Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prompt: To take the pressure off at this point would have been madness

“You are awake.”

Ellias blinked groggily, wincing as he attempted to sit up. Colours returned in smudges of red and blue and green, dancing at the edges of his vision, and he blinked a few more times to try and coax the blurred image to clarity. It revealed Solas staring down at his disapprovingly, arms crossed across his chest as usual, and he almost wished he hadn’t bothered.

He ignored the other elf entirely in favour of examining his injuries. His head pounded like he’d been kicked by an entire herd of druffalo, far worse than his usual hangover, and even just attempting to sit up had caused the room to spin. Well, so far as a tent could be considered a room, and the stretched canvas of the travel cots made him feel seasick at the best of times. He appeared to have bled all over this one, so perhaps there was hope that he was rid of it.

He’d been stripped to the waist, though most of his torso had been wrapped in thick bandages, uncomfortably tight. Part of the white cloth, just under his ribs, was already pink, and he attempted to pull the bandage away in order to see the extent of the injury. Solas stopped him, firmly grabbing his arms by the wrists and tugging them away.

“You will only make it worse. It has taken hours to patch you back together, and I would appreciate it if you did not undo all of my hard work, Inquisitor.”

Ellias frowned, but relented, allowing his arms to fall back to his sides. “The dragon?”

His tongue felt like sandpaper in his mouth as he attempted to swallow around it, and he wondered how long he had been unconscious for. Solas handed him a metal beaker of water and he gulped it down greedily, uncaring that his clumsy hands spilled part of it down his chin.

“Dead. Moments after it nearly killed you.”

Ellias winced. Over-confident, he’d believed the dragon was already defeated, and had dropped his barrier in wild elation of having brought one of the mighty beasts down. It had clung to life long enough to kick out at him and send him flying, though that was his last memory. The razor-sharp talons had sliced through his armour like butter, and he couldn’t imagine his abdomen was a pretty site. More scars for the collection; he was lucky he was handsome enough to pull them off.

“Try not to move. I have stitched up what I can, but I am no healer, and the wounds are likely to reopen. Word has been sent to the nearest Inquisition camp. They will likely be able to do more for you, so I advise you try to sleep until they arrive.”

Solas frowned down at him again and moved to leave, hand hovering on the rough canvas of the tent flap.

“Solas? The dragon? Did we get anything good?”

Chapter Text

Prompt:  Their ebullient spirits were possibly a result of medication that was not over-the-counter.

“What on Thedas is in this?”

The ruby liquid burnt his throat as he swallowed huge, greedy gulps of it, numbing his tongue on the way down.

“Secret recipe, boss. Doubt you’d remember tomorrow anyhow.”

Dorian just giggled and curled around the chair he’d fallen off, and Ellias eyed him with unconcealed amusement. Despite the other mage’s bluster, he’s got little experience in the real world, and absolutely no ability to hold his liquor. Bull, on the other hand, seemed entirely unaffected, and is downing flagons to every careful tumbler Ellias finishes. He is somewhere in the middle, he thinks, edges of the world slowly blurring to a pleasant hum, but not so far gone he is lying in the sand. Not yet, anyway. It’s a pleasant way to spend the overbearing heat of the afternoon; they are stuck waiting for Inquisition forces to clear the bridge anyway, and the surrounding area has been entirely cleared of rifts.

Unsurprisingly, Solas had declined to join in, and withdrew to his – their – tent soon after the midday meal was finished. Something about wanting to finish his notes on an elven ruin they stumbled over a handful of days ago, though Ellias suspected he just wanted to find refuge in the Fade and escape their company from a while. For all they dressed it up with polite remarks, it is clear there is no love lost between Bull and Solas, and despite a number of overtures by Dorian, Solas remains unwilling to be friendly with the Tevinter mage. So far, the only one Ellias has seen him be more than civil with was Cole, as if people were not worth his friendship. One day, he decided, he would find out more about the man’s past, and discover just what had made him so jaded.

No matter what he did, all Ellias seemed to earn was the elf’s disapproval. Solas is happy enough to talk about the Fade, as if encouraging a slow pupil, but it rankles to know the mage still sees him as some clueless Dalish. After Haven, he had hoped that they were getting somewhere, but since installing himself in Skyhold, Solas has retreated into himself again. The only time he seems alive is when they are arguing over something or other, and Mythal help him, Ellias wants to see more of that fire. Used to getting what, and who, he wanted, Solas’ continual disinterest makes him all the more determined to break that mask of civility and force him to react with feeling.

Ellias finished his cup and stood, only mildly disorientated. “I think I’m going to catch a nap while there’s nothing around to fight.”

Bull raised his tankard to his horns. “Kay, boss. I’ll wake you if anything interesting happens.” He smiled then, and gestured at Dorian, who was now snoring loudly. “Think he’s likely to puke?”

“Maybe.” He shrugged and slipped away, bare feet hot on the sand. The tent he shared with the other mage was mercifully cool in contrast, and he is thankful Solas took the time to set up cool wards before falling asleep. For a few moments, he just watches the other elf, tracing the steady rise and fall of his breathing in the dim light. Despite the heat, Solas was still fully dressed from ankle to neck, and Ellias wondered how the other man could sleep in so much leather.

Ellias, conversely, wasted no time in removing his clothes. He’d taken the majority of his armour off when they’d made camp, remaining in shirt and legging out of a mixture of propriety and desire not to make his sunburn any worse, but they are both slick with sweat now and clung to him uncomfortably. It is a relief to be naked and cool, though he doubted he would ever be entirely free of sand.

He stretched and let out a soft purr of contentment as his back popped back into place, before dropping down onto his cot, already missing the soft opulence of the huge Orlesian bed waiting for him at Skyhold. Turning onto his back, he pillowed his arms under his head as his eyes crept away to watch Solas again, wondering just where the mage has crept off to this time. Would there be anything interesting here to explore? He doubted that there had ever been much of a civilization here, though the scattered artifacts they had discovered suggested something had once lived here.

His thoughts moved to a conversation he’d overheard between Solas and Blackwall, when the warden had accused him of pursuing more intimate relationships with spirits. Sex, in the Fade? He’d never considered such a thing possible, especially with beings without a real body of their own. He supposed demons could seem real enough, so it was not entirely impossible, but the idea just seemed so unlikely. Solas had not denied it, which probably meant there was at least a little truth in it. The idea of it, of Solas finding pleasure in the Fade while his body lay right here, made his breath hitch, and one hand crept down his abdomen.

It was wrong, but it wasn’t like Solas would ever find out. A dark thrill of taboo shuddered through him as he stroked himself to hardness, unable to resist wondering what Solas would say if he woke up. It amused him to think of the Fade mage seeking pleasure with spirits while Ellias found his on his own in the real world, and he pumped his fist faster as he imagined it was him in the Fade instead, that Solas was seeking pleasure with spirits wearing his face, that it was the other elf’s mouth wrapped around his cock and not his own hand. Lost in the fantasy, it didn’t take him long to find completion, coming hard on his stomach as he bit his lip to muffle the moan that tried to escape. He’d be sticky later, but for now, sated and tipsy, he didn’t particularly care.

Caught in the afterglow of his orgasm, Ellias did not notice the eyes watching him with curious, predatory interest.

Chapter Text

It is funny how quickly he has adjusted to shemlen life.

He’d never been suited to being First, and he doubted he would ever have made much of a Keeper. Cocky, loud, far too quick-tempered, he’d lacked the innate nurturing instinct and wisdom that made Deshanna such a beloved leader. She’d done what she could to teach him patience, promised him that he would grow into the role, but it had never been something he’d wanted for himself. Deshanna had sent him to the conclave to try and exorcise some of that restlessness, likely hoping that a taste of the unknown would be enough for him. Had things turned out differently, he supposed it would have had to. Despite his misgivings, he would have ignored his own desires and knuckled down to do his duty, put the clan’s needs above his own wants. As the only other mage in the clan, he’d been the only possibility.

The first few weeks – months, if he was honest with himself – had been strange, stranded in this alien world with little idea how to act. While his clan had traded with the humans, openly mingled with them, he’d never slept a full night indoors before the conclave and he’d found himself embarrassingly claustrophobic at being restrained to the little stone cottage they’d assigned him at Haven. Ridiculous, considering how much more confined an aravel had been, but being literally walled off from the outside world had caused unquestionable panic.

Now he wouldn’t trade the ornate, sumptuous Orlesian bed he’d had installed in his quarters at Skyhold for anything. Boots, too, were something he was unwilling to surrender, or proper cutlery and tables to eat from. Knowledge that was written down and wasn’t constrained to the same, repetitive histories, trundled out time and time again at important events until even the da’len could recite the words from heart. At least his position as First had ensured that he could read and write; he wasn’t sure he would have survived the embarrassment of having to be taught by any of his companions. The melting pot of the Inquisition had widened his world so much that returning to clan life would seem small and restrictive in comparison. Even if he did manage to survive whatever was to come, which seemed extremely unlikely, he would never willingly return to that life.

For now he just enjoys it, shamelessly exploiting whatever luxury he can get his hands on. He has armour broken down and remade because he does not like the colour and flavours his meals with exotic spices imported from Tevinter. While he cannot escape the fact that the markings on his face paint him irrevocably Dalish, he twists it to suit his purposes, taking advantage of those that underestimate him as a savage, ignorant knife-ear. He has taken to the Game like a fish to water, and he will not willingly discard any mask that might give him an advantage. If others are attracted to the exotic, well, his bed is never wanting for willing participants.

Despite all this, he has not turned his back on his heritage. While both Sera and Solas are openly derisive of the Dalish, he is still proud of his people and still keeps to some of the traditions. There is room in his life to include everything, old and new, and plenty that he misses about clan life. He has come to appreciate privacy, of finally being able to put down the masks and just be himself where nobody else can see, but he misses the closeness of clan that had made it unnecessary. Sometimes he finds himself lonely, even with a warm body snuggled up to his side, missing the familial closeness that clan had always represented. He has found something of a kindred soul in Dorian, who seems to yearn for the same tactile companionship for entirely different reasons, and it is not surprising that the rumours paint them as committed lovers. He supposes, given his other activities, that he has not yet attempted to seduce the other man, but he values his friendship far too much to cheapen it with meaningless sex, scared that it would change the dynamic between them. He loves Dorian, but it is far closer to family than lover.

No. He cares for a number of his companions, but so far he has abstained from getting to know any of them physically. Bull, he is sure, would not say no, but he is aware of the undercurrent of something between Bull and Dorian and doesn’t want to be pulled into the middle of that. He and Dorian have a made a competition of flirting with the Commander, but so far the man has proven to be unswervingly straight. His attraction to the former templar is a purely physical thing, an appreciation of a body sculpted by a lifetime of training. The sinful little scar on his lip is just the cherry on the top.

His attraction to Solas is a strange, secret thing. He has not even revealed it to Dorian, unable to ascertain just what attracts him to such a stuffy, pompous ass. He judges everyone, everything, and while Ellias may have unwittingly won some sort of respect, he still finds himself often at odds with the other elf. At best, he figures, he is considered a clumsy child, a misguided da’len Solas has taken under his wing. Maybe that is the attraction. He has grown to like the power and prestige of being Inquisitor, and it burns that Solas still does not see him as an equal. Solas, though far different to Deshenna, makes him feel like a First again, and Ellias is done with subservience.

The idea of Solas on his knees, begging with broken words, has fast become a favourite fantasy.