You claim to love her, inside and out, but the only time you call her beautiful is when it’s 3 in the morning and I’ve already turned you down.
—  girls tell each other everything, c.j.n.
every boyfriend is the one,
until otherwise proven.
the good are never easy,
the easy never good
and it never happens
like you think it really should.
deception and perfection
are wonderful traits
one will breed love,
the other hate.
you’ll find me in the lonely hearts
under ‘im after a brand new start’…
—  Marina and the Diamonds

grunge/ lucid ☯

Love is drowning in a deep well, out of secrets and nobody else to tell…Love Is Blindness…
—  Jack White


Not Even Here

a Solavellen first kiss fic from Solas’ POV - longing / wanting what you can’t have / light angst (read on ao3) directly inspired by this photoset by fenrism

He’d been playing with the fire for weeks, months now. He’d seen her with Cullen, with Scout Harding, with Josephine. Lavellan was a flirt. It was all a game.

A game he found himself enjoying.

He’d watch her, squeeze his hands together behind his back and watch her. Haven blew iced air against her cheeks, ruffled the loose hair at the nape of her neck. The mark on her hand connects them in ways he can feel in his spine but doesn’t understand. She understands it less, feels it less. How can she not feel this. To be near her… he is always aware. Every breath, every shift of her weight between her feet, every small frown and lift of her eyes. Her voice. Her laugh.

A game he found himself losing.

His life had been walls and evasion and wandering, a quiet muffling of the static screaming in his mind. Waking up to early morning dew, to chilled breeze through a worn blanket. Stillness. An imitation of peace.


People were so quick to misunderstand, to assume. People were so preoccupied with their own ambition, their thirsty grab for power or wealth, their preoccupation with their own prejudice. He grew tired trying to explain anything to them.


And she’d surprised him. Over and over again. Willing to listen, eager to question, stubborn about her people but out of love and hope and a longing for what was lost that he understood all too well. She was a work of art, a living dream, a force-

A distraction.

They walked together and he was careful to keep a pace between them. Footsteps in sync but not close enough to matter.

He’d given her Skyhold. Cold and ancient, made of stone, old magic underfoot. Memories with names no one remembers. Slumbering. Dormant.

He brought her to it, and she gave it life.

She had asked him to tell her more, to show her his world, to let her in, and something soft and gentle had unfolded past the broken ruins in his memory, the jagged ache he felt with every breath, the wrongness. Her eyes were honest, her smile light.

What could it hurt?

Keep reading

something about this place


everything is dead again.