#shadowhrts

hello!

10. favourite milkshake flavour?

i don’t really drink milkshakes very often but when i do, i have vanilla!

11. dinner dates or brunch dates?

i like both but i think i prefer brunch dates. sitting in a café, eating cake and just chatting is a Good way to spend time and feels more casual that going out to dinner at a restaurant; it feels more relaxed and i can enjoy myself more

12. favourite flowers?

violets and lavender! i’m also quite fond of roses, heather bushes and daffodils but violets and lavender are my two favourites

thank u sam !!! <3 

for ashara x solas

Solas – ara seranna ma - would you mind? It's on the tip of my tongue . . .”

At his side, Ashara pushes the tome towards him. He leans forward to inspect the word, careful as to avoid brushing against her fingers as he does. By the way her eyes track the movements of his hand, he assumes she shares the same caution. Their relationship, while not a secret, is a private one.

“Ah, ‘daurnathaan’. Wyvern.” He slides the book back to her gently.  

Ashara groans. “Wyvern, of course. Thank you. I really ought to have known that.”

“You do yourself a disservice, lethallan.” He replies. “To grasp at even a fraction of a language lost to time is an achievement worth celebrating.”  

Dorian raises his glass in mute agreement.

“Well then, perhaps if we celebrate hard enough, Corypheus might just drop dead of his own accord?” Ashara retorts.  

“That happened to a comte in Ghislain once,” Vivienne murmurs. “Terribly messy.”

“Oh? Good. Dorian, write that down.”

another for ashara x solas !

“Are you . . . are you all okay?” she manages, flinching as Solas leans forward to assess the state of her injuries. His eyes migrate down her body to linger on newly crushed bone, widening substantially before he's able to blink them back into something resembling composure. He gets to work silently, tensely. His features betray only the faintest hint of panic. His hands shake only a little.

“Are we okay? Funny. Get an eyeful of you, Inky. You're the only one here who got got.”

“What Sera means –” Iron Bull shoots her a wry look “ – is that we're fine. Must've been a scouting party – they were looking for something, but it sure as shit wasn't us. Sucks to be them.”  

“Oh, I don't know,” Ashara groans, voice scathing. “I think I'd rather be them than me right – ah! Fuck!”

Solas' hand against her leg ushers from her the scream she's been so carefully holding, her vision going white with the pain of it. Above her, Solas winces, shooting her an earnestly stricken look before schooling his expression back into calmness – she suspects is for her sake rather than his.

“Forgive me,” he says, forced but gentle. “I needed to check the severity of the break. Ir abelas, vhenan.”  

for nova x charon

“Besides,” he adds, willing what he hopes passes as lightness into his rasping voice. “If raiders were to attack us here, I'm sure you would be perfectly fine. What with your sledgehammer, of course.”

She frowns at him skeptically, before the jest coaxes a small, sheepish smile from the corners of her lips. “Don't be rude to the hammer,” she murmurs, shoulders relaxing. “Blunt force trauma is what I do. It’s a natural talent.”

“It's luck.”

this is more than two but once again fuck the police

He’s glad that, for once, they’re not holding hands – his palms are sweating, just slightly, from nerves or excitement. He’d had the thought, over dinner, that he’s going to get to call her his fiancée. And that’s today. That’s tonight. That’s as soon as he can muster the courage to do it. 

He feels her hand loosen from around his arm, and she stoops into the strip of stones and shells that the tide brought in. Picks up one and holds it in her palm as a wave comes in, washing the sand from it, then examines it. Flat and smooth and rust-colored. She rolls it back and forth in her palm, then stands, winds up her arm, and pitches it out into the calm lake. He doesn’t count how many times it ends up skipping over the surface of the water, because he’s not watching the stone. He’s watching Lucy, Lucy’s back, and how her hair and the wind-rippled fabric of her shirt catch the last traces of cloud-dulled sunlight. And he decides that this is as good a time as any.