a bear decides to go after The Inquisitor again.”

His face twisted into a mockery of a pout. After knowing Dorian for some time now, it was easy to pick out expressions. This one was embarrassed, his eyes darting toward the trees to avoid looking at any of them, but with his chest puffed out like a peacock. Perhaps, Dorian was too easy to look at. Most people couldn’t watch someone as if they were an exotic animal, learn their habits, learn which lines of their face crinkled certain ways to show their feelings.

Two mages and two rogues were also probably not the best equipped to fight Ferelden wildlife, which made Dorian very right in that regard. Asaara admitted that after a long morning-- Cassandra bleating at him, Iron Bull’s hearty laughter starting to grate his ears mixed with Blackwall's preference for traveling with Sera who was her own jar of bees-- he had probably made a mistake in a hasty party. Not that he minded. Each of the three were the most pleasant of his company. Still, he didn’t want to have to fight more bears.

They pressed on, hoping to reach one of the camps before nightfall while they looked for herbs for the healers. Once that was all collected and the farms checked on, they could be on their way. Still, a gentle silence hung over them. Fennecs raced by them as the headed upward through a mountain. What Asaara hadn’t expected was for Dorian to softly break the silence between them while Varric animatedly began discussing something with Cole.

“You’re quite intelligent, Inquisitor,” he remarked.

Asaara’s lips twitched as he forced himself not to scowl, “For a qunari, I know.” Bastard. It was always the pretty ones who ended up being bastards.

“No, I mean.. Yes, but no!” Dorian realized his fumble as he began to search for words, “Kaffas. I mean in general. Most people aren’t as smart as you are.”

Asaara rolled his eyes, “I think the members of the Inquisition each have a plethora of intelligence.”

“Do not bullshit me, Inquisitor,” huffed Dorian, “It doesn’t become you.”

Asaara whipped his head to look at him, surprised, “Doesn’t… Then what does become me?” A curl of suggestiveness pulled at the side of his mouth turning into a bit of smugness.

For a moment, he watched Dorian’s eyes soften. Edges rounded as a smile ticked up softly. Those two perfect lips pursed before a twisted, pleased smile of his own graced Dorian’s face. If the wind felt knocked out of Asaara by that soft sudden change of face, he did not let it show. He had become quite good at that over the years. It came with pretending not to be bothered that everyone thought you were just another stupid Qunari-- or that you were just another violent Vashoth.

“That smile for one,” said Dorian, “I should like to see it more often. Perhaps over tea in the library once we get back.”

Had he heard that right? Koslun’s balls, Maker’s ass, Andraste’s shitty mabari, and Fen’harel fucking take him he had. Perhaps his own eyes brightened. Perhaps, he gave a little too much away as his cheeks darkened up, unused to the kind of attention Dorian had just bestowed upon him. Perhaps, it was just enough to keep Dorian interested since his expression didn’t change. Asaara let out a breathy chuckle, keeping his voice even as he nodded at Dorian.

“I look forward to it,” he said, “So long as you’re not throwing books around in a huff again.”

Much to his delight, he saw Dorian’s eyes sparkle.

Earlier today, if someone asked him if he thought Dorian would ever look his way, he might have replied ‘Inconceivable’ without hesitation. Now, that prefix has been dropped entirely. Dorian flirting with him was entirely and completely conceivable and right in front of him. And, maybe, just maybe the Hinterlands looked a little more beautiful, a little less muddy.

He paused, adding, “And, so long as you call me by my name. Inquisitor is so dreadful on the ears after a while.”

“Asaara, then,” agreed Dorain, giving him a polite nod, “An almost musical name, really. You will have to tell me what it means.”

Inconceivable, indeed.

#dadwc #da #dai #dorian pavus #the inquisitor #inquisitor adaar #dorinquisitor #doriadaar #idk the ship names help #asaara adaar

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fancytrinkets · 3 years

Text

First kiss cutscene (Dorian/Trevelyan - location changed)

The sun is low in the sky when Dorian approaches the gates of Redcliffe.

"You didn't have to wait for me," he says. "I would've made my way back to camp on my own."

He sounds exhausted.

"I know," Trevelyan says as he hops down from the stone wall where he's been sitting. "But Cassandra asked me to check this place thoroughly, so I've been talking to the locals. I helped a few of them and got a free lunch out of it. Not bad, for a day."

Dorian doesn't answer. He seems inclined towards silence. Understandable, Trevelyan thinks, for someone who's just spent hours in conversation with the parent who would have forcibly altered him by way of blood magic. Trevelyan follows his lead and stays quiet. As they pass through the gates, the long shadows of late afternoon stretch out on the road before them. The day fades to evening so beautifully in this wild, green countryside. Trevelyan is content to take in the landscape, not saying another word.

Once they've walked for a while — more than halfway to their campsite — it's Dorian who breaks the silence between them.

"So let me see if I understand this properly," he says. "You're telling me that the leader of the Inquisition spent his time running frivolous errands for villagers all day long?"

Trevelyan grins at him, thoroughly overjoyed to be teased so unexpectedly.

"Frivolous errands? How dare you — I assisted the locals in an adventurous fashion," he says.

"Adventurously gathered elfroot, did you?"

"The mockery hurts," Trevelyan says, entirely insincerely. "I'm a sensitive man."

"Oh, are you? I'll bear that in mind," Dorian says.

Trevelyan doesn't fail to notice the look Dorian gives him — a quick, appreciative once over — before turning his attention back to the road ahead.

"I'll have you know, my adventures took me all over the Hinterlands. I gathered quite a few varieties of herb — not only elfroot. And after that I tracked down a lost sheep for its distraught human companion."

"How thrilling that must have been for you."

"Mmhm. Lord Woolsley. May he rest in peace." Trevelyan presses his hand to his chest as though he's sincerely moved by the loss.

This has the intended effect of piquing Dorian's curiosity.

"Wait — the sheep died?" he asks. "After you rescued it? Or did you somehow manage to kill it in the attempt?"

Trevelyan grins and evades the question by heaping rapturous praise upon Lord Woolsley.

"Dorian, you should have seen this majestic animal. Wool like the color of the sky at sunset — reds and oranges, a hint of purple. He was wily, too, but I tracked him down, way high up in the hills. He didn't want to go home, but I figured out how to nudge him along with a spell or two."

"So you accidentally killed this animal with your magic?"

Trevelyan gasps in mock indignation.

"Don't insult me, I have better control than that!" he says. "I killed him on purpose because he turned out to be a rage demon in disguise."

Dorian groans. "Were you sitting around all afternoon thinking up this ridiculous story?"

Trevelyan's about to explain that it really happened. It sounds like a fabrication, to be sure — but like most things that have occurred so far in Redcliffe, the truth is stranger than stories. He pauses, however, when he sees that Dorian's expression has shifted. The amiable facade falters, and beneath it, he looks truly devastated.

"Are you alright?" Trevelyan asks.

"No," Dorian says. "Not really."

And Trevelyan would leave it at that, if asked. But instead Dorian stops at the edge of the empty road, turns towards him, and opens up about all of it — how it felt, and still feels, to have been rejected and betrayed so thoroughly by his own father. And then, to Trevelyan's utter surprise, he apologizes — both for dragging the Inquisition into a private issue and for the things Halward said and assumed about Trevelyan personally. He apologizes for putting his own rage on display in a humiliating spectacle.

"I can't imagine what you must think of me now."

For a second, Trevelyan's left at a loss for words.

How could Dorian possibly think that any of this reflects badly on him? To Trevelyan, it's quite the opposite — a true measure of his strength and resolve. It's also the confirmation of everything he's been feeling towards Dorian thus far. Attraction and camaraderie are wonderful things, but his feelings go well beyond both — Trevelyan deeply admires this man.

It's time to tell him so.

He puts his thoughts to words, not as eloquently as he'd like, but he manages to convey the sentiment. The effect of those words upon Dorian is immediate. His troubled expression changes to relief. He smiles, and looks genuinely hopeful. The next thing Dorian says is about the importance of staying true to what's in your heart. It's fucking romantic, is what it is — and Trevelyan's not about to let the moment pass unanswered. He steps forward, palms up, entreating. He's not even sure what he's asking for until Dorian meets him halfway.

Before Trevelyan's thoughts can catch up with him, he's holding the man and being held. Standing at the edge of the road under a darkening sky, he kisses Dorian for the first time. It's more gentle than anything he's imagined. Trevelyan's fantasies — when he's alone at night with the privacy to indulge himself — have been lustful and unrestrained. He's imagined nothing of the soft, almost tentative way they take hold of each other. Dorian seems cautious in this, and Trevelyan meets that caution with a kiss that's well-paced to be careful and slow. Their mouths open not to devour in a passionate frenzy, but to taste and to savor.

Oh, Trevelyan thinks, I've missed this.

Because while he does remember the last time that kissing someone lit a spark in him with this same intensity, it's been years since it's happened.

Trevelyan pulls back, not because he wants it to stop — quite the opposite in fact. He'd like to begin moving lower, kissing along the line of that beautiful jaw, learning what sounds of pleasure he can wring from this man by kissing his throat. But he steps back to check in and make sure this isn't too much too fast on an already overwhelming day.

Dorian doesn't look troubled at all. But he shivers as Trevelyan pulls away, and it's unfortunately not from the good kind of chills. With the sun gone down, the temperature has dropped precipitously.

"You know, I'm much more skillful at this when I'm not freezing half to death in the wilderness."

"We can pick this up again back at Skyhold," Trevelyan says. "I mean, if you'd like?"

"I would like."

"Good," Trevelyan says. "So would I."

(I really love these two in a solid, friendship-based romance. Read more of my long, weird fic here if you like)

#dorian pavus #pavelyan #dorian x inquisitor #dorian x trevelyan #dragon age inquisition #dorian/inquisitor

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juliafied · 3 years

Note

"Having their hair washed" for whoever you fancy!

Here’s some Dorian x Taralen Lavellan, my f!Lavellan’s brother who just lives in my head rent-free now. Thanks for the prompt!!

@dadrunkwriting

CW: some not entirely sexual nudity

Someone had turned the steam up all the way in the little shack that somehow passed for a bathhouse inside of Skyhold’s walls. Of course, Dorian wasn’t about to complain, as a poor excuse for a bathhouse was better than no bathhouse at all, and the steamy little shack was the only place he could use his favourite soaps, that smelt like home. The extra steam was welcome as it swirled around him, finally ridding him of the last of the Fallow Mire chill. Perhaps it would soothe the nasty bruise on his leg, too.

As he sank into one of the tubs that was miraculously always filled with warm, clean water (he had Dagna and her ingenuity to thank for that - Orzammar dwarves apparently had almost as much a penchant for bathing facilities as Tevinters), he thought wistfully of the great baths in Minrathous, a favourite haunt of his during his Circle days. The Skyhold bathhouse was a far cry from the multi-storey complex he longed for, where a multitude of rooms filled with steam, dry heat, and even pools of cold water catered to the preference of each bather. Dorian missed the patrons, too - everything from a philosophical debate on the nature of electrical Fade dynamics to an orgy could be found at the Minrathous baths on a good day. Here, in the middle of the night, he was alone - though, to be true, he preferred having the place to himself, away from the stares of the Skyhold populace.

He poured some salts into the bath and dropped his shoulders deeper, hearing some water splash out over the edge. Closing his eyes, he thought about the son of the Avvar leader who led his whole clan into ruin. Perhaps his father thought Dorian was doing the same to the Pavus legacy, running around as he did with the Inquisition. He smiled bitterly to himself. I hope so.

Suddenly, he heard a creak and the sound of glass shattering, followed by a hissed, “Fenhedis!” Uttering a curse of his own, Dorian scrambled out of the tub and haphazardly wrapped a nearby towel around his waist.

“Is everything alright?” he called out, before rounding the corner into the other arm of the bathhouse and almost running into Taralen Lavellan.

Taralen Lavellan, who was scowling and very naked.

“Ah!” Dorian exclaimed, furious at the blush that was rushing to his cheeks. He quickly averted his gaze, but not before catching a glimpse of the vallaslin that curled around his beautiful chest. Taralen, however, did not look the least bit embarrassed by Dorian witnessing his state of undress, and merely gestured angrily towards the tub next to him.

“I don’t understand. I thought there would be at least some kind of pump, like they have in shem cities. Where are we supposed to get the water from?”

Dorian stared blankly at him (at his face, only his face), and then realized that Taralen was expecting an answer.

“They’re runes,” he said, with far less authority and much more trembling in his voice than he had hoped. He walked over to the tub, Taralen’s narrowed eyes following him, and pressed on the blue button, followed by the red button. The tub immediately began filling with hot water. “See?”

Dorian saw that Taralen had bitten his lip in the most irresistible way and had to look away again, this time to the floor, where he saw shards of glass around a pool of creamy yellow gel. Crouching down to pick up the shards, he was hit by the lemon aroma of the soap.

“Shame,” he murmured, “this soap’s from Antiva.”

He almost shuddered when Taralen’s knee brushed against his as he crouched to join him in cleaning up the glass. They put the pieces into a small towel that Taralen snatched from a nearby pile of them and tied up the corners.

“Well, it can stay there, as far as I’m concerned.” His shoulder-length brown hair, usually tied back into a neat ponytail, fell loosely into his eyes, the gentle waves close enough to tickle Dorian’s nose. “I don’t know how to use any of these things. My clan only ever had lye soap, and that served us plenty well. How’d you get Neris hooked on this stuff?”

Dorian chuckled. “She has a bathtub in her rooms.”

Taralen rolled his eyes. “Of course her Inquisitorialness does.”

He stood abruptly, then, and Dorian did the same, lest he let his eyes wander overmuch. Taralen dipped his hand in the water of the now-full tub, flashing a pretty smile at Dorian.

“It’s so warm!”

And he hopped into the bath with a delighted laugh.

Dorian couldn’t help but laugh along, despite being aware of the blush that persisted on his cheeks. He hoped Taralen would attribute it to the heat, though he doubted it. The elf missed very little, as evidenced by their first meeting.

Taralen let out a satisfied groan. “You know what? I take it back. Use all the fancy soaps you please if it comes with this sort of thing.”

Dorian smiled and took a look at the so-called fancy soaps Taralen had brought along with him. There was a shampoo and conditioner - it seemed the soap had been the one that had been smashed. Two of them weren’t soaps at all - one was a vial of salts, the other an oil for the hair. He opened up the vial of salts and emptied it into Taralen’s tub. Steam rose off the surface of the water, obscuring the rest of his body, thankfully. Dorian wasn’t certain his (albeit limited) sense of propriety could survive, otherwise.

“This one will help with sore muscles.”

“Mmm,” hummed Taralen, letting the water wash over his muscular shoulders. “I can think of a few other things that would, too, but this’ll have to do for now.”

Dorian smirked as he turned away, though a thrill shot through his back and into his stomach. He picked up one of the other bottles and showed it to Taralen. “Can I interest you in some shampoo?”

A pause. “Shampoo?”

“It’s a special soap for your hair.”

“Ah.”

Dorian observed the frustrated curve return to Taralen’s brow, and a frown tugged at the corners of those full, lovely lips. This couldn’t be easy for him, he realized – Aeneris had settled into her role well enough, despite being leader of the Inquisition for a faith she didn’t believe in, amongst people she wasn’t familiar with, with customs and traditions she neither knew nor cared for. But she had a goal, a purpose, a responsibility to focus her. Though Taralen was clearly both adventurous and brave for making the trek to Skyhold, Dorian had seen him wandering aimlessly around the castle while Aeneris met with diplomats and advisors alike. He’d noticed how despondent he became when she left on a long mission to some faraway Inquisition outpost. Abandoning everything he had ever known and loved in favour of living amongst some strange humans in the South just to keep his often absent and preoccupied sister company had to be difficult. Isolating, even. Lonely.

It was a story that felt familiar, too.

“Would you like me to wash it for you?” He almost stumbled over the words, but something compelled him to offer. Perhaps it would bring him some comfort. Or, at the very least, some clean hair.

Now, it was Taralen’s turn to blush, though he did it very prettily. He nodded, an uncharacteristically bashful smile on his lips.

“I would like that.”

Dorian retrieved a pail that was hanging on a hook on a wall nearby and filled it with the hot, fragrant water of the tub. Gently, almost reverently, he poured some water over Taralen’s brown locks, which tightened into delightful curls as they hung off the edge of the bathtub. He refilled the pail and soaked the top of Taralen’s head, who hummed quietly and sunk deeper into the water. Dorian then took the bottle of shampoo and emptied a sovereign-sized dollop of shampoo on his hand. Slowly, he worked it into Taralen’s hair, focusing on massaging his scalp. He seemed to relax under his touch, and even gave a little sigh of relief.

“You know,” Dorian started, “correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve seen you around the castle, and if Aeneris hasn’t given you much to do—”

“Neris is very busy,” Taralen cut in sharply.

“Be that as it may, if you find yourself in want of some conversation, you can find me in the library whenever you like. I can be very charming when I want to be, or so I’ve been told.”

Taralen chuckled, and they were silent for a few moments, as Dorian ran his fingers through the elf’s lathered up hair. “You’ve been watching me, then?”

“You do seem to catch the eye, yes,” he replied, almost flippant in tone, but he felt his pulse quicken.

Willing his hands not to tremble, he dipped the pail back into the water, this time dipping both his hands in as well, to wash off the lather. As he withdrew, Taralen caught Dorian’s wrist in his hand. Even this brief touch sent a jolt of electricity down Dorian’s spine, one that he couldn’t be sure wasn’t magical in nature. He turned and his ochre eyes met Dorian’s, burning with a sudden intensity.

“I’ve seen you around, too. I’ll be sure to take advantage of your hospitality in the library. And your charm. I agree that you’ve got quite a lot of it.”

There was that wink again, the one that had made Dorian curse all the way down the stairs that led away from Aeneris’ quarters. Fasta vass, he wasn’t supposed to be feeling this way again, not at his age, not with what was at stake for his country, not here. He couldn’t help the sinking feeling, however, as Taralen released his hand and he rinsed the shampoo out of his hair.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he found himself saying.

Afterwards, Dorian considered the fact that it was just as well that his bath had somehow gone cold in his absence, after such an encounter. He certainly needed it.

#pavellan #dorian x m!lavellan #julia writes #dadwc

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noire-pandora · 3 years

Text

Wildflowers for @14daysdalovers Also on my AO3

Words: 2410

Warnings: None

Pairing: Solavellan.

Elluin shivered, goosebumps blooming on her skin as the chilly air of the morning found a way to sneak under her leather armour and kissed her skin. She encouraged the fire in front of her to burn brighter, her magic fueling the flames.

The morning watch found her yawning as she waited for her companions to wake up and resume their trip back to Skyhold. No matter how exciting the Emerald Graves was, she missed the castle, its corridors and the bedroom it came with. And the double bed. Sleeping in a tent, on the cool, rocky ground, with twigs stabbing her back and neck might have been fun at twenty years old, but now, at thirty-six, she appreciated a good, fluffy bed.

She learned how to enjoy the privacy of her room provided, especially when she shared the tent with Solas. His presence, his body so close to her, kept her up at night, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The thought of waking up too close to him brought butterflies in her belly.

She huffed, yanking a stick in the fire. The feelings for Solas baffled and thrilled her. She’d be a liar to say she didn’t love the subtle flirting games going on between them or his pleased look when she didn’t back out from their little verbal teasings.

She found the words dance exhilarating, a welcome break from all the pious and polite words the rest of the people threw at her. The people who saw her as the Herald, as the Inquisitor; a being above them, a being who inspired fear and respect. And while Solas showed her nothing but respect, she noticed the thrilling spark of something else in his eyes when his gaze lingered on her face or when his fingers touched her skin, a second too long as he healed her wounds. As the days passed, she waited, convinced those subtle touches would turn into heated caressing.

Until Wisdom died and Solas disappeared for two weeks. In those weeks, doubt gnawed at her mind. Did she imagine it? Did she invent those signs? Will he leave her with the bitter longing in her heart? Those fourteen days felt like an eternity.

When he returned, she felt the sting of the tears in the corners of her eyes. As she ran towards him, her heart smashed against her ribs, pushing her to hurry, to abandon any restraint and press her lips against his. To admonish him for leaving her alone, for forgetting to visit her in the Fade at night. But Solas’ pained expression stopped her in her tracks. His suffering reflected on his face made her understand the deepness of his sadness. The games stopped, and a distant politeness fell between them.

And now, a week after his return, the loss still affected him, the sadness tugging at the corner of his eyes. He spoke rarely and only when absolutely necessary. He searched for solitude, and no matter how much kindness and understanding she offered, his polite but cold smile pushed her away.

She had no idea what to do, and every time she opened her mouth to speak with him, she stumbled on her words. A nagging thought added conflict to that: jealousy. Jealousy on a spirit. She believed the connection between Solas and Wisdom might have been more than a simple friendship.

The noise of the tent flap opening broke her trail of thoughts. Cassandra emerged from the canvas, yawning. She wore nothing but a linen gambeson; her armour still stashed carefully next to her pillow. She nodded in acknowledgement and headed towards the trees, flexing her fingers.

Suddenly, she stopped and turned on her heels to look at Elluin. “Inquisitor, what are you doing up? This isn’t your watch but Solas',’” she turned her gaze to search for the elf, but she frowned as he was nowhere to be seen. “Where is Solas?”

Elluin shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she shrieked, making her way back to Elluin. “Did you not meet with him when you woke up?”

“I did, I did. I told him he can go back to sleep since I was up, but he decided to go for a walk instead. He left an hour ago.”

“An hour ago?” Cassandra threw her hands in the air. “Anything could have happened to him in an hour. “

“Cass, Solas is a grown man,” she explained, rolling her eyes. “He travelled for years on his own. I’m sure he can take care of himself for an hour, in a forest.”

“I know, but sorrow can blind anyone. He has not been himself since he left Skyhold. I will go after him.”

“Wait, I’ll go after him,” she got up from the log she sat on. “You’re in your gambeson, and it will take you at least fifteen minutes to put your armour on. I can find him faster.”

“Are you certain about it, Inquisitor?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m in my armour already, and I can see and hear better in the forest than you. I’ll be fine,” she took a moment to stretch and yawned again. She had no idea how to find Solas, but the thought of a stroll in the forest, alone, brought a smile on her lips.

The twigs snapped under the pressure of her steps, the mix of rotten leaves and mud sticking on the soles of her shoes, hindering her movements, but she was in no hurry. Cassandra exaggerated in her worries, and she knew Solas was in no danger. He survived alone, as an elf and a mage, for more than forty years. She doubted this forest could offer any challenges to him.

The trees surrounded her, giants swaying under the gentle touch of the wind. She stared at them, muttering a small prayer for her ancestor buried under their roots. The soft whispering of the woods brought peace to her mind, all the nagging thoughts about the fate of the word forgotten for a few minutes. The music of a flowing river joined the symphony, its confident bubbling encouraging her to follow its path downstream. She walked next to it, skipping and jumping on the stones scattered on the river’s bank, allowing herself a few moments of playfulness.

Soon, the river completed the trip, its waters feeding a small, almost oval lake. Rays of lights gleamed across the water, its surface mirroring the blue, cloudless sky. Wildflowers surrounded the lake, the diverse colours of their petals joining the green of the grass, their leaves resting under the warm touch of the sun. A sweet, floral smile tickled her nose, and she took a deep breath in, filling her lungs with their scent. Her muscles instantly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over her.

She frowned. A crouched silhouette moved in the middle of the flower patch. Her fingers twitched, ready to release her fire magic at the smallest sight of violence. The figure rose from their position, and she sighed with relief as she recognised the person. Solas. She grinned at the image in front of her: his lean, tall figure, surrounded by multicoloured flowers, their leaves touching his legs. She made a mental note to capture the scene on paper.

“Solas!” she shouted, her voice breaking the peace. “Over here!”

Solas jumped, turning on his heels to face her in a hurry,his face strained. He immediately relaxed at her sight. In his hand, he held a small flower bouquet, the rich colours of the wildflowers contrasting with his pale fingers. A little pang of jealousy crossed Elluin’s mind.

He made his way through the patch of flowers, his feet never stepping on them. A small smile tugged at his lips, his face relaxed and calm. Her heart skipped a beat, his beauty stopping her breath. She stared at him, hardly moving, unsure what to do next.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted her as he eventually met her. “Did something happen?”

She shook her head to clear her mind. “No. The usual. Cassandra turned into the mother hen once more, and she sent me to search for you. She worried for your safety.”

He chuckled. The melody of his laugh sent shudders down her spine.

“Cassandra should not worry about my safety. I can take care of myself.”

Elluin rolled her eyes. “I told her that, but you know how she is.”

“Indeed.”

Silence shrouded them as they took in the beauty surrounding them. Elluin glanced at the flowers in his hands, curiosity nibbling at her mind. She knew he valued privacy, but she had to know who was the lucky soul to receive them.

“I see you picked up some flowers. Who’s the lucky one?” she grinned in an attempt to ease the air between them and hoped Solas won’t notice her worry.

He looked down at his hand, his eyebrows furrowed as if he forgot about the flowers’ existence. “Oh,” he acknowledged, raising the bouquet in front of his chest. “I gathered these for you.”

“For me?” she stuttered. “Really?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “You said you wished to make your own flower garden at Skyhold. If you cut their pods and the seed heads and let them dry on wax paper for a few weeks, you can plant them. I cannot guarantee you they will bloom, but you can give it a try.”

Elluin stared at him, a curious expression crossing her face. She opened her mouth to speak a few times, hesitating to find the right words to say. When she spoke again, amazement coloured her voice. “Solas, I talked about that once, with Blackwall, months ago. You didn’t even participate in the conversation. How did you remember it?”

He smiled. “Indeed, but I did overhear the conversation, and I have a good memory. When I stumbled upon this meadow, I imagined you would be happy to take a piece of its beauty back at Skyhold. I apologise if I made a mistake and—”

“No!” she cut him off quickly, stepping closer to him, closing the distance between them. “No, it’s not like that. I’m just surprised you remembered. I want that. I want to take them at Skyhold. Thank you,” she whispered her thanks, a faint blush spreading on her face.

Her hands reached out to take the bouquet from his hands, their fingers brushing in the movement, but Solas hands still gripped the flower’s stems, his gaze fixed on her face. She looked back at him, forgetting how to breathe.

“I am the one who should thank you. For your help and kindness.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “Help?”

“Yes. You helped me when I needed it the most. When Wisdom was in danger.”

She sighed and looked down at her legs. “I don’t know how much I helped. I couldn’t save Wisdom. They died, and you suffered,” she laughed bitterly. “I wouldn’t call that helpful.”

His long finger gingerly touched her chin, lifting it to look in her eyes again. “Even if Wisdom died, your eagerness to help mattered more than you can imagine. I am in your debt.”

Her thumb softly stroked his knuckles. “Don’t be silly, Solas. I’m sure I’m not the only one who helped you when you need it.”

His hand left her chin, and he shook his head. “You would be surprised. It has been so long since I could trust someone with my private matters.”

“I see,” she mumbled, unsure how to act next. This was the perfect time to let her heart confess how much he meant for her, but her legs trembled with fear. She gulped down the nod in her throat, but before she could say anything, Solas spoke again.

“I also want to apologise to you, Inquisitor.”

His words snapped her out from her state. “Apologise? What for?”

“Varric told me how concerned you were for my safety. He said you hardly ate in those two weeks I have been away.”

Her gaze dropped to the flowers both of them held as embarrassment took over her mind. She cursed herself for allowing her feelings to become that obvious. But suddenly she frowned. No, she had every right to be worried.

“I thought you would never come back. I thought you abandoned us,” she whispered. “I thought you hated me for not saving Wisdom.”

“I thought about it,” he said, the words pushing Elluin to stare at him. It was his turn to look at the flowers they still held. “To never return to Skyhold. But then I realised you did everything you could to help, and I couldn’t abandon you right now,” he shifted his gaze back to her face. “I apologized for being away. I needed to find another reason to come back. Something to keep me steady on my feet.”

His hands left the stems of the flowers to hover above hers, their skin barely touching. He swallowed hard and studied every line of her face as if to memorise them.

“And?” she inquired, her voice quivering. “Did you find it?”

Solas smiled and nodded. “I did.”

The answer brought every surrounding sound to a halt, the thudding of her heart against her chest the only noise she could hear. A faint dizziness took over her. Her instinct screamed to move, to say something, anything, but her body refused to listen. Seconds passed, but no words came to her. She saw Solas’ shoulders drop, the intense expression on his face slowly replaced with his usual, calm demeanour. His hands finally left hers and she understood the magic of the moment passed. He left her side, heading towards the forest. She slapped herself mentally for missing the perfect opportunity and the ideal location for a romantic confession.

“We should get going, Inquisitor,” she heard Solas saying. “Before the Seeker sends a searching party to find us.”

She snorted, shaking her head, and slowly left the meadow, in no hurry to abandon its beauty. The wind caressed the colourful bouquet in her hands, and she smiled at it. She looked up to check if Solas watched her, but he slowly walked away, paying no attention to her.

She buried her face in the bouquet, the pollen colouring the tip of her nose and her cheeks. Pure happiness took over her as she took a deep breath, the sweet, wild smell tickling her senses. It was the scent of love. The scent of his love.

#dragon age #fanfic #solavellan #solas #lavellan #elluin lavellan #prompt #wildflowers #14DALovers

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nirikeehan · 2 years

Note

"Kissing in the Rain" with Cullen and Thalia? :D

Thank you for this prompt! I've been jonesing for these two lately.

So I'm really into men being competent at their jobs and I thought for Valentine’s Day I’d treat myself.

For @dadrunkwriting and @14daysdalovers

CW: Canon typical violence

Word Count: 1523

---

They had spent most of the Ferelden trip visiting various camps and outposts. Thalia tried to rally the troops’ spirits while Cullen went over the business of fortifications and supply lines with his captains. The time had passed as if in a whirlwind; today was their last day before they were set to return to Skyhold. The weather had persisted in being bleak and grey, something Cullen had remarked upon several times with disdain.

Now she understood why. As they left the quiet of the lake, Cullen’s lucky coin in her pocket, Thalia suspected he had hoped for a more romantic outing — with the sun overhead, and a spot to sit, eat, and unwind for a few hours. The ground was wet and muddy, and the sky loomed close, threatening to unleash another torrent. There was still business to conclude in Honnleath, as the local captain had been delayed on his trip home due to the storms. Even though Cullen had asked their escorts to stay well back on the main road, here they were, trudging up the squelching slope at a brisk clip.

“Hey.” Thalia took Cullen by the wrist. “We could stand to slow down a little.”

He stopped and flashed her a sheepish look. “I’m sorry, my mind is already on other things. That was not my intention.”

“I know it wasn’t.” Thalia slipped her fingers between his. “So maybe we could, I don’t know, take the long way round?”

Cullen snorted. “Not unless you want to traipse right into swampland. Trust me, I made that mistake once as a child. I came home covered in poison sumac and leeches.”

“I’m sure your parents were thrilled with that,” Thalia said, giggling.

“They decided the experience was its own punishment, and they were right.” Cullen shook his head. “No, it’s best if we stick to the path. But perhaps we could do it at a leisurely stroll?”

“Do you even know how to do a leisurely stroll?” Thalia teased.

“Probably not.” He grinned shyly. “It’s a good thing you’re here.”

She laughed and rested her head against the fur of his collar. They dawdled after that, paying more attention to each other than the path.

“It was a sweet gesture, though,” Thalia said quietly. “All of this.”

“It went better in my head. Then again, most things do.” He glanced down at her. “Wartime does not make for restful holidays. I should have known.”

“Things will improve. After. We could — I don’t know. Get a little cottage in the middle of nowhere, with no one to bother us.” Thalia smirked. “Can you even imagine?”

“That sounds perfect,” Cullen said, but his grip on her hand tightened. There was something in his voice, too, that she had sensed down on the dock: a deep current of fear. All that talk of a lucky coin, and yet neither of them had been able to voice the truth that they might live long enough to see peace.

“I’m holding you to it,” Thalia warned. She couldn’t acknowledge the danger, not when the day had been so pleasant, even with the dark clouds hanging low and ominous mists floating off the water. She bit her lip and looked skyward, through the thick canopy of trees. “Feels like rain.”

“It does.” The moisture in the air was palpable, and a low roll of thunder sounded in the distance. “Maybe we ought to hurry after all.”

“I think I’ll take my chances,” Thalia said, nuzzling his neck. The bristles of his stubble felt reassuring against her cheek.

“If you say so,” Cullen said, pressing his lips to her hairline.

As they reached level ground, rain began to fall in large splotches. The precipitation was pleasantly warm this far south, unlike in Skyhold, where the icy winds blew down off the mountains and storms threatened to bury all their roads in snow.

Before she could remark upon this to Cullen, she felt him stiffen beside her. “What is it?”

“Something’s not right,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t hear the horses.”

Their guard should have been around the bend, with a carriage and mounts to bring them back to the village. Thalia inhaled sharply. “You don’t think…?”

“I don’t know.” His hand went to the hilt of his sword, and Thalia chastised herself for leaving her staff behind. It had seemed too bulky to take on a romantic stroll, and a touch paranoid besides. Cullen scanned their surroundings with quick, keen glances. “Just stay close.”

She did, feeling naked without a weapon of her own. The rainfall intensified, and her left palm crackled as another thunderclap rumbled, drawing closer.

The carriage had collapsed in the middle of the road, one wheel broken and another missing. The horses lay on their sides, still and motionless. Their men were scattered about the road, their chainmail soaked with blood. Alarmed, Thalia surged forward, hoping to find someone alive.

Cullen blocked her way. “Don’t. This has the feel of an ambush.”

Movement rustled the trees on either side of them. From the driving rain emerged hulking figures, their bodies deformed by crimson peaks. “Red Templars,” Thalia cried in surprise.

Cullen drew his sword. “Get behind me.”

She slipped behind his back as a Red Templars lurched at them. Cullen slashed upward, glancing the edge of his sword off a crystal that jutted from the Templar’s neck. The air sang with an otherworldly hum and shards of scarlet rained into the mud.

Thalia muttered a warding spell; a dim teal shimmer appeared in the air around Cullen. The Red Templar’s mace cracked at the magic shield, but did not penetrate. While Cullen hacked back, Thalia whirled and saw two more approaching.

“My staff,” she whispered, glancing toward the carriage. She reached out a hand and sent a shock of electricity toward the enemy soldiers; they stood stunned for a few seconds, but without her weapon’s amplification, seemed barely injured.

“Go get it. I’ll cover you,” Cullen muttered.

“Are you sure?” The Templars were circling, closing in.

“Yes. Go, now.”

Thalia broke into a sprint. The two Red Templars she had shocked leapt at her, but caught a ferocious swing from Cullen’s sword. One was slashed across his breastbone; the other took the blade’s edge in the chin and dropped.

The drenching rain stung her eyes as she ran. Blurry figures loomed all around, and the sounds of battle drove her forward with panic. She was not a melee fighter and had little business on the front lines, but even she knew the bravest warrior would not last long when outnumbered.

A lumbering Templar grasped at her with fingers like talons. Thalia dodged but slipped in the mud, going down hard. She rolled desperately, coughing. As she tried to rise, the Templar’s blade come for her face — until Cullen appeared behind him and drove his sword into the man’s back. She jumped up and was running again.

At last she reached the carriage. The door had been wrenched off. She crawled in and searched frantically. “Please be here. Please.” Outside she heard Cullen cry out, whether from exertion or pain, it was difficult to tell.

Lodged into a corner under fallen cushions lay her staff. Thalia seized it and dragged herself into the storm. The wind howled around her, soaking her clothes. The clouds whirled overhead, licked with lightning. Cullen stood at the center of four Templars, their red eyes screaming for blood. He was favoring one leg, breathing hard, the rain driving his hair down into his eyes.

Thalia spun the staff with her hand, summoning both elemental magic and the electricity from above. She drove the staff down into the ground with all her might. A massive wave of chain lightning leapt from her to each Templar in turn. Their bodies seized in a flickering violet arc — then fell to the ground, like marionettes whose strings had been severed.

All was still. Thalia leaned against the staff hard, gasping for air.

Cullen limped closer, face alight with fear. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, her throat raw. “I don’t think so.” She put the staff aside and dashed to him. “Are you? Your leg—”

“Twisted my ankle.” He seized her by the shoulders, looking her over for signs of damage. She was wet to the skin and muddy from the fall, but there was no wound.

She took his face in her hands. “The red lyrium. Did you get too close? Are you feeling all right?” Sometimes at night she awoke with a terror to the image of Cullen with glowing eyes, eaten from the inside out by the vermilion crystals.

“I’m fine. Truly.” His irises remained a reassuring hazel, full of tenderness and worry. The blood that flecked his jaw did not belong to him.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Then came a near-hysterical giggle. “Good thing for that lucky coin, huh?”

Cullen let out a barking laugh, pushing the drenched hair from his forehead. “Yes. Good thing.”

Thalia leaned up and kissed him. He tasted like rainwater and dirt, and nothing had ever felt so sweet.

#dragon age drunk writing circle #14daysdalovers #thalia trevelyan #cullen rutherford #cullen x trevelyan #fics

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mydrug-is-dragonage · 3 years

Text

Veda Adaar, A Letter from Home

The balcony off my room had great light in the morning. The sun shining through the clouds, the crisp mountain air, spring properly arrived and ready to melt into summer. My belly swelled, slowly but surely. No kicks or stirring, a growing bump where they said a child would be. I hid myself in long, flowing robes and oversized tunics. I spent most my days here, staring out the window, feeling the sun on my skin. I wondered if this was the feeling my parents missed, living in this cold land so far from their home. I sighed and looked out at the mountains, so calm with the wars ceased. The sky still bore the thin green scar.

The week after the healer confirmed the child, Lace came into my room with tea. “Hey, V.” I nodded and waved her in. She handed me the cup and we settled onto the sofa. The fire crackled, I pulled my robe closer around me and placed both hands on the warm cup. “I haven’t written the Divine yet,” she said.

“You haven’t written or you haven’t sent it?” I asked.

“Sent. I’ve written a draft,” she said.

“Do we have to send it now?”

“No,” she paused. Her eyes stared at the burning logs. “We will have to tell her soon, though.”

“I suppose we can get it over with. Not like it’ll get any easier,” I sighed. I took a sip of my tea. My hands stayed on the cup, the warmth passing through my palms.

“She’ll make it easier to keep this quiet, if that’s still what you want to do,” she said.

I swallowed and stared out, the sun setting, the chill of the mountains taking over. “I want to keep it quiet. I’ll tell a few friends, in time, but for now it needs to stay with only those we trust the most.”

She nodded. “Have you written your mother yet? We got another two letters from her this week.” I shook my head. “The Divine considers her trustworthy. She hasn’t betrayed any Inquisition secrets thus far.”

“I know,” I said, “I just don’t know how to tell her.” Lace tapped her feet. “Go on, you’ve got a mind full of something.”

“Veda, she loves you. She loved Bull. She’ll be thrilled.” I took another sip of my tea.

“She does love me. She did love Bull. She also loves my father and will certainly tell him,” I said. Lace started to speak, but I interrupted. “Pa never trusted him. He had his reasons, of course.”

“I think he’ll support you more than he hates Bull,” she said.

“You’ve met my father. Do you really believe that?”

“He’s a hardass, but he’s always been bolder in affection than hatred.” I nodded, took another sip of my tea.

“Lace, can you bring me a fresh candle and ink?” She nodded and went to fetch them. I settled into my desk.

Tama,

I’m sorry I haven’t written. Lace tells me she’d get you informed about the immediate developments. I’ll also admit I haven’t read your letters. I’m going to, I keep them in a safe place. I simply haven’t found the time or the gumption. For being so brave, I’m so afraid. I don’t know why. I’ve face dragons and magisters and time travel. I suppose the risk there is death. Dying never seemed as scary.

I remember the stories you told me of when you were a girl. A young apprentice baker, elbows deep in flour. You wanted to be a Tamassaran, raising the children, guiding their growth, comforting their hurts. I suppose it’s the closest thing to motherhood in Par Vollen. They didn’t let you into the priesthood, though. They didn’t let you raise the babies and cuddle them, tend to their wounds. They sent you to a small bakery near the sea. I remember the gull songs you’d sing to me as we wandered along the coastline of the Waking Sea.

Pa never told me the same stories you did. I pieced them together from stories you’d told me. Pa, part of the antaam, stopping by your bakery for bread in the morning. Pa, the good soldier, making jokes as you packed his rations You, the naughty the baker, sneaking him sweetened bread, baked with too much sugar. His hands lingering on yours too long in front of the baker. You two sitting on beach, the sea lapping the shore, your hands finding their way to each other’s again. When I got older and understood the Qun, I always wondered how you weren’t quaking with fear. To love, while not forbidden, was certainly not allowed like this.

When you fled, were you afraid? Crossing through Seheron and Tevinter, Pa joining mercenary companies to gain passage, did you regret it? Did you miss the calm of the bakery, the friends you left behind? Was he worth it? Was I worth it? Were you afraid?

I remember when you sent me off with my first company, an apprentice myself, unsure of the power in my fingertips. I remember Pa standing, arm around you. You held back your tears, but I saw your eyes well up, so afraid for your only child, your only daughter. You wanted more for me than mercenary companies, killing for my dinner. You sang from the Chant of Light, you warned me of magic, yet it came to me anyway, taking me away from you. The first letter I got from you started and ended with, “May the Maker guide you.”

He guided me through mountains and valleys, along the seas. I’d seen the Free Marches, Nevarra, Orlais, the South Western corner of the Anderfels, all while learning to protect myself from demons, manipulate the fade to bend to my very will. The best, of course, was when I’d come home, a year older, a head taller, hardly the child you’d sent away, still so far from real womanhood. You fussed over me so, made goat pies, asked about the places I’d been and the joy I’d found. When you went to bed, Pa and I sat outside, looking towards the sky, the moon so full and hungry. He took a sip of the wine you’d opened, offered me my first glass. He put his arm around me and pointed out constellations. He said something softly, the sounds still ringing in my ears, “We wanted better for you. We wanted safer for you.”

The first time you visited Skyhold, we’d stopped the demon army, but we hadn’t yet gone to Halamshiral to save the empress. You wore a simple cotton dress, you hair braided down your back. Pa put on his nice shirt, his horn caps. You looked so nervous around the nobility. They didn’t know what to make of you. The deafening whispers, everyone so curious about the new Qunari amongst the Inquisition. I heard you sing from some Canticle as you walked towards the throne, up towards my room.

I was scared then, too, my mission unfinished, the Magister still on the loose. When we got to my room you gave me the biggest hug. “My little girl has gone on to be something so much bigger!” You beamed, your own daughter the Herald of Andraste. Pa hugged me too. While I was pressed against him he whispered, “I’m happy you’re safe, for now.” Pa pulled away and glanced at my neck.

The dragon’s tooth was heavy. It rested against my skin, cool and smooth. He didn’t say anything, eyes stuck on the tooth. Your eyes were stuck on me, until Pa’s hand reached your back. Your gaze went where his rested. I can hear your voice now, the surpise and curiosity, “Veda, is that….” your voice trailed off, so Pa, forever your rock, finished for you, “A necklace of the Kadan.” He didn’t share your curiosity.

I said yes. No use in lying to you. I felt my heartbeat in my ears. Your eyes widened when you asked me, “Do you have a Kadan?” I nodded, so unsure and afraid. Not of my love. I knew I loved Bull. I hoped he loved me, but the two of you, seeing me in love with a man closer to your age than mine, a Ben Hassrath agent no less. You two joined me in Herald’s Rest, we found a small table in the corner upstairs. Pa drank a full ale before Bull came to join us. It was awkward, so painfully awkward. When Pa excused himself, I wanted to be sick when Bull said he’d take a walk with him. The men gone, us alone at the table. “He’s,” you thought so carefully about your words, “a lot of man.” I laughed and agreed. You asked if he made me happy.

He did. He made me so happy. He made me happy for years. He made me happy dancing at Halamshiral, he made me happy fighting dragons, he made happy in taverns and campsites, in castles and caves. He held my hand in carriages, he held me in cold storms. He took blows meant for me, he killed foes sent to strike me down. I saw the whole future, I saw the danger you and Pa had lived through. I knew we’d have troubles. I knew he’d be called away from me, but he was mine and he made me so happy, Tama. I couldn’t have loved him more.

I assume you know now what he did. Pa was right. Pa, despite walking with Bull, pulled me into a great big hug before he left. Again, he whispered in my ear, “He’ll never love you more than the Qun.” I shrugged him off. What did Pa know? He didn’t know Bull. He didn’t know me or our circumstances. I thought myself so grown then, barely nineteen, but the most powerful woman in the world. I loved Bull. Bull loved me. I was so sure Bull loved me.

I don’t know if love persists once we return to the Maker’s side. I don’t know if he even gets to return to the Maker. I don’t know what the Qun says happens we die. He obeyed the Qun. He did what the Qun demanded. If there is satisfaction to be had there, he’s earned it. At the cost of himself, at the cost of our love, at the cost of my dignity.

It’s been scarcely two months, his body left to rot near that dragon’s prison. I saw my love struck down before me. Cassandra delivered the killing blow, saving me the anguish of having to kill him myself. He’s dead, Tama. He’s gone. He’s gone forever and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to accept that he loved me and still did this. I don’t know how to accept that he never loved me and felt no guilt. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

It’s been two months, I’m in Skyhold with Lace and the few others who stayed behind to serve what was the Inquisition. I’m no longer the Inquisitor, I’m no longer a fearsome fighter. I’m no longer someone’s Kadan. I’m just Veda. I’m just Veda and that’s all I’ll ever be. I’ll try to help stop Solas, but I won’t lead the charge. I can’t, not anymore. I’m going to be a glorified advisor, one-armed and tired. All that is so hard to write. Forgive the smudges. I’ve finally cried without violence and I don’t know how to accept any of this, but I do have something I have to tell you.

I’m no longer the Inquisitor, a Valo-Kas mercenary, a Knight Enchanter. But I’m still your daughter, and I’m going to be a mother.

Love,

Veda

Lace sent the raven to my mother, I sat down and finally read her letters, her usual, motherly concern filling each page. Father was doing well, a goat had twin kids. When she’d found out about Bull, the letter was longer. Words about love and loss, the way pain settles in our chest, proving our love mattered at all. Beautiful words, frustrating as they were comforting. I heard her and Thom ringing in my ears. I lounged on the sofa, my hands resting at my side, sometimes settling on the top of it. My stomach was warm and tight. Sometimes my fingers would wander towards my stomach, but I’d pull them away. The child would have to be acknowledged eventually. I would have to care for the child, provide for its needs. But I didn’t have to love it, caress its home. Not yet, not now.

Two weeks passed, visitors came and went, spring got brighter, the documents and plans seemed more convoluted. A sunny afternoon, Lace came to my room with two letters. “I thought you’d want this as soon as possible,” she said. I opened the first, smelled the pages. The light scent of lavender and smoke, the oils mother loved and the constant cooking.

Sweetling,

Asit tal-eb. It is to be. Maraas Kata. Nothing is ended.

Love,

Tama

I held the letter to my chest, weeping. So few words, yet they struck right into my heart. Asit tal-eb, what mother would say whenever we suffered and lost. One summer, before I’d come into my magic, Pa came home furious. He cursed and threw down his sword. They spoke in quick Qunlat, too fast for me to understand. Pa sat down and put his elbows on his knees, his head in his hand. Tama put her arms around his head, rested her head on his. She whispered, “Asit tal-eb,” over and over, stroking his hair. I put my doll aside, walked up beside them. Pa took an arm off Tama’s waist and pulled me into their embrace. She leaned up, dried her eyes, and squatted down to my height. “We’ve got to go, sweetling,” she said. Her voice calm despite it all.

“But I like it here! They’re not even mean at the Chantry!” I said, full of childlike fury.

“They won’t sell us the land,” Pa said. “So we can’t grow food for ourselves. We can’t raise animals of our own.” He sniffed and stared at the wall. His gaze moved down to me, little girl with little horns still budding. “We will try again. Find a new place we can stay. Asit tal-eb.”

I caught my breath and opened the next letter. Instead of my mother’s gentle writing, a harsher, sturdier hand had written it.

Imekari,

Your mother says you are having a child. This means we will be grandparents. I have never known a grandparent. Like parenthood, it is a concept we’ve stolen from the Bas. Regardless, I will inquire with the man who sells wheat what this entails. I presume we will love this child, just as we love you. The stories I’ve heard, being a grandparent is easier. That brings some joy.

I read the letter you sent your mother. I read it a few times. I lost count after seven. You’re not so wrong with your telling of me. I was in the antaam. I tried to make your mother laugh often. We did hold hands when we shouldn’t have. Due to your existence, you know we fled together, children ourselves. We chose love over duty. We abandoned the Qun.

I never told you of the walk Hissrad and I took the day we met. You were right. It was awkward. I hoped for a moment to compose myself. Perhaps find a man to hit me with a stick. Of course, Hissrad chose to join me. We walked along the battlements for some time. He was quiet, as I was quiet. We reached a corner and overlooked the endless mountains. I asked him about the necklace. Your mother and I had never told you of this. Kadans and necklaces of Kadans were a memory we left behind. It had to be his idea. He kept a blank face. I presume he was a very good Hissrad. After some contemplation, he said (translated for your sake), “I mentioned it off hand. We killed a dragon less than a week later. I thought we were just having fun, but she surprised me. She constantly surprises me.” I asked if he loved you. He said yes. I asked if he loved you as the Qunari he was or the Tal-Vashoth he pretended to be. He said (again, translated for your sake. You need to learn more Qunlat. The child should know Qunlat), “Both. I love her as the friend and companion I’d get to have in Par Vollen. I love her as a Tal-Vashoth would love whomever they chose.” When I asked about the Qun and when he’d be pulled back to Par Vollen, he gave meaningless answers. He’d spent too much time around bas, he’d forgotten how to talk to men like men.

Imekari, I was wrong. He’s dead. He died obeying orders. But, presuming this new imekari—Imekari II? Small imekari? Ari-imekari? I’ll discuss with Tama—was not of your planning, he broke the Qun. He knew how to control his seed. We all grow up knowing, waiting to be called for breeding. He made a choice. He violated the Qun.

He died Tal-Vashoth. I wish he had lived to fulfill that betrayal of the Qun. The child will come. Tama and I will come too, to discuss and guide. For now, I’ve enclosed something that gave me great comfort during our great suffering.

You’re still a Kadan. You’ve always been our Kadan.

Your Father,

Beres

Behind his letter there was another piece of paper. I opened it slowly, the creases deep and discolored. Inside was a drawing, crude, of a little house. Two Qunari stood, both smiling. The drawing was labeled, “This will be our house. This is where the goats will sleep. This is where the goats will chase the chickens. This is where Veda will play. This is where Tama will sing to Veda. This is where Pa will squeeze Veda on days the Maker didn’t bring kindness to school.” A smaller Qunari reached both hands up, a parent grabbing each hand. At the bottom, it said, “Home.”

I read and re-read the letter. When my hand drifted to my belly, I let it rest.

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