Was Scrolling Through AO3 And Found This Gem

Why does tumblr have more inuyasha fans than twitter and blue sky combined??

Chapter 6: Wherein a God Knows Hunger (Even Gods Need Miracles)

Summary:

In the safety of the Fade, Lavellan takes initiative in their budding relationship, and Solas discovers a level of want and desire that surprises even him.

On Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61703029/chapters/162111184

She starts making a point of visiting him in the rotunda at least once a day, if only to say hello. She recommends a book to him — a fascinatingly biased history of Halamshiral and the Dales that she confesses makes her “irrationally angry” — and they spend several hours and several glasses of wine discussing it and the role of propaganda and mythmaking in war and history. He goes to bed that night dizzy and drunk on a heady blend of connection and companionship. 

It begins a back-and-forth exchange of recommended books, followed by late nights and in-depth conversations, either by a hearth in Skyhold or around a campfire out in the wilds. His heart pounds hard and giddy in his chest for what feels like hours after she says goodnight, leaving him restless, unable to relax, captured by thoughts of her voice and her laugh and the way she lightly touches his arm every time she gets up to leave.

Even as the warnings creep around the edges of his mind. That this is dangerous, uncharted territory. That he ought to put a stop to things now before he gets in over his head.

Some mornings, he even rises with the resolve to do just that. To distance himself and remember his secrets, his goals, why he is with the Inquisition in the first place. But then he steps outside and she’s there, glowing in the morning sun, and she smiles that smile seemingly reserved only for him.

And his resolve is forgotten. 

. 

She comes to him in their dreams, though he isn’t sure how she’s able to find him given she has no experience walking the Fade. He has recently turned this area of the Fade into a mirror of the rotunda, using it to plan and practice the frescos he wants to paint in the waking world, and he’s deep in concentration when she steps into the space as casually as she does in the actual Skyhold, her expression brightening the instant she sees him.

“Solas, I was hoping to find you,” she says. “I’ve been wanting to talk more about you and your studies, but I keep getting sidetracked. Do you have a moment?”

So that is how she found him. She must have fallen asleep thinking of him — at least in some capacity — and it carried through to her dreams, drawing her through the Fade. He should be most interested in the power of her mind, to accomplish such a thing, and he is, but…

She was thinking of him. As she lay in bed. He was her last, most powerful thought before she slipped into sleep.

That knowledge makes him feel unsteady, his clothes suddenly too warm.

“You continue to surprise me.” He sets down the paper he’d been using to sketch ideas. It can wait for another night. “All right, let us talk. Preferably somewhere more interesting than this.”

On instinct, he leads her from the rotunda of the Fade back to Haven. Quiet, empty, intact. Snow coating the ground and the village roofs, drifting in slow, scattered flakes from the sky. The Breach as it once was piercing the distant sky, high up in the mountains. Even as he forms it, he realizes that part of him wishes they were back here, where they’d first truly met and the Inquisition had been smaller and they had had more time just to exist near one another in the cold, sharp air and the snow.

It feels fitting, as well, to take her to the cell where he’d kept watch for so many days. “I sat beside you while you slept, studying the Anchor.”

An insufficient description of what those long hours had been. Tending to her. Healing her again and again. Certain at every moment she would be lost. That he would lose her because he’d miscalculated with Corypheus and she had paid the price. Just like the People had with the Veil.

Her smile is soft, gentle. “I’m glad someone was watching over me.”

It’s a tenderness he doesn’t deserve, and yet he feels himself bend toward it. He wishes he could tell her it had been altruistic, that he’d simply cared about her because she was a person, like Varric had. But it had been a self-serving mix of guilt, ambition, and fascination. 

“You were a mystery,” he says instead. Half-truths upon half-truths. “You still are. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”

She hmphs, the sound both amused and disapproving. “Cassandra’s like that with everyone.”

That, he certainly agrees with as he turns and leads her out of the chantry, back into the clear, cold air and snow. He tries to find the words to explain…everything. How it felt to sit beside her as the mark attempted to consume her and the Breach grew. There are so many layers beneath it that he cannot tell her.

The dread that he’d ruined this world just like he had with his own.

The dozen or so different plans, calculations, contingencies he tried to make to fix things, to save himself, to save his plans.

He’d even considered returning to uthenera and sleeping away another few millennia. Everything was already so broken; perhaps he could wake again in another four thousand years with a clearer path on how to set things right.

Except then…

He wraps his fingers around her bare wrist, thrusts her hand toward the rift. For a heartbeat, he isn’t sure it will work – she shouldn’t even be alive right now, let alone walking and fighting, with a strong, steady pulse he can feel against his fingertips. But then, a rush of Fade magic rips through her arm, spears upward, and the rift snaps shut in an explosion of vibrant green.

Solas turns to face her. There are snowflakes scattered through her hair and dusting her clothes. The green of her eyes burns vibrant against Haven’s snow-covered landscape. “You had sealed it with a gesture. And right then…I felt the whole world change.”

She steps toward him, an eyebrow raised, a slight grin curling her lips. “Felt the whole world change?”

“A figure of speech,” he says, because that is true but also not wholly the truth and he is not fooling either of them with it.

“I’m aware of the metaphor.” She closes the rest of the distance between them, near enough now to touch. “I’m more interested in ‘felt.’”

He is caught by her gaze, and he has no will to free himself because the way she is looking at him in this moment is the only thing that matters in the world. She is seeing him — just him — and he is seeing her, and how had he never realized the simple, powerful beauty of such a thing? She is utterly terrifying, shaking him to his very foundations, and she is also the only true source of joy he has ever known. She unmoors him even as she gradually becomes his definition of home.

He takes in a shuddering breath and says, “You change…everything.”

She shakes her head, smiling. “Sweet talker.”

He turns back to the recreation of the Breach, his pulse hammering loud in his ears because he is teetering dangerously close to the edge. That was too much to admit, too honest, too vulnerable. He should not be standing here, wishing for more, wanting to —

Her hand cups his jaw, turning his face toward her as she leans into him, and in the instant he recognizes what is about to happen, all he can think is Please and Yes before she kisses him.

The warm press of her mouth, the taste of her against his lips, the scent of her skin — desire flares in his chest with an intensity that shocks him.

But then she pulls away, worry sweeping across her face as she steps back, unsure of the boldness of what she’d just done. She starts to turn from him, to flee, but that desire is burning against his ribs and he reaches for her, tugs her back into him. He captures her mouth with his, and the sound she makes — somewhere between a gasp and a whimper — lights up his entire body.

He is no stranger to the physical act of sex. In the early days after forming his body, before war and rebellion blotted out everything else, the courts of Elvhenan had been rife with such passions, and he had been the consort of it more than once. Hotblooded and cocky, delighting in the feel of being desired, but not much more than that. It had been passing fancies; nothing like this. This want.

He has never wanted like this before.

He deepens the kiss, desperate, starving for her, weeks and weeks of longing for this very thing. She parts her lips beneath his with a soft moan — barely audible — and there is nothing he wouldn’t do to hear her make that noise again. He tightens his arms around her waist, digs his fingers into her hips to pull her closer. The sensation of her body fitting so tightly and perfectly against his is intoxicating, heat spreading low in his stomach, filling his head with new wants, new desires —

We can’t do this, he thinks and pulls away only to see her — breathless, flushed, hunger in her eyes as she looks up at him — and kiss her again. A compulsion. How can he be expected to stop when her hand is cradled against the side of his face and the other is twisted into his shirt, gripping him like a lifeline? Or, perhaps more accurately: she is the lifeline for him, keeping him from drifting away.

You cannot be doing this. You are not her lover. You cannot be.

Pushing away from her is painful, and she looks dazed at the abruptness, blinking in the filtered sunlight.

“We shouldn’t,” but even as he says it, he doesn’t fully mean it. “It isn’t right. Not even here.”

She frowns. “What do you mean, ‘even here’?”

“Where did you think we were?”

She glances around at Haven, at the Breach in the sky that has been closed and gone for weeks. “This isn’t real.”

She didn’t know they were dreaming, and in a way, that makes her finding him like she did even more impressive. What it might say as to the strength and intensity of their connection, he should not think about right now, not with the taste of her still tingling on his lips.

“That’s a matter of debate,” he says, “probably best discussed after you wake up.”

 ***

He jolts upright in bed, kicking off his tangled blankets and sheets. The chill air of his quarters hits his bare skin, and he is grateful for it because he is still burning from the feel of her, his heartbeat too fast, his skin too hot. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his feet flat against the cold stone floor, and stays like that for a long time. Until his pulse slows and his desire finally cools and he can rise to dress for the day.

Though it does not keep his mind from spinning.

That was a mistake. I will make that clear as soon as I see her today.

Perhaps she feels differently now that she’s awake. Perhaps she will not come to me, she will be embarrassed or regret having done it.

It would be best for both of us if she regrets it.

He says these things to himself, at every moment knowing that if she does regret their kiss, it will leave a deep gash in his chest.

It is early. Most of the castle is not yet up as he walks empty corridors to the rotunda. Another hour or so before Skyhold’s day truly begins, which means he has likely twice that amount of time until he can expect to see her, at the earliest.

But he underestimates her.

Not ten minutes after he enters the rotunda, the door to the main hall opens, and he hears the familiar cadence of her footsteps against the flagstones. She is dressed in the old, worn-in pants and the soft tunic that he’s noticed are her favorites for when she wants to be comfortable, barefoot, her hair undone from its usual braids. She must’ve come straight and hurriedly from bed.

She stops a few steps away, leaning a hip against the edge of his desk, and the spark in her eyes as she meets his gaze is all delight and mischief. He can’t seem to stop himself from responding in kind.

“Sleep well?” he asks, and though his voice is perfectly casual, he can’t completely suppress a smile.

“I’ve never done anything like that before,” she admits with a laugh. “On a number of levels.”

This is the moment. To cut things off. To emphasize what a poor decision it was and how it will not be happening again. He needs to be firm about it for both their sakes. He knows this.

But when he speaks, the words come out too warm and soft. Hesitant. “I apologize. The kiss was impulsive and ill considered, and I should not have encouraged it.”

She arches a brow, her smile infectious and full of trouble. “You say that, but you’re the one who started with tongue.”

He huffs. “I did no such thing.” But even the mention of it has his eyes drifting to her mouth, remembering, wanting.

“Does it not count if it’s only Fade-tongue?”

He lets out a breathy chuckle. “It has been a long time, and things have always been easier for me in the Fade.” A hesitation. A deep breath. He stares into her eyes, sees her spirit, and he is weak. He cannot sever himself from her. It would feel like a mortal blow. “I am not certain this is the best idea. It could lead to trouble.”

She is undaunted. “I’m willing to take that chance, if you are.”

Is he? She cannot know how big of a chance it is. What a risk it poses. He has made so many plans, and she has torn them all asunder by simply existing. By touching his face and taking his hand one random day in the aftermath of a battle and igniting something brand-new inside him.

“I…maybe, yes. If I could take a little time to think. There are…considerations.”

“Take all the time you need,” she says with real empathy and warmth, and he thanks her for it.

But deep inside he knows his answer. It’s already written on his heart.

every night I think “wow this might be the night I go to bed early” and every time without fail I fuck it up

feels like fake news

As a writer I need everyone to know that whenever I write "exchanged glances" my intent is this

I’m taking a stand and I refuse to sit back down

i appreciate that i saw both of these on my dash within about five posts of each other. we’re gonna need both moods going forward, tbh.

“jesus died for you” well i didn’t ask him to do that and my therapist says i am not responsible for other peoples actions

To Walk the Path of Death

Solas x Lavellan | Chapter 1/1 | 1.8k words

Summary: Lavellan receives a letter from Rook and reminisces on their prior conversation at the Cobbled Swan. (ao3 link here)

Tags: mutual pining, love & loss, slow burn, spoilers, grief/mourning, solavellan hell

Dear Inquisitor Lavellan,

I found the attached letter in the Lighthouse, in one of those secret rooms I told you about. I don’t know if Solas ever intended on sending it, or if it was another self-flagellation of his, but it was meant for you. I thought you ought to read it.

I met Mythal in the Crossroads like Morrigan suggested, or a piece of her. I wanted to know what she was like, beyond the bias of Solas’ regrets. She was exactly what I expected her to be, just as arrogant and righteous as the rest of these elven gods. Solas included - no offense. Cruelty comes in different forms. I’ve seen my fair share. Just because she isn’t a tyrant like Elgar’nan, or heartless like Ghilan'nain, doesn’t mean she isn’t cruel. I know Bellara and Emmrich have said that it’s only a fraction of her spirit, that the kinder, wiser part of her is what Morrigan holds. I know Bellara’s past is important to her, so I won’t say anything about it, but I think they’re both wrong; I think Mythal is exactly who we saw in that snowy field. She chose to rule above her own kind, just like the others. She branded them with the slave markings. Morrigan called her a spirit of Benevolence, but I don’t believe that for an instant. When faced with monsters like the Evanuris, it doesn’t take much to be considered kind.

I wish she faced reparations for her actions. I’m taking some satisfaction in knowing that she’s gone from the Crossroads, at least. I don’t like the idea of her in there. Who knows what she might plot. We’ll see if it was worth it to obtain a god shard, but at this point, I’ll take whatever I can get. I’ll let you know if I learn anything else.

Thanks for listening to me. Unless you ignored all of this, then thanks for at least letting me write it all out. You told me in a previous missive that it isn’t easy to carry burdens like ours, and the longer I’m in this position, the more I agree. I’m looking forward to the next time we can see each other.

Let me know how it’s going in the South.

Yrs,

Kione “Rook” Mercar

ㅤThe parchment is old. Its aged surface feels as soft as silk, and the center of it is well creased from when it had been folded and unfolded countless times. She knows she risks tearing it, but she can’t stop herself from smoothing it out once more, tracing her fingertips over the letters inked into the vellum. Solas had performed his ritual only four months ago, it shouldn’t be an antique; Rook hadn’t remarked upon it, but she can guess as to why the Fade has shaped it this way.

ㅤ“What I feel for you will never change.”

ㅤA sigh slips from her lips, the familiar taste of bitter regret sitting on her tongue, “Oh, Solas...”

ㅤFrom the corner of her vision, she sees shadows shift. The bulky figure silhouetted against the crackling fire pulls his legs down from the barrel they are using as a makeshift table, his ever-dancing voice mingling with the pop and snap of the wood.

ㅤ“Got another fan mail?”

ㅤShe feels her lips twitch, threatening to form a smile. Besides Dorian, he is the only one who gets those out of her these days, though they are rare and fleeting. She folds up Rook’s note, but kept Solas’ out, pinned under her hand.

ㅤ“Another message from Rook. No good news, I’m afraid, just a personal missive.”

ㅤShe gets a grunt in response, but Hawke doesn’t ask for the letter and she doesn’t hand it over. He leans back in his seat again and throws his arm over the edge of it, the metal tips of his glove glinting in the firelight.

ㅤ“Guess they’re going to need what they can get, all the way up there. The South might be struggling, but I don’t envy them, stuck all alone.”

ㅤA lock of her hair falls from her loose braid, brushing along her cheek. She tucks it back behind her ear and straightens up, casting a glance over the large, makeshift war-room that they have constructed in their tent. The layout changes ever-so-slightly each time they reconstruct it, but the furniture, and the stained cloth that envelopes her always remains the same. She is sick of eggshell white, sick of bloodstained mud and the rotten stench of decaying flesh. The Blight is another monster entirely from the lyrium-encased corpses she’d fought during her time with the Inquisition. It is senseless, unsleeping, ever-devouring, demanding her attention at all times, lest it slip past her watch and grow out of control. She’s been told time and again that this Blight is unlike the rest, that it behaves like a living being, but it is a cold comfort to know that they are faced with a far deadlier plague than ever before. It only means that they know very little, and have less resources.

ㅤShe hears Hawke shift in his seat again, a puff of steam clouding into the cold air from his exhale. Even with the fire, it is difficult to keep warm. They are approaching the unforgiving winter months of the South. Her gaze wanders to the massive map of Thedas that is spread out across the table, the corners of it brushing against her hand. Chess pieces are scattered across it, makeshift representations of sections of their army. Even with the devastation this Blight has brought, she is still amazed at how many have risen to the occasion. They have the numbers to withstand such an assault, but until the Archdemons are defeated, their efforts are in vain. They’d have a better chance at stopping the tide with their bare hands.

ㅤIf you had succeeded, vhenan, you would have flooded the world with demons. You would have brought just as much destruction. Is this what you wanted? Is your victory worth this suffering?

ㅤShe puts her hand to her heart, curling her fingers into the cotton as her chest constricts with pain. Every time she thinks she knows what to expect, she is dealt another blow. Even after ten years, each new cut feels as fresh and raw as the last. She’d sworn that she’d fight for this world until her last breath, but with each passing day, that vow weighs heavier on her bones. Rook’s remark to her, although meant as a jest, has become a ringing mantra in her ears.

ㅤ“You sound like, if you had the chance, you'd join him in that prison.”

ㅤShe’s spent so long chasing after Solas, down the dark and dangerous road that he was walking. She’d poured all of her efforts into protecting and preparing Thedas while she desperately searched for him, her heart and mind so consumed with what she could possibly say to him to make him listen. She hasn’t really thought about the ‘after’. ‘After’ implies that she’d be successful, and with the world in turmoil, she doesn’t know what that success would look like.

ㅤBut if she could be with him again...

ㅤHis long fingers tangle in her hair, the taste of tears on her lips as he kisses her like he is drowning and she is his air. The buzz of the Fade along her skin as she pulls him closer, the edges of her fraying with the knowledge that they can only have this in a dream, but craving this one night of surrender, nonetheless.

ㅤShe told Rook that she didn’t know what she would do. It hasn’t taken her long to make that decision, though, now that she’s returned to the South. If she has the chance to finally stand before him again, she will never let him out of her sight. If it means a lifetime in a prison built for gods, she will go there happily, as long as she is by his side. After years of walking with the ghosts of the elven’ past, she feels like little more than a shade herself, cold and empty, drifting in a world that rushes on without her. She knows she has loved ones who would miss her. Dorian would never let her hear the end of it.

ㅤBut she misses her heart.

ㅤThe sound of a trumpet drifts through the thick front flap of the tent, followed by muffled cheers. The chair creaks as Hawke twists around to look toward the disturbance; the light of the flame pools across his cheeks and darkens the bruised shadows under his eyes. Grief has aged him. It has aged her, too.

ㅤ“Sounds like General Tabris is back,” he says, “Good. It’s about time that we get this debrief started. I’d like to start the trip back to Kirkwall tonight, if I can.”

ㅤ“Are you sure that’s safe?”

ㅤ“It’s not, but I’m going to risk it. I don’t like leaving the city to itself for even a few days. You know how things can fall to shit when you’re not there.”

ㅤShe knows that all too well. She presses her lips together to keep herself from voicing further concerns and nods. Hawke rises from the chair and stretches his back, groaning softly as he worked out the kinks in his muscles.

ㅤ“I’ve got some advice for you, Amarel. Don’t get old. It’s a terrible fate.”

ㅤThere came a near-smile again, making her face feel stiff and foreign to her. She studies him as best as she can in the low light, glancing at the strands of silver that are threaded through his beard and the crows feet that now crinkle pleasantly whenever he makes jokes.

ㅤ“I’d hardly call you old. You’re in your prime. Aging like fine wine, one might say.”

ㅤHe snorts, but falls still, his gaze growing distant, “You sound like Varric.”

ㅤAnother blow to a fresh wound, another cut to her damaged heart. She has to swallow down the lump of sorrow that forms in her throat before she can speak.

ㅤ“I wasn’t nearly as eloquent as him. It’d be impossible to imitate that.”

ㅤ“Yeah. It would be.”

ㅤHe exhales a quick, shaky breath, then flashes her a grim smile before he joins her at the table. The clank of metal and the heavy tread of armored boots is growing louder as the final leader of their fighting force approaches. Not wasting any time, as usual. With tender care, Amarel re-folds Solas’ note and tucks it into the inside, breast pocket of her jacket, as close to her heart as she can get it. It feels warm through her clothes, and she swears she catches the smell of pine and storm air. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she pushes them back.

ㅤVar lath vir suledin, vhenan. No matter what it takes, I will see you again. I will prove you wrong, one last time.