The first chapter has been posted! Here is a sneak peek:
“I think I’m going to head home,” she said, her voice steady, though her heart wasn’t. She forced herself to speak clearly, though it felt like a struggle. “I can have my dad come get me, so you don’t have to leave.”
“No,” he shook his head, “I can take you, it’s no problem at all. Come on, let’s get you home.”
Festus carefully released Persephone’s hand, stood, and retrieved her peacoat from the stool it had been draped over. He then helped her into the coat.
Persephone felt a pang of guilt. Part of her knew Festus would offer—well, insist , maybe even demand—to be the one to bring her home. She knew how much he’d been looking forward to their night out with friends, and honestly, so had she. But after everything that had unfolded just hours before, the weight of it all was starting to settle in. The laughter, the drinks, the carefree moments—none of it felt as light as it had in the beginning. She didn’t want her bad night to cast a shadow over his, though.
Selfishly, she was glad he offered. She couldn’t help but feel a flutter of relief that he was there, even if it meant giving up his night. They’d shared small, meaningful moments throughout the evening—tiny exchanges that hadn’t gone unnoticed. Although she’d urged him to join the others for drinking games and let her be, part of her was secretly relieved he hadn’t. But why? Why was he so content, so patient, staying close to her? Was it out of duty? Or something more? Whatever the reason, she wasn’t about to question it.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Hiii everyone, it’s been ages since I’ve posted here but I am fully invested in Red, White and Royal Blue right now, and so I’m hoping this little ficlet reaches the right audience 😂😅
It’s a short fluff filled fic of the boys gettin silly with a Taylor Swift song, it’s so fluffy and domestic and lol. Comments will be cherished!
If you're still doing the wolfstar prompt thing, then how 'bout a muggle musical theater one? If you do it, I'm curious to see what rolls you pick for them, either onstage or backstage
OH MY GOOODDDD. This request. BLESS YOU FOR THIS.
I had so, so, so much fun with this one. And now I am v soft. 💕
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“Who, me?” Remus asked in disbelief, golden eyes wide and terrified. The handsome lead actor was standing in front of him, not looking as impatient as Remus thought he should’ve looked in this situation. He did look like he might vomit at any moment, however.
“You know all the lines, I’ve seen you mouthing along with Marlene,” Sirius said, because that was his name, because of course that was his name, because he was a star, after all.
“That’s … that’s totally different!” Remus stuttered, trying to come up with a logical excuse to get out of this nightmarish situation. Sure, he knew all the lines, but the romantic lead was a female. An attractive female. And Remus was … a stagehand. The lights guy.
“You’re the only one who can do this.” Sirius began begging, his voice a soft but tight whine that sent a rather hard swallow into Remus’ throat. This wasn’t just a background role, this wasn’t even a minor character. This was fucking Anastasia. He would be playing Anastasia. The whole plot revolved around a princess. And obviously, Remus Lupin was no princess.
That wasn’t even the worst part. Oh, no, the worst part was the fact that this gorgeous creature called Sirius (who should’ve been a male model but was, for some ungodly reason, doing local community theatre) was playing the part of Dmitri.
Which meant Remus was going to have to kiss him.
“I can’t sing,” Remus lied blankly, trying to rid his facial expression of all tells.
Sirius laughed, grinning cunningly in Remus’ direction. “That’s total bullshit.”
“What? No, it’s not. How do you know?” Remus stumbled over his words, trying to figure out how in God’s name this extrovert knew anything about him, how he knew he had been reciting Marlene’s lines, how he had been singing harmony with her under his breath.
“Because I pay attention and I’ve heard you singing Once Upon a December from the rafters,” Sirius said, his smiling looking a tad flustered under pink cheeks. “Please, Remus.”
The use of his name sent a shudder into Remus’ spine. He didn’t even know how the lead actor even knew his name. None of the other actors knew his name. Not even Marlene.
“Do I have a choice?” Remus asked through bared teeth. Sirius grinned in victory.
“You absolutely do not,” he said, beaming from ear to ear.
“I thought you were going to St. Petersb-” Remus spoke through a trembling voice, holding his hands to Sirius’ chest as they stood together. On cue, Sirius interrupted.
“I was.” There was determination in Sirius’ voice and in his face as he looked at Remus, at the person playing the part of someone he was in love with, and God, was he good at this. If Remus didn’t know better, he would think Sirius was genuinely about to confess his love.
“You didn’t take the …” Remus trailed off, speaking about the reward that Dmitri refused to take for finding the lost princess, Anastasia. There was a slight shake of Sirius’ head as he looked to the floor. When his gaze returned, it was smoldering and kinetic.
“I … couldn’t,” he replied, his voice thick with a narrowing throat that he struggled to swallow, despite the fact that only the front row could see a reaction so otherwise insignificant.
“Why?” Remus’ hands were clutched around Sirius’ tattered waistcoat, holding onto the lapels with quivering hands and he wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline of being on stage in front of hundreds of people or the anticipation of having Sirius’ lips pressed to his own.
“Because … I …” Sirius breathed out into Remus’ open, waiting mouth, leaving on Remus’ tongue a distinct taste of the single shot of whiskey Sirius had thrown back before the show. As Remus reached up, letting his fingers drift down Sirius’ lips to silence him, his hands were shaking. Only for a moment, Sirius’ attention was diverted to their motion. When his eyes returned to meet Remus’, they were softer, lighter. Like Sirius had reached somewhere inside himself and turned off Dmitry, making sure that Remus could see Sirius in his own eyes.
They were supposed to stop before the kiss. Dmitri was supposed to hand Anastasia (or, in this production’s case, Anatoli) the crown and say ‘They’re waiting for you’ but Sirius never fed Remus the line. Instead, Remus felt Sirius’ hands wind up over his hips, moving under his suit jacket until it was folded to Remus’ back. With increment tension, Sirius pulled Remus in.
“Sirius,” Remus caught himself whispering, his hand slipping around Sirius’ neck. When he realized his mistake, his eyes widened, but Sirius just let out an aching breath and pushed forward, claiming Remus’ lips in a tender kiss. When he pulled back, he recited the line.
“They’re waiting for you.” He spoke loud enough for the audience to hear. Just as the curtain began to fall, Sirius pulled Remus to his chest, settling his lips to Remus’ ear.
Happy Sunday, here is some lovely fluff for you all. <3
“Sometimes, little one, you may find that you struggle to speak -- that your mouth can’t find the right words to say what you truly feel-- and when that happens, you have to let your heart speak for you.” Her aunt is strong and poised, but has a glowing regal look when she speaks to Kara. It makes the younger Kryptonian sit up straight and listen with every fiber of her being, afraid to miss something important.
“But how do I do that?” Kara asks, her eyes wide with wonder at the idea of being able to speak without words. It’s intriguing, an awe-inspiring pastime that she can’t wait to immerse herself in.
Astra smiles.
“You listen, and you paint with the brushes that move your soul. You tell a story with imagination and memory, with lines, and hues and shadows. You color it in with feeling. It’s why we have art in this world, to express our passion when nothing else will suffice.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be very good” Kara frowns, the doubt etched over her face as she ponders her talent
“You will be, Kara. It’s in your blood. You’re chosen for this.”
When she first moves into her apartment in National City, the old wooden easel comes with her, a small token of the piece of creativity that lies dormant within her heart. She hasn’t painted in what feels like a lifetime, not since her first terrifying years on Earth when the only thing that would help soothe her nightmares were the colors on her canvas. In those days, the pieces all bore a striking resemblance -- they burned with charcoal and brimstone, and had the orange glow of a world on the precipice of disaster -- a striking and hellish tribute to Krypton’s final hours. When Kara didn’t paint Krypton, she painted swirls of shadowy grays and cold icy blues, swirled with terrifying, endless black, indicative of the colors of hopeless years spent waiting for anything in the phantom zone.
Now, with life far from normal, but more stable than her rocky beginning, the easel is tucked cheerfully behind the couch where it doesn’t distract but remains perfectly postured by an open window. The sunlight cascades over the blank canvas, illuminating the vast emptiness with long fingered shadows of possibility. For a studio apartment, the easel makes a nice piece of decor, a touch of creativity among concrete jungle aesthetic.
Kara barely notices it when she gets dressed in the morning, and only sometimes sees it when she returns from work. The easel is unassuming and joins her for dinner, and sits idly while she watches TV. It’s a forgotten guest at game night, and an improv clothes hanger when the closet is too far out of reach. It gets shuffled to the corner when extra chairs need to be added for friends, and it stands up to steel toes that fumble over it with clumsy speed. At night, it stares longingly out the window, wishing on stars, watching a world go by from it’s little corner of the room.
When Kara Danvers meets Lena Luthor, things begin to change.
Her grayscale chest begins to swirl with the colors she thought she had left behind forever. She feels the itch of unspeakable words begin to claw and prick at the back of her throat, aching to go somewhere, anywhere, too bold to stay contained, but too difficult for her tongue to form. Her mind gets consumed with chiseled, sharp, angles and various shades of red -- the kind that screams a warning -- reminiscent of bright plump snarky lips or thick rushing blood that pumps through an excited heart. She closes her eyes and sees nothing but violent hazels and varying hues of green, all imperfect matches for the eyes that puncture her core and leave her dazed and breathless at every encounter.
She stares at the easel finally, the paintbrush tingling in her hand, as she tentatively begins to stroke. She takes her time and tries to remember the feeling between her fingers, and connect it to her heart. She closes her eyes and feels the rhythm, sees the colors and follows the lines that form in front of her. She’s out of practice, but the rust falls off after several hours of deep concentrated thought. Before long, she has filled several blank slates with confusing shadows of haunted pasts and connected lines of tentative longing embraces.
Lena comes to Kara’s apartment for the first time and her eyes scan the studio like a hawk, absorbing every little detail as if her brain is automated to analyze every nook and cranny. Kara holds her breath, afraid of what she might find, the gaps in their new friendship glaring at her from every corner.
She could afford to buy this entire building, and then some.
Did I forget to clean the kitchen?
Oh, Rao, my stupid painting…
Kara’s eyes follow Lena’s gaze as the CEO smiles at her softly. Kara notes how the lines in her face are less harsh and angular than when they first met, and instead blend to form a gently sculpted plane that hints at a shadowy softness. The light dances on her cheekbones, hitting them just right to bathe her in a flattering late afternoon glow. Kara wants to sit and paint every amber, every orange, every tint of reddish gold that she can from this moment, but she bites her lip and commits it to memory and waits. It won’t be easily forgotten.
Lena notices the easel, and her eyebrow shoots up in sensual delight.
“Kara, this is exquisite” she says, her voice breathy and filled with admiration. “I didn’t realize you were an artist as well as a journalist.”
Kara feels her cheeks burn, and immediately flees to the safety of her glasses, fiddling with them in a desperate attempt to dull her senses, just for a second. Just to stop the overload of all things Lena.
“Oh, I’m not an artist” she refutes, staring at the ground, desperate to avoid Lena’s intensely excited stare.
“I remember hearing a similar line before” she quips, her lips forming a soft smirk. “ You’re just full of surprises, Kara Danvers.” Lena continues to study the work with an appreciation that Kara feels deep in her bones to be genuine. It makes her heart stumble and her lips quiver and she’s reminded of the first week on Earth when every sense was heightened to an almost unbearable degree.
Lena Luthor makes her feel like her superpowers have superpowers, and it sounds like a lot, because it is.
That night, she paints Lena’s face in full for the first time, capturing her mind’s eye view and the way the sunset’s golden caramel rays peek through densely rich chocolate hair. She runs her fingers carefully over every chiseled feature, blurring edges gently as Lena’s likeness spills over the canvas. She tumbles over full lips, and the indent of a dimpled smirk. She shades and contours symmetrical cheek bones, and studies the curved edges of where her jaw meets the lines of her neck. She traces the hollow of her throat, and aches to press her lips to the delicately drawn collarbones that slightly protrude from the page. Finally she agonizes over the bewitchingly green eyes, the ones she sees in her dreams, the ones she can’t seem to get perfectly right now matter how hard she tries. She doesn’t know what it all means, because she’s painting with her heart and not her head, but when she’s finished, she feels like it’s the closest thing she has to having her.
Lena’s visits to her apartment become more frequent, and Kara falls into a pattern of expressing all her tucked away feelings through her artwork. The canvas speaks louder than any words she can say, and Lena understands. She doesn’t push for explanations. She sees, and studies and smiles. It’s almost like she knows the language Kara speaks, because she has one of her own.
On good days, the easel is alive with bright sunrises, and city skylines, and hopeful cheery fantasy landscapes. The colors are vibrant, the lines are smooth, and Lena’s eyes brighten when she glances in the corner and notices another brilliant piece of work.
On not-so-good days, the easel is cloudy with depth and shadows, angry lines and abstract shapes. Sometimes, Kara will draw narrow alleys and dark corners, reminiscent of nightmares, or particularly grueling missions as Supergirl. Sometimes she will simply not paint at all, and on those days Lena is extra careful, her words extra gentle.
When Kara finally decides to tell Lena her secret, she bares the part of her that always stood in the way of their friendship to truly form a circle of trust. It comes on the ends of a paintbrush, forming the iconic symbol of the house of El, being slightly exposed by several open buttons. Lena stares at the painting for what seems like hours, before she clicks her tongue and looks at Kara with hurting, but hopeful eyes.
“It’s really you?” she whispers, turning back to the easel and tracing over the crest on the page.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner” Kara says, watching her carefully, afraid to say too much.
Lena nods, and carefully walks over to Kara and removes her glasses. Her green eyes mix with Kara’s blue, and she smiles sadly. After she leaves in a cloud of melancholy, Kara paints the feeling over and over and over until Lena sends her flowers -- freesias and white chrysanthemums -- her own symbol of truth and trust. Kara’s heart skips several beats, as she paints the flowers, and the colors turn more hopeful in front of her.
A few weeks later, when Lena softly knocks on the door, she’s painting Krypton for the first time in too many years. The canvas is bathed in soft amber light, and blurred edges, like the corners of a dream, and Kara is trying to remember a time before the end. It’s the first time she’s her true self around Lena, and it’s fitting that her home is proudly displayed for both of them to reflect on. Lena sits and watches her, and doesn’t interrupt, content to keep her company while she gets lost in another world.
“This is where I learned to paint” Kara says quietly, as she surveys her work with a critical eye, adding dabs of color and smoothing out the final lines. “I was part of the art guild on Krypton.”
Lena hums, watching in unmistakable fascination.
Kara clears her throat, and begins to talk about her parents, and her home, and all the things she wishes she could have achieved if fate hadn’t landed her here. She’s grateful to be on Earth, she tells Lena, but sometimes there are heavy moments of nostalgia, plagued with what-ifs, that need to be let out.
Lena doesn’t judge, she nods encouragingly and places a supportive hand on Kara’s strong shoulder.
“Sometimes it’s easier to speak with your heart, isn’t it?” and the words sound so much like her aunt’s that Kara can feel the tears sting behind her eyes.
She nods, and takes a deep, shaky breath, and Lena leans closer, as if sensing the need for her presence.
“Is there anything you can’t do, Supergirl?” she whispers, and Kara’s entire body shivers with the way her lips come dangerously close to her ear.
From then on, Kara and Lena subconsciously begin a new kind of pattern. The paintings seem to ebb and flow with the tides of their ever-evolving relationship.
Kara paints the flowers that remind her of Lena, the snowy white plumerias that sit on her desk, and all the flowers she sends to Kara for all varying occasions. She paints flowers because they’re sensual, soft, and beautiful, and they represent all the incredible things that make up Lena Luthor.
When Kara can’t stand it anymore, she confesses the feelings that threaten to erupt with every passing second using oil paints and hope. She paints abstract figures dancing over beautiful landscapes, she paints lush pink lips colliding with ruby red, she paints golden blonde hair and raven black, and she finally paints the hazel eyes that have given her so much grief, landing on the almost perfect color to get it close to the real thing.
“Kara, these are….” Lena’s breath is rushed, and Kara can hear her heartbeat thumping rapidly. “This is how I feel when I look at you.” She finishes her sentence, and Kara’s eyes search her for permission, before stepping into her space and filling her hands with tendrils of long hair, pulling Lena close and finally closing the distance between their lips.
After their first date, Kara paints every happy excited feeling she can, but none of it can even come close to the giddiness she feels at finally being with Lena. She paints the stars, and bright, swirling galaxies, and she paints silly, fantastic landscapes that make her heart hum. The lines are cheerful, and her cheeks ache with the long lasting smile plastered on her face as a result of all the good in her life.
When they have their first time, Kara wakes up early and wraps her body in a white sheet, careful not to disturb the raven haired beauty still softly sleeping in her bed. She sits by the sunlit window and uses charcoal to outline the intricacies of Lena’s hands, and the long elegant lines of her torso. She plays with the light, using a chiaroscuro technique to highlight the delicate curves of her breasts. She runs her hands along Lena’s body on the easel, feeling the sparks and committing every small detail to memory, until she hears a rustling behind her and a throaty voice begging her to come back to bed. She smiles and allows herself to get pulled away from her artistic vision, because she absolutely can’t deny the real thing when it beckons.
After their first big fight, Lena arrives at Kara’s doorstep with flowers and an apology, only to be greeted by a broken hearted canvas filled with bolts of violent lightning and dark menacing clouds carrying the petulant gloominess of a lonely storm.
“I’m so sorry” Kara whispers, and Lena’s lips turn up in instant understanding, accepting the token of peace and falling into a tight, soul grabbing hug.
“Me too” she says with enthusiasm as she reiterates.
They hold each other close and whisper all through the night, making up for lost days by filling in the gaps with secrets and hopeful dreams.
“You’re the reason I started painting again.” Kara speaks quietly under the moonlight with Lena carefully wrapped in her arms. Her dark hair is splayed over Kara’s chest, as she runs her fingers through it softly.
Lena shifts slightly and raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I painted a little when I first got here, but it was mostly out of fear. I was so scared, and everything was overwhelming. But eventually, all my colors faded to black. I lost my spark -- I lost my feeling. I was busy hiding everything about myself that I forgot how to use my heart. When I met you… it felt like I woke up. I couldn’t stop my hands from filling every canvas in the room.”
Kara feels Lena’s heart dip, and she feels the soft kisses she presses to her collarbone. It’s the closest she’s come to saying the words she truly wants to say, and she knows Lena feels the depth in their meaning.
She finally manages to tell her a few weeks later, when she shows her all the paintings she’s done where Lena is the muse. She shows her the way the color of her eyes seem to take center stage in every piece, no matter the subject. Kara explains her attempts to capture Lena’s indomitable spirit with bold lines and strong colors, and the way she tries to draw the delicately sculpted features in her face as if she’s running her fingers over every detail just to be closer to her when Lena isn’t around. She shows her the sketches she’s done when they’ve been idly working together in Lena’s office during the afternoons, when Kara is distracted by the way the light hits Lena just right, as if begging to be captured on paper.
The tears fall down Lena’s face, and Kara wipes them gently.
“I love you” she says for the first time, but it feels natural now, after all the ways she’s said it before.
Dwc prompt🌹 "I could never have done this without you"
Typically, he found refuge in the quiet of his work.
Each piece took an entire day. He sketched it out beforehand in charcoal and then gathered the different paints, the plasters, and theright materials needed to reach the very top of the ceiling. Even the night beforehe dreamt in the Fade of what he would do, memorizing the different paintstrokes and the textures of the plaster underneath his fingers to achieve theperfect texture in what he was trying to convey in the pieces.
This particular one was going to immortalize the Inquisition’sinfluence on the future of the Orlesian court as they knew it. The Game was magnificent.The board was set and for just a moment he had a flash of what used to be.Gestures of grandeur, scheming in the shadows, and dancing through the waves ofchaos openly on the dance floor. Such things secretly delighted him and allowedhim to enjoy his evening. It also helped that he had the immense pleasure ofwatching the Inquisitor stalk the ball as if it were her hunting ground. Forthat evening she abandoned the safety of her mage robes and cowls, wearing afigure-hugging dress with make up that made her vallaslin nearly glow withpride of her origins.
It was no surprise that at the end of the evening the newlyappointed Marquise of the Dales truly held the reigns to all of Orlais withinher hands.
It was a surprise to him, however, that he had danced withher that evening and shared yet another kiss on the balcony.
But that had been weeks ago, and those weeks had been filledwith glances full of longing, light brushes of hands when passing in the halls,and her taking longer routes to walk through the rotunda. Half of the time shedid not even speak, but he enjoyed seeing her nonetheless.
He began that morning by laying the foundation for hisartwork. He washed the wall by levitating a cloth and wiping in horizontalstrokes over the stone, removing any impurities like dust or insect remains. Whileallowing that to dry he prepared his plaster and then quickly and accuratelyplaced that to create a fine texture in his column on the wall. It was all adelicate process and his preparation ensured that his body and mind knew thesteps that were going to come next. That was how these types of pieces survivedthe eons. It was how he could still witness their remains among the ruins ofhis people.
Afternoon came and he had mixed his paint and started fromthe top working his way down. He was thankful he had chosen the school of iceto study in years ago because it helped in hardening the paint so that he couldmove downwards without the fear of dripping. It allowed him to make quick work andby the evening he was paining the bulk of the blue strokes that were withinreach from the floor of the rotunda.
The Inquisitor was absent for most of the day but Dorian silentlywatched above in between pages of his readings. He didn’t say anthing, he didn’tneed to. Solas appreciated the silent compliment that was admiration from theTevinter and those around him in the library. It wasn’t until the candle on hisdesk and the floors were nearly done burning that she arrived.
The Inquisitor came in, smelling like she had done a day oftraining with the Chargers out near the stables. His lips twitched into a softsmirk as she walked behind him and he paused, turning to her with a quirked brow.She went to reach forward and touch the wall before her hand flexed back, realizingthat he was still not dry in the place he was working. Her lips parted in awe,his eyes slowly glossing over her as she admired his work. There were smallpieces of hay trapped within the red of her hair, even though it was pinned upand wrapped tightly behind her head.
There were small contact abrasions on her cheeks and on herarms, showing that she had been actively grappling or falling frequently in hertraining. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck into the darkened fabric ofher scarf, and even still there was the faint scent of her elfroot scented bathon her skin. He took in an extended breath, releasing it through his nose slowlyas she turned to him with a delicate smile.
“Can I help, Solas? It is unimaginable for you to work onthis yourself. Have you even eaten today?” She turned and looked for a foodtray, her lips curving down into a frown when all she saw was the remnants of fruitwithin his waste bin. He held his hands up in surrender and shook his head,politely shrugging while keeping the paintbrush within his hands.
“Thank you, dalen, butthat is not necessary. I am almost finished and will soon be retiring while itdries.” The Inquisitor looked from the paintbrush to the wall, her eyes takingin the final details of what was left to be done. It was down to one shade thatdarkened as it descended, a basic technique but he still wished for it to becompleted by his own hand. There was a satisfaction in doing it that left himfeeling fulfilled.
“If you are almost finished – “ She plucked the paintbrushfrom his hands and dipped it down into the bowl, freshening the paint on thetip before continuing where it left off. The quickness of her movement flickeda drop of paint onto her clothes and he couldn’t help but reach out and wince.
“Inquisitor, please, this is unnecessary. You are going toruin your clothes.” She looked down at herself and chuckled, eyes trailing overto his chest, seeing that there was not a drop of paint on him. The onlyevidence that he had been working was that there was dried plaster on his handsand forearms, leaving a white dust that clung to his skin.
“How are you not filthy from doing this?” Solas let out adeep chuckle, undoing his sleeves so he could easily pull his tunic over hishead, leaving only his emerald green undershirt on.
“Years of practice, but please, if you are going to do this,protect your own belongings. Mine are replacable.” There was a call fromoverhead that made his left eye almost twitch in annoyance, but he subdued it.
“Absolutely! Burn themall!” Dorian hollered from his lush chair in the library above. Lavellanlaughed, gently placing the brush in the bowl as she slid his tunic over herhead with a small blush on her cheeks. She then began to work slowly. Shelooked to him every few minutes, being careful to stay within his already definedlines while listening to the small critiques he offered. Anytime he tried toregain control, she tapped the top of his hand with a glob of fresh paint. Henow crossed his blue hands over his chest and watched her from the desk,nibbling on snacks that she insisted he eat.
The candle had burnt to the bottom of the plate and he was providingmage-light for her to work by. Small wisps of veilfire levitated from the topof the work down to the floor, where she was on her hands and knees finishingthe paint with a final dramatic stroke. She grinned, wiping her brow with theend of her sleeve, well, his sleevethat she was wearing. Lavellan took a few steps back until her back collidedwith him, a soft yelp of surprise leaving her lips.
“It’s beautiful, Solas.”
The compliment came as a whisper, her eyes widening as sheremained in place to take it all in. Solas stilled at their shared touch, lookingdown at her with a soft admiration on his features. There was a pride on her facethat he had seen previously at Halamshiral, something that defiance in her eyesshine. He smiled, gently resting his hand on her shoulder as he bent down andplaced his lips on her cheek, using his free hand to take the paint brush backfrom her.
