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buttsonthebeach · 5 years

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Life Itself

I had the pleasure of writing about Darva Lavellan and Dorian for @goblin-deity - thank you for trusting me with such a moving moment in their lives, friend!

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Pairing: Darva Lavellan x Dorian Pavus

Rating: Teen for mature themes. Trigger warning for terminal illness similar to cancer, and death of a parent.

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If Darva Lavellan had been feeling poorly lately, that was to be expected. Weight of the world on his shoulders and magic hand eating him up, and all that. Who wouldn’t be feeling a little poorly? Plus there were the nonstop treks back and forth and back and forth across Thedas. That was the only reason he was feeling unwell.

It was only when the ache set well and truly into his bones - when all of his joints hurt - when he felt the swelling at the points of his jaw, that tender spot, the gland that the clan’s healers said had to do with your body’s ability to fight infection - that he knew it was something more.

It was then that he thought at once of his father. Ahgie Lavellan. His safe haven throughout all his childhood. The parent he could trust and turn to, who did not wear his fear like a badge on his sleeve the way his mother did. Ahgie Lavellan, strong and brave, who died at the hands of an Orlesian hunting party when Darva was fourteen. Ahgie Lavellan who, before that, did not fear the blades of vengeful humans, but instead the sickness growing in his own bones.

“You’re going to stop being sick though, right? Someday?” Darva had asked him when his father told him why he was tired, why he was in pain, why he had to keep going to the healers.

“I will,” Ahgie said. “But I don’t think it will be because I get better, da’mynatha’la. I think it will be the opposite.”

Darva still felt a shiver of sadness, an ache, whenever he thought of his father’s nickname for him. My little moon.

He’d died only a few months later. The sickness never got the chance to eat him up. But now, sixteen years later, looking in the mirror and seeing a face that looked more and more like his father’s every day, Darva knew what was wrong.

He went to the healers to confirm it. A wasting illness, one that crept into your blood and your bones, resulted in hard knobs of swollen tissue within your body. A death sentence.

“I need your utmost discretion with this,” he told them at once.

His mind was already thinking of the currency he dealt in frequently now: secrets. Of how the Inquisition’s enemies would react if they knew. The Inquisitor was not only a Dalish elf whose greatest qualification for his office was a magic glowing hand, whose greatest protection was a pair of daggers that he wielded with particular style and lethality, but a man whose own body was in revolt, who was dying?

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

He would tell Leliana to monitor the correspondence of the healers nonetheless - without telling her why. She might start to work out her own reasons, but he trusted her entirely. Whatever she did work out, she would keep to herself.

He felt oddly calm about it all. So he was sick. There was also an ancient would-be god who had it out for him, so in the grand scheme of things it wasn’t that big of a deal. He just had to stay well long enough to fix this mess. Then he could fall apart. Hadn’t that been the plan all along? Hadn’t he been running from one disaster to another ever since he took his vallaslin and left his clan? This was just the next disaster. Nice to have a bit of a head’s up, really.

He’d keep it secret until absolutely necessary to do otherwise. That was the logical, responsible thing to do. Pretend it wasn’t happening.

He’d almost convinced himself of that until he was standing in the great hall of Skyhold, and he saw Dorian across the way. He was just leaving the rotunda, Vivienne at his side. The two of them were talking animatedly. Dorian was gesturing wildly with his hands, as he was wont to do when he got worked up about something. Darva froze, sticking close to the shadows of the door he had just exited, watching the two of them go. Watching Dorian go. His broad shoulders and his sharp, handsome face. Darva’s heart beat faster at the sight of that man - every single time - and things were serious between them now.

And just like that, the illness - this next disaster - was suddenly, vastly, unfair.

He’d come all this way - endured all of the shit life had thrown at him - nearly drowning in that river when he was young, his mother’s controlling paranoia, losing his father, his mother’s anger and grief then, how they were directed at him - drifting from place to place, finally returning home, only to leave for the Conclave and land in this nightmare - he’d endured all of that, found a man who shone a bright light into every one of those dark corners - was just starting to imagine a world where he could be happy, could have a home -

And now this.

Fuck.

He let Dorian and Vivienne leave the great hall without calling out to them. He stayed there in the shadows, so full of anger, of fear, that he could not move.

Darva went up to his quarters after that. He even had them bring his dinner up to him. He picked at it for a while. Then he laid out his collection of daggers and began polishing and inspecting them. It was good to do that. It was something small that he could control. And besides - they were bright, dangerous and strong. Qualities he would need in the time to come.

Dorian didn’t come looking for him, which was unusual, but his lover also knew that Darva was a man who occasionally needed his space. Who had been a solitary, watchful child, living isolated in a world-within-a-world, for many years. Darva missed him immediately, and soon that feeling bled over into a kind of self-pity that pinned him to the bed.

It wasn’t fair. His own body risen up in revolt against him, at a time when everyone needed and needed and needed things from him - expected and expected and expected things - when he was already barely qualified as it was -

How had his father done it? A hunter, a family man, a husband - how had he still gotten up every day and smiled, gone about what he needed to do? He could never ask him, could he? Like so many other things, he was going to have to figure this one out alone.

Or maybe it wouldn’t be alone. There was Dorian. Dorian with his agile mind, his voracious appetite for reading, his kindness. His knowledge of what it was like to live a life alone, a life apart. Dorian understood him in a way no one else did. He could rely on Dorian.

Then, tossing and turning in his bed, he thought of his mother. She had not been an asset to her husband or her son, in the end. Not with the way fear and grief twisted her up inside, as real and as violent as any illness. Not with the way they came spilling out of her mouth in accusation after accusation. Dorian was not like that. But there was no denying that there was a burden here. Something Darva himself could bear. He was sure of that. So that was his final decision, late that night. That he would bear this alone in the deep darkness of his mind, in the deep darkness of each night to come - however many of those he had left.

They were preparing to head out to Crestwood soon. There was that absolutely lovely, charming lake full of undead that needed dealing with, and then there would be a holiday in a lovely nearby castle that was also overrun with bandits.

“Seeing as how we are about to enjoy such luxuries,” Dorian said to him that next day. “How about we slum it for a bit? Spend some time just the two of us really roughing it, so we can properly appreciate the weeks to come.”

Darva was already smiling, already opening up from the inside out - a sweet feeling, a rush like when you knew you had the perfect hand of cards in Wicked Grace.

“Would a private dinner in one of the spare rooms suit your definition of roughing it? Perhaps some candles and wine to really seal the deal?”

Dorian sauntered closer, leaning against the wall, smiling, his chin tilted up. All confidence and ease and sultry enough to grab anyone’s attention.

“Dinner in a drafty tower with terrible company? My, my, Inquisitor. You do know how to spoil a man.”

Darva wanted to kiss him right then. But he just mirrored his posture instead.

“Well, tonight isn’t about spoiling anyone, is it? It’s about roughing it. Or have you lost track of your own joke?”

“I never lose track of anything that matters.”

It was true. Dorian played the dilettante but he had the focus of a bloodhound, a mind to exceed any of the scholars in the Inquisition’s employ. How Darva had ever caught his eye - had ever held it - was sometimes beyond him.

Dorian would turn that focus to his illness, if Darva let him in. The sickness would consume Darva’s body but it would consume Dorian’s mind. He was more sure than ever of the decision he’d made not to tell him.

“Darva?”

Dorian’s tone had shifted and so had his posture. Gone was the flirtatious smile, the cocked hip, the raised chin. Shit.

“My apologies. Just trying to dream up a menu that will suit your very particular tastes, Serah Pavus.” Darva took Dorian’s hand, raised it to his lips, brushed a kiss across the knuckles. Light and polite and perfect as you please, just the way Josephine had taught him.

“I see. I expect to be impressed then, amatus.”

Amatus.

That word sat heavy and new on Darva’s mind the rest of that day. Beloved. It was a word full of promise and meaning and if Darva had had doubts about living up to it before - and he had - they were doubled now. Whether he died at the hands of one of the Venatori or some goddamn dragon or Corypheus himself or because of his own failing body, he was going to die. Sooner than he should.

So maybe he ought to tell Dorian - let him get out now, before that word amatus acquired more and more and more meaning, more memories.

But Darva still went to the kitchens and asked for roast duck in a pan sauce, figs, their best red wine, fresh bread, and baked vegetables. Because his mind inevitably circled back to all the things about Dorian that he could not bear to lose - his biting humor, yes, his wit, his charm - but also the things that lay beneath all of that. The bruises they shared in common. The loneliness - the disappointed parents - the years of not fitting in, and the armor they’d built up to resist that. And the tenderness that they had now, finally, found with one another.

He couldn’t lose that. Not now. He was selfish that way.

Dorian met him in one of the spare rooms they’d redone to house visiting dignitaries. It had rich green curtains that Darva himself had chosen out of an array of swatches that Josephine presented him with. They were shot through with gold thread, and it made him think of the light on the trees in the forests where he’d grown up. All of the furniture in the room was made of a highly polished red wood that he couldn’t recall the name of now - something imported all the way from Seheron, if he remembered right. The sort of thing he might once have seen getting unloaded off of a pirate ship in Llomeryn.

The candles he’d chosen were simple, unscented. He knew Dorian would likely have chosen his own scent to wear at the pulsepoint of his neck and on each of his wrists, and he wanted to be able to smell that instead. To drink in every aspect of his lover. All joking aside, he might have almost preferred that they didn’t meet in such a rareified space, with its tapestries and stained glass window and fine furniture. The better to focus entirely on one another. It was the longing for a simpler life that had drawn Darva back to his clan, after all - and without that longing he would never have ended up at the Conclave. Would never have ended up here.

“Does this suit your tastes?” he asked Dorian with a sweeping gesture of his arm as he welcomed him in. Dorian tapped a finger against his chin, as if truly considering.

“Passable enough, I suppose. For the South. And anything is better than the muck you’re dragging me too.”

“Well, it isn’t the Fallow Mire this time.”

“You mean to tell me that Ferelden isn’t comprised entirely of muck? What a fascinating theory.”

Darva laughed. He hadn’t laughed since he got the news, he realized abruptly, and that meant he was laughing a little harder than he should have been, as if his body was giddy at the sudden release. It was like what used to happen when he would escape out from under his mother’s thumb and go to see his friends, how the first laugh that burst out of him would be too loud, too nervous. Too relieved.

Dorian had noticed, of course. His gold-brown eyes were narrowed slightly. But he was quick to smile.

“I am pleased I can be such a source of amusement for you. Shall we sit?”

Dorian continued to do his best to be a source of amusement as they ate the roasted duck and vegetables (which he pronounced passable as well) and the figs (which he couldn’t even make jokes about, being too busy actually moaning over how sweet they were). His hand was also never far from Darva. Sometimes it was on his knee beneath the table, sometimes on his wrist. Sometimes he traced idle patterns on the back of Darva’s hand, or on the palm. Sometimes he just laced their fingertips. When the food was gone, Dorian did that one more time.

“Hello,” he said, quietly, and just like that, Darva landed fully in the moment. There was no banter, no thought for past or future. Just the two of them, sitting in the candlelight, bodies warm with wine, palms touching. Darva tugged Dorian’s hand closer and kissed the back of it.

“Hello.”

“How have you been?” Dorian went on. This was how it was with them. Dancing for a while, working past the layers of scars, until they were vulnerable to one another. Until they could really talk.

But Darva couldn’t really talk about the thing most on his mind, could he? The fact that he ached all over, that he was exhausted. That it would only get worse from here, and there was no telling how fast or how slow that would happen. His father had known about his own illness for a good six months before it became noticeably worse, and even then the healers thought he might have another year left from that point.

“Same old,” Darva said. “Weight of the world and all that. Must be the middle of the week.”

The answer was too flippant. Dorian recognized the tone for what it was. A defense. A scar.

“I know that there is only so much I can do about that weight - but you know that I will take any part of it I can from you, right?”

There was a lump in Darva’s throat that he desperately wished would vanish. It was a childish lump. A needy one. Not the reaction of a grown man in charge of one of the largest military forces in Thedas, who had a magic in his hand that could heal the sky.

“I do. Maybe you should just buy me a new dagger instead. I’d love one with a handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl, you know.”

His own instinctive sarcasm betrayed him again. Dorian only looked more concerned.

“A dagger. Yes. If that’s what you need from me.”

Shit.

Darva held out his other hand - the marked one - for Dorian’s. Dorian accepted the gesture, brow still furrowed.

“I’m being an idiot. I’m sorry for that. I do need more from you than that. I’m just - not good at asking. And I have my own things to work through a bit, first.”

“You have seemed off today. Is that why?”

It was strange, being that seen. Being that known. Darva had passed most of his adult life drifting, never staying long enough to be really seen. Really known. And here Dorian was, not just aware of his subtle shifts in mood, but concerned for them.

“Yes. But I don’t want to burden you with it.”

“It’s not a burden if I’m asking, amatus.”

Darva had a dozen witty retorts, and two dozen more that weren’t quite as witty, but his mind circled back to a single thought over and over again. It is. You just don’t know it yet. And then he was imagining actually speaking the words out loud: I am sick. Wasting away from the inside out. I’m going to die. He imagined how Dorian’s face would change when he heard the news. How everything would change. And he hated the idea so violently that he wanted to stand and leave the room, leave the castle, slip out of his skin and into someone else’s entirely. It was all so terribly unfair - pinned between illness and death and Dorian, and all that their love promised.

“Like I said,” he went on finally. “I’m being an idiot. Can you give me another day or two to be an idiot about this?”

“Of course.”

Darva let go of Dorian’s hands then, but only so he could stand up from the table, walk around to the other side, take his lover’s face in both his hands, and bend down and kiss him on the lips. He felt Dorian’s gentle intake of breath ghost across his cheek - felt him part his lips in reply, welcoming Darva in - and everything was softness, connection, warmth from there. They cleared up from their dinner and walked around the battlements, hand in hand in the moonlight, not speaking anymore, just feeling.

Darva came to a different realization late that night. The way he felt about Dorian - the way he lay there, picturing his face, hearing his laugh, turning the images of his lover over and over and over in his mind - he had not felt this way about anyone ever before. It was different even than the way he’d felt about Sorrel, his first love - or about Livonah before that. And that meant he could not behave the way he had before. He couldn’t evade, hide, conceal. He had to be forthright. Honest.

He had to tell him that he was dying. Dorian would do with that information what he would. Darva had to show him the respect he deserved - had to give him that chance to decide what to do.

This realization was a more difficult one. It sat higher in his throat - choked off his breath, made it harder to breathe. But he knew it was the right one.

They set out the next morning for Crestwood, all thrilled to bits at the idea of the undead they’d be fighting, all joking loudly about it - with the exception of Cassandra of course, who simply let out one of her long-suffering sighs and rode on ahead to keep a lookout. Sera eventually joined her, declaring that she didn’t want to be stuck with the schmoopy-eyed lovebirds. With the two of them gone, Darva found himself fidgeting - tugging at loose threads on his saddle, fussing with his hair, trying to make sure all the dark curls were tucked away, disturbing some of them with his fussing, putting them back again. It didn’t take long for Dorian to start staring.

“Having another case of your wiggles, over there?” he asked, smiling. Darva felt heat rise into his face.

“I don’t have wiggles.” This was an opportunity, though - to speak about the root of his unease. Cassandra and Sera were far enough ahead after all. Courage, Darva. He cleared his throat. “I am, however, feeling rather fidgety. I - I do have something to tell you.”

Dorian nudged his horse closer. His brown eyes were already full of concern, dark-eyebrows knitted together with it.

“Tell me, then.”

There was nothing to do but jump.

“I’ve been feeling poorly. More poorly than usual. I went to the healers earlier this week and they confirmed it for me. I’m sick. The way my father was before he died.”

The words felt surreal in the midmorning light. Even this high in the mountains there was so much life - the evergreens were a vibrant emerald against the slate-colored slopes. Cardinals dove in and out of them, slashes of brilliant crimson against the white snow. Further still you could see down into Ferelden, its myriad shades of green, brown, and gold. And here Darva was talking about death - thinking about his own death, about how he felt pretty good today, all things considered. There wasn’t that swollen tenseness in the glands at his throat, and only half of his joints ached instead of all of them.

He was stalling, of course. Taking in the sights around him so he would not have to take in Dorian’s face. He relented eventually. He was not a coward after all.

Dorian’s face had changed little. His lips were set in a harder, thinner line. There was something burning in his eyes.

“Your father - he was killed by Orlesians.”

“Yes. But…”

“But you’ve always hinted at something else, too.”

Darva’s mind circled back once again to how unfair all this was. How he’d found a man he loved more than breath and bone, who could finish his sentences, follow the bent of his thoughts, and how he would have to leave him so soon.

“He had a wasting illness,” Darva said finally, voice quiet. “It would have killed him in months if the Orlesians hadn’t gotten to him first. And now I have it.”

The thing he had always feared, spoken plain, in the daylight. Darva looked back out over the ridge, towards Ferelden in miniature below. His horse stopped suddenly, and Darva turned back. Dorian’s hands were on his horse’s bridle, drawing them both to a stop.

“Amatus - you are certain?”

“Yes. I suspected it even before I went to the healers.” Unease gathered at the base of Darva’s spine, making him shift in the saddle. He wanted to dismount and pace, as if that would discharge it. “It’s hard to say how long I have of course. For all we know the Anchor will get me before then. Or a dragon or a darkspawn or I’ll trip over a pressure plate in one of these ruins we keep finding ourselves in and -”

Dorian’s hand was on his now, squeezing so tightly that Darva forgot to think of anything else. Darva met his gaze again. The thing burning in his lover’s eyes was tears, he realized with a jolt of anxiety, with a wave of love that threatened to sweep him away.

“Amatus - what can I do?”

Darva’s mind flashed with hundreds of flippant replies. He buried them all.

“Nothing that you aren’t already doing. And that’s okay. If anything - I hesitated to tell you this because I didn’t want you to feel like it put any kind of burden on you. You didn’t sign up for this. You don’t have to suffer just because I’m suffering. If you’d - if you’d rather end things here -”

“Stop. That’s total nonsense.” Dorian’s voice wobbled. He looked away. “Kaffas. I can’t believe you told me this now. On a horse at the start of a full day’s ride.”

Of course. Of course Darva had chosen the wrong moment. The wrong words. The same way he always did. He was no good at this. Not good enough for Dorian.

“I’m sorry. I spent all last night drumming up the courage and when I saw my opportunity I just - went for it. I shouldn’t have burdened you with this when you didn’t have time to process -”

“No.” Dorian turned back to him, edged his horse even closer, so he could reach out and cup the back of Darva’s head, drawing them even closer. “That’s not it at all, you dense and beautiful man. It is because I want nothing more than to hold you right now, and Sera is already making obscene gestures at us from down the road.”

Dorian did look at him a little differently for the rest of that day. He did seem a little more solicitous than usual. It created a spark of worry within Darva. Wasn’t this what he didn’t want? To be treated like an invalid? To have things change between them?

Then, that night, when the others had gone to bed, when it was just them and the campfire and the great black expanse of the night, the hundreds and hundreds of stars pricking through, when Dorian was finally able to hold him - that spark of worry was extinguished utterly. Because he was in the arms of the man he loved. Who loved him back. Because Dorian was warm and solid and there, and he wasn’t going anywhere, as he kept murmuring over and over against Darva’s hair.

“I’m here no matter what, amatus. You won’t face a single moment of this alone. I swear it.”

Darva wrapped himself in those words - stronger than any medicine, warmer than any blanket - and together the two of them kept night and sickness and death at bay until the sun rose, and it was enough.

#beach writes #beach does commissions #darva lavellan #darva x dorian #dorian pavus #goblin-deity #dragon age fanfic #pavellan fanfic #ahhh i so enjoyed working on this one #thank you!

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bitchesofostwick · 5 years

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the first of my prize fics from my giveaway! it was an absolute pleasure to borrow darva lavellan from @goblin-deity for a bit. :) he was lovely to write!

961 words. dorian x lavellan, light angst/fluff. happy ending. some mentions of blood, very mild gore.

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It's red templars again. It seems, and especially so in the Emerald Graves, that there are always more of them. Always. Vivienne finds them pitiful, making quick work of any she comes across, commenting here and there on what they could have been or on templars she's known in the past, bringing little solace to Darva, though he makes no comment back. Cassandra takes on each with a sense of duty but also—which others perhaps might not notice—a sense of somberness. Regret. Silence. She's seen much and known many templars in her past and any of these might have been a friend, now corrupted and changed as much as her fellow Seekers had been, but still she fights on valiantly and without objection, and for that, Darva respects her silence.

But Dorian.

To Dorian, red templars are a game.

He knows his love too well; it's not humorous and it's not a joke and if he makes it so it's only to mask his frustration, his unfamiliarity. The red templars aren't a threat he'd known in Tevinter; for that matter, templars aren't a threat he'd know in Tevinter and yet here they are in the Emerald Graves, a land crawling with Samson's men and a battle around every corner. Give Dorian the Venatori any day and he could map his way through battling them with his eyes closed. Red templars are something else entirely.

It's on the return journey to Skyhold—nearly out of the Emerald Graves entirely, just on the northeast border of the Frostbacks—that their worst fight occurs, because of course, Darva thinks with a laugh, these things always happen just on your way out. It's a larger unit than what they usually encounter—three foot soldiers, a lieutenant, and two behemoths, all towering and massive and bursting with crimson and ruby and sharp edges all over.

They fall into their usual formation wordlessly—Cassandra charging in at the front, Darva dashing in from behind, Dorian and Vivienne in support. The footsoldiers are simple, a quick slash each to the backs of their legs, a blade to their throats and Darva's finished off all three just as Cassandra takes down the lieutenant with a final sweep of her sword. "Help Dorian!" she shouts hoarsely, wiping blood from her forehead and turning toward the behemoth making its way to Vivienne.

Dorian.

Darva whips around, tightens his grips on his knives, eyes searching the thick woods and Creators, he thinks when he finally spots him. Creators, he's too far, small in the distance but bursting with red firelight and deep greens and purples of necromancy spells and the behemoth has already reached him; he can't tell how long he's been battling it on his own but his feet scramble, trip, carry him as quickly as they can to the thick of the fight and Dorian's mocking it, taunting it; don't, Darva thinks, he wants to shout it out loud but his lungs beg for air and he can't find his voice, he's never one to shy from Dorian's jeers and teasing but his arrogance will get him into trouble one day, he worries, cursing himself for the very thought and wishing a silent prayer to the Creators that it won't be so.

He's really tired it out, actually, Darva observes when at last he arrives to the scene.

"Is that the best you've got?" Dorian sneers at the behemoth, twirling his staff with one hand and motioning it to come closer with another.

Don't.

The monstrous creature groans, swinging it's lyrium-encrusted arms one after the other at Dorian and it's all Darva can do to hurl a knife at it, offer some sort of distraction, but he's too late. Dorian's gone too far this time. The red lyrium fist knocks him off his feet, knocks the staff from his hand as he falls.

"No!" Darva shouts, jumping, leaping into the air, onto the behemoth, digging his remaining dagger into its rock-like torso and dragging the blade as he slides down, down, taking the beast down with him.

He doesn't wait to make sure it's dead, doesn't need to; he's bought himself time to see to Dorian and that's what matters and he dashes over the fallen creature, over stumps and roots and branches until he reaches his love, pulling him up carefully as he coughs the air back into his lungs.

He's okay.

And he's smiling.

Darva could strangle him for it if it weren't for the matching grin he finds himself bearing, overcome with relief and welling with happiness as he squeezes his hand once, twice, just so you know.

"Gave you a bit of a scare there, did I, amatus?" Dorian asks him, his mustache twitching upwards, laughter in his eyes as he brushes the earth and leaves off the back of his robes.

"Don't start," Darva chuckles, trying and quite likely failing to hide the shaking in his voice as he looks him over for any signs of injury. A small cut to the arm—nothing more, not this time, to his relief, and nothing they can't tend to right now. Approaching voices tell him Vivienne and Cassandra have emerged victorious from their battle as well, and Darva exhales long, deep, before removing his pack and extracting a bandage and an elfroot poultice.

"It's nothing, really," Dorian says nonchalantly as Cassandra and Vivienne rejoin them, in spite of his wince when Darva presses the poultice into the wound.

But it could've been worse.

"Yeah," he says. "Nothing."

When Dorian's wound is clean and bandaged and he's back on his feet, they're on the way back to Skyhold again, purposeful and swift, Cassandra and Vivienne taking the lead and Dorian and Darva just behind, side by side, and a little closer than before.

#darva lavellan #dorian pavus #pavellan #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #my writing #mutuals

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musingmycelium · 5 years

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✓ If I could be bold and ask for Darva from Idrilla and Da'ean? :D :D

Idrilla - ”Sometimes when I look in Darva’s eyes there’s a depth to them so unfathomably rich and deep I could lose myself forever in them. It’s so attractive and magnetic, something in there calls out and I can’t help but be captivated by it.”

Da’ean - “A quiet talk with real laughter doesn’t go amiss in my life. Darva is sweet both to look at and to talk with and if I’m lucky he’ll let me do both. For me the best part is after a talk and he walks away first and I can oggle without getting caught.”

#thanks for the ask!#sorry i took so long i got distracted LJKLJKLJ #darva lavellan #da'ean lavellan #idrilla lavellan #goblin-deity

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lavellanlove · 5 years

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Darva leaves Avira a candle that smells of citrus and pine, handmade by skilled hands, along with a kit containing everything one needs to repair and maintain leather works. There’s a small note, saying: “something sweet and something practical.”

Avira makes space for both in her pack, re-reading the letter a few times before carefully folding it and tucking it away with her other correspondence. The repair kit comes in handy almost immediately, as though Darva somehow had known. She was trying to hold off on burning the candle, just sniffing the pleasantly scented wax every now and then, but finally lights it after a particularly hard day as she tries to still her mind long enough to fall asleep.

Eventually, a courier finds Darva and presents him with two gifts: a crystalline perfume bottle and a wool riding cloak.

Upon closer inspection, one would see that the bottle had a thick parchment label adhered to one side, the word Inquisitor flourished across it in golden ink. A tag is tied to the neck:

From the Parfumerie of Bartholomew & Pierce, est. 7:14 Dragon

Top notes: Mint, Lavender, Lemon, & Cardamom Middle notes: Peony, Jasmine, Crystal Grace, & AgaveBase notes: Cedar, Sugar, Cypress, Oak, & Labandum Resin

Tucked in the cloak is a letter with far more crude penmanship:

“Inquisitor, The latest mission you sent me on proved fruitful in more ways than one, so I thought I’d return the favor: sweetness and practicality. May the cloak keep you warm and dry in your travels, and the fragrance lift your spirits - as your candle did mine.

-Lotus”

(re: OC Letters & Gifts)

#letters & gifts meme #thanks for the ask! <3 #she rides so much that she knows the importance of a good cloak #and a perfumer owed her a favor so she cashed it in for a custom fragrance :P #darva lavellan #avira lavellan #companion!avira #goblin-deity

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feeshies · 5 years

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Darva Lavellan for @goblin-deity!

#fish art #dragon age #inquisitor lavellan

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vvakarians · 5 years

Note

3, 6, 9 and 12 for Callie for the ask meme :D

Thank you, Owen!

3. what do they look like? (add screenshots, drawings, descriptions!)

Calliope is a shorter Dalish elf at about 5′2″ and pretty muscular, not a whole lot of curves though. They’ve got darker blue grey vallaslin of Falon’Din in the more complicated style that follows along their arms and down their torso/back. Callie also has albinism like their dad, Hanin. Their hair is a stark white, obviously pretty pale, and they have very very pale blue eyes. If they weren’t albino they would probably have a darker skin tone akin to their mother’s, who is from Tevinter, and maybe black hair? At the time of Inquisition the Mark / Rift has changed their eye color to a sickly and vibrant green. They’ve got a small scar on their forehead from falling out of an aravel, a long scar from just by the left corner of their lips to their jawline from the blade of a slaver, and a small one over their nose from the faceplant out of the fade.

Normally they wear a binder fashioned by their father under some traditional dalish fashion, usually the leather leggings and maybe footwraps from time to time.

6. what is their opinion on the mage/templar war?

That it was inevitable and that the Chantry deserved this result. Their mother, Imryll, escaped Tevinter as an elven blood mage only to be taken to the Kirkwall Circle almost a decade later when Calliope was young. It directly affected them in the fact that they’re a mage but at the time they had too many in the clan, risking raids by templars if they ever found out (Keeper felt safer in Chantry controlled spaces bc they would kill the slavers faster) so Calliope was told to suppress their magical talent/never got to learn much. Not only that but their best friend (and later their husband) @trans-aloth ‘s Isi was taken from the clan when he was 12 by a group of templars to be put into a Circle and the entire clan believed Isidoro was dead. On top of that, their twin brother Elessar was made Tranquil by a group of Red Templars and their cousins were put into the same situation with family members being taken to Circles.

All in all, they have a bitterness towards the Chantry and absolutely no sympathy for them. Mages had every right to lash out like the did.

9. who is their love interest, if they chose one? do you ship them with anyone else/non-romanceable options?

In “game” and part of my canon their romance is Solas, a poor choice on their part lmao. Later on they marry @trans-aloth ‘s Isidoro Rosetti who’s their childhood best friend. And ofc I have @goblin-deity ‘s (you!) Darva Lavellan as their romance in an AU, as well as @lorspolairepeluche ‘s Halla Trevelyan in another AU.

12. how do they feel about the qun?

At first they have almost no idea what the qun is, but after learning some things from Iron Bull they are cautious to breach the subject with him. To Calliope it seems like the Qun is extremely oppressive and as they learn other people’s experiences it becomes something that Callie speaks out against actively. They especially hate their stance on mages, seeing as they’re one and they have several former Saarebas in the Inquisition.

This is further spurred on by Iron Bulls personal quest and later in Trespasser when the Viddasala starts terrorizing them.

#dai #goblin-deity #long post #calliope lavellan #booker answers #THANK OWEN

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dirthara-mama · 5 years

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Something for @goblin-deity for their birthday! Happy birthday, Owen!

Soft pink petals floated down from strands of garland strung from one side of the street to the other and sweet music from string instruments wailed from the square. Young people dressed in white danced their way to the Chantry, ready to marry and drink sweet wine and wake up to a headache and hopefully not-too-regrettable spouse. Wycombe’s elves and humans joined in the vibrant buzz of Summerday celebrations.

Even with all the laughter and excitement, Ayelet couldn’t stop staring at the most vibrant sight of all. After spending countless nights together, shrouded in darkness and seriousness, she thought she knew her literal partner in crime inside and out. They had an easy friendship, but she’d never seen him like this before.

Darva Lavellan was wearing an ale-induced flush across his cheeks and a loose green blouse that billowed and shifted as he spun a rather beautiful girl around the square in a dizzying step. Ayelet couldn’t hear his giddy laugh as he and his dancing partner knocked over a display of peaches, but she could see his blush deepen before the girl ran away. Darva did what he does best and got lost in the crowd before anyone could point him out. Minutes later he was at Yel’s side, trying to hide his heavy breathing.

“Alright there, Darva?” Yel asked. She raised her own mug to her lips, hoping he wouldn’t notice her amusement.

He raked a hand through his hair, shrugging off the unspoken accusation. “Fine, fine. Just having a bit of fun.”

“How come you never mentioned you’re so light on your feet?” Yel nudged him playfully, fake pouting. She didn’t have to fake much. There was a tiny, minuscule, not-even-worth-mentioning twinge of jealousy at seeing Darva sweeping someone around, hand at her waist and eyes locked as they talked in low, sweet voices. It was just a little thing.

Darva seemed to gather her meaning anyway. His haze was lifting.

“Would you like to dance, Yel?”

“Oh, I’m no good.”

“Come on, I’ll teach you! It’s Summerday!” He extended his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Yel took it and he led her to the middle of the dancing area.

“I hope you don’t regret this.”

And it was her waist where Darva’s hand sat and her eyes he didn’t look away from. She couldn’t look away from him either. His beautiful vallaslin, the scars that told his story (some that she had even witnessed him receiving), the planes of his beautiful face that she’d memorized in darkness but was less familiar with in sunlight. She placed her arm around his neck and her hand in his. He pulled her a bit closer and started to move.

“I could never regret a dance with you.”

#azia writes #ayelet/darva #!!! i hope you like this!!!#i just love our kiddos so much!#this seemed like a fun little drabble

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dalishious · 5 years

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OC Info Tag - Amaris

I was tagged by @fuckbioware :P and whoever sees this and wants to do it can consider themselves tagged by me

Amaris Lavellan

BASICS

Full name: Amaris Lavellan Gender: Female Sexuality: Ace Pronouns: She/Her Family: Atisha Lavellan (mother), Mirassal Lavellan (father), Elnora Lavellan (grandmother), Darvas Lavellan (grandfather), Talen Lavellan (adopted brother)

OTHER

Birthplace: At the end of the Minanter River between Ansburg and Markham Job(s): Inquisitor Phobias: Spiders, crowds Guilty pleasures: Pretending to not speak Common to avoid having to talk to people, winning arguments, wearing her pyjamas all day Hobbies: Reading, writing, collecting bottles and obsessively caring for said bottle collection

MORALS

Morality alignment: Neutral Good Bad qualities: Insecure, emotional, reclusive Good qualities: Dedicated, curious, optimistic

THIS OR THAT?

introvert / extrovert / a bit of both [EXTREMELY introverted] organized / disorganized close-minded / open-minded calm / anxious / restless disagreeable / agreeable / in between cautious / reckless / in between patient / impatient outspoken / reserved leader / follower / flexible empathetic / unempathetic optimistic / pessimistic / realistic traditional / modern / in between hard-working / lazy / unmotivated

RELATIONSHIPS

OTP: Solas OT3: N/A BroTP: Cole, Blackwall NOTP: Cullen, Morrigan

#amaris lavellan #tagged

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sunshinemage · 6 years

Photo

.:: Rory’s 2017 Inktober Masterpost ::.

And that’s a wrap! I’m still surprised at myself for managing to do it three years in a row, to be honest. But I’m also very happy I did it once again, it’s always good practice, and the best excuse to actually draw something daily.

And I think that’s all thanks to you guys, because picking a character to draw each day makes things more interesting (and that way not only do I get to draw every days, but you also get something out of it haha), and you’re all so creative it’s very hard not to be inspired to draw ;)

So yeah, a big thank you to all the wonderful OCs parents:

@thedosian-cabbage / @nipuni / @hasbeenlokid / @niceness-before-knives / @kurosmind / @laskulls / @ridethefrostback / @princeofmorley / @vir-ghilani / @amatuskadanvhenan / @nightwell / @thereluctantinquisitor / @chaitea09 / @bladeverbena / @thefluffynug / @blackwatchmanatee / @ladytrevelyan / @dartheames / @luinquesse / @leothelionsaysgrrrr / @onesparrow / @sketchyelvenass

And of course, to the giveaway winners:

@saphyremelodies / @thebeautifulsilverhare / @he-sgotthebodforthat / @wolves31 / @my-blood-runs-blue / @vilemie

And also a big thank you to every single one of you for your support, encouragements, tags, comments, overall love. You’re all wonderful and I consider myself very lucky to have such lovely followers <3

Under the cut is a list of all the pieces! Thank you so much for accompanying me during this little adventure, and see you next year <3

By week:

[Week #1] [Week #2] [Week #3] [Week #4] [Winner’s Week]

Day-by-day:

Mordred Surana

Nalia Lavellan

Miha Lavellan

Mir Lavellan

Fael Lavellan

Ivy Virida

Ilahn Havira

Thalon Lavellan

Ellorian Lavellan

Arturo Trevelyan

Aithlin Ghilain

Nin Lavellan

Maraas Adaar

Riven Lilnorn

Arsen Valke

Rinna Haurasha

Sethras Adaar

Syl’Tal Lavellan

Violet Trevelyan

Mornemyr Lavellan

Shae Lavellan

Emma Sparrow

Eoin Hawke

Lyvius Lavellan

Sekka Ittetsu

Thelrand Lavellan

Dalynn Surana

Darva

Airys Lavellan

Dairine Clearflame

Kristoff Cousland

#inktober #inktober 2017 #things i drew #rory talk show #y'all are amazing #i love every single one of you

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impossible-rat-babies · 4 years

Photo

a redraw from five years old, which means this kiddo is five years old. wahoo

the old drawing below the cut:

we don’t talk about me thinking i peaked when i drew this

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i #dragon age: inquisition #lavellan #m!lavellan #myart #oc tag #darva lavellan #i forgot he was that old like jfc #i thought i played inquisition in 2016 but apparently not #this was from his mage au stuff hence the scars and such #there are parts of my old art that i like but i do love the improvement

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buttsonthebeach · 4 years

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In the Moment

I had the great privilege of writing Darva Lavellan and Dorian for @goblin-deity again! Thank you so much, friend, for trusting me with them, and for being so patient through my insane October as I worked on this <3

“Life Itself,” the previous commission I did about Darva and Dorian, is here

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots re-opening on December 2nd)

Pairing: Darva Lavellan x Dorian

Rating: Explicit! There be smut ahead!

************************

The weeks on the road in the Emerald Graves had been grueling, and the road ahead of Darva Lavellan wasn’t any easier. They were back in Skyhold for now, but it wouldn’t be too long before they turned back and went out to the Arbor Wilds - this time with an army at their backs.

And that was setting aside the question of the wasting illness that was eating Darva up, inside out. Racing the Anchor to see which got to claim him first, it seemed. Most days were well enough, but there was an edge of exhaustion looming over him that he feared he would never shake, once it descended. Like a blanket that would only grow heavier with time. Like the one that would have swallowed his father whole, if the Orlesians had not gotten there first.

And yet - Darva was not miserable. He had Dorian to thank for that. Dorian and the warmth of his amber-brown eyes, the gentle curve of his lips when he smiled for Darva and Darva alone. His hand on the small of Darva’s back in some quiet moments, the gentle brush of his lips in others. His understanding when it came to Darva’s illness.

And most of all - the way he just loved Darva, wholly. Utterly. The total affection and desire that underwrote every sly remark, every attempt at being blithe and light-hearted. It didn’t matter what was happening around or even within Darva - Dorian was constant in the face of it all.

One thing that wasn’t constant, sadly, was the amount of time they managed to carve out for physical intimacy. The Emerald Graves had been too full of rifts, Red Templars, old haunted mansions, and the memories of dead elves for much more than a nightly kiss and embrace - even if that kiss did often make Darva’s toes curl.

They were back in Skyhold now, and the promise that had been building on each and every one of those nights - with each and every idle touch that had passed between them in the midst of all that horror - was growing full.

Dorian was already waiting for Darva when he went up to his chambers for the evening. He was leaning against the desk in a peacock blue silk shirt that was open to the navel, black form-fitting pants, his hands glittering with gold rings. He looked both rakish and well-coiffed and the mere sight of him already made Darva’s skin prickle with anticipation.

“Inquisitor, I will have you know that I have been kept waiting up here for some time,” Dorian said, using his best tone of mock offense.

“My apologies, Messere Pavus. I’ll have you know I always keep my most handsome appointments waiting the longest,” Darva said, climbing the last few stairs that led to his bedroom. His whole body felt lighter the higher he went - warmer, too, at the thought of what was coming, of he and Dorian together, setting aside all the other things that plagued them. War, illness, death.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, crossing his arms, lifting his chin. He was going to be quite the magister someday, when he went back to Tevinter. When this was all over.

Darva felt heavier at that thought. Sadder. He pushed it aside. If there was one thing to be said for their time on the road, always in battle, it was that it kept him focused in the present. He would not shed that now, here, in the warmth of his room, in the warmth of his lover’s gaze.

“I disagree. I think flattery will get me everywhere with you in particular, Messere Pavus.”

Darva was close enough now to see the glimmer in Dorian’s eyes, the little tug at the corner of his mouth, almost hidden by his mustache, that said he was trying to hide a smile.

“For example, I think that if I tell you that that shade of blue compliments your skin most nicely, I think it might get you to loosen the collar a little further.”

“Preposterous,” Dorian said, although his hand did drift, almost absently, to the neck of his shirt, tugging it just enough so that it bared more of his collarbone.

“And if I tell you that your trousers are most - becoming - I think it might make you blush.”

Dorian made a scoffing sound, but he tilted his head down, and looked up at Darva through his thick, dark lashes, and Darva felt his heart speed up, that first quickening between his legs at the thought of all the other times Dorian had looked up at him like that. This had not been a natural skill for Darva when he was younger, this flattery, this playful ease. It was something he’d learned in those years after he left the clan, traveling from bar to bar, cheating at cards. He’d never used it for something as precious as this before Dorian. Now these honeyed words were something that had grown between them slowly over time, a flowering plant they’d sheltered from the storms that surrounded them. In moments like these, Darva was glad he’d cultivated it. Glad of the give and take he and Dorian had, the things they could leave unsaid, except through glance and touch.

“Of course, if I asked to admire your rings, that would get you to give me your hand,” Darva went on, holding out his hand.

Dorian scoffed again, and rolled his eyes skyward, and then held out his hand, and Darva took it, and each time he touched Dorian it still felt like the first - still sent that shock of excitement and heat through him that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with love. With how seen and loved Dorian always made him feel. Darva bent and he was kissing each knuckle of Dorian’s hand like a courtier greeting a king but inside he was glowing with the knowledge that here, now, at last, they had arrived in a moment that was all theirs.

Dorian’s hand slipped from his grasp, and then both of Dorian’s hands were on his face, and he was kissing Darva, and making sweet, grateful sounds against Darva’s lips.

“I have missed this,” Dorian breathed out, barely a whisper, when they parted. This was how all their sweet nothings happened - something quiet, private, hardly spoken aloud. They’d both lived through too much loss to have it otherwise.

“Me too,” Darva said quietly, and he kissed Dorian again, molding his body to his lover’s, reveling in the warm sheltering curve of him.

He put his hand on Dorian’s chest where it was bare and soaked in the sound Dorian made at that simple contact. Dorian wrapped his arms tight around Darva and for a moment they held like that, kissing softly, embracing. Then they parted, eyes shining, and smiled, and kissed again, harder this time. With each kiss, each movement of their lips together, each time they parted and rejoined, each touch of a hand, Darva felt like he was being made new again. Being cleansed in a way that even a hot bath couldn’t mimic. He was coming back to himself.

“I want you,” he murmured, breathless now.

“Aren’t you easy?” Dorian murmured, as if he was not already hard against Darva’s thigh, impossible to hide in the tight pants he’d chosen.

“Only for you.”

“Good.”

Dorian took hold of Darva by the shoulders and turned him around suddenly, pressing him against the desk now, kissing him harder now, more insistently, his mustache rasping against Darva’s skin in a way that thrilled him. Dorian’s hands were already on the clasps of Darva’s tunic, working them free one at a time.

“Do you know how hard it was to watch you all those weeks in the Graves?” Dorian asked. “Knowing there was so little time for me to touch you?”

“I can guess,” Darva said as Dorian finally worked the tunic free and pushed it aside, and then started on the binder that kept Darva’s chest flat beneath his clothes. “Probably about as hard as it was for me to watch you.”

“Nonsense,” Dorian said, bending now kissing Darva’s throat. “It was much harder. You didn’t have to stare at one of the most handsome men in Thedas for days on end.”

“Exactly,” Darva retorted as the binder came free. He reached out and pulled Dorian’s tunic loose from the trousers and started trying to tug it over Dorian’s head. “I was staring at the most handsome man in Thedas.”

Dorian pulled back a moment, his eyes raking over Darva, a devilish smile on his lips.

“Damn,” he said. “If I disagree with you, I insult myself. If I agree with you, I insult you. I think I will simply kiss you instead.”

A laugh bubbled up from Darva’s throat as Dorian threw his own tunic aside and then kissed him again, pressing him back against the desk now, nearly lying on top of him, and the feeling of skin on skin was as miraculous as watching a mage pull fire out of thin air. The wet and needy feeling between Darva’s legs only grew as they lay there entwined, as Dorian rutted against him, grinding his cock against Darva and groaning into each kiss. There’d been part of Dorian that wanted to hide his desire at first - a relic of all those men in the Imperium who would use desire to their own ends, who would see it as weakness - but Dorian had no such fear now. He knew he was safe here, as much as Darva did.

“I love you,” Darva murmured this time when they parted. The most precious secret they shared.

Dorian touched his cheek.

“I love you,” he said in return. And then, after a beat of silence. “I think I have to do it. I have to insult myself. You are the most handsome man in Thedas. Maker, those freckles of yours, and those lips, and those arms...”

Darva laughed, because this wasn’t skittishness on Dorian’s part any longer as far as he could tell. It was simply the truth. His laugh was short lived though, because Dorian was kissing down his chest and his belly now, quickly removing the belt that held up Darva’s trousers, pulling the trousers down and then his smalls, and thank the Creators someone had lit a fire in this room earlier because otherwise he would be freezing now, but maybe that wouldn’t even matter because Dorian was kneeling between Darva’s legs, throwing one leg over each shoulder, and then bending his head and kissing Darva deeply, exactly where he most wanted to be kissed -

“Creators, fuck, Dorian -”

Darva felt the chuckle then, felt it as Dorian licked and sucked at each different part of him, coyly avoiding Darva’s clit. He throbbed with need now, was nearly dizzy with it. It had been too long. Too many weeks since his body had been anything other than a weapon for battle, or a vehicle for disease. He was alive with desire now and Dorian was only going to stoke that flame higher, slipping his tongue inside Darva now, and then replacing it with a finger, turning his head and kissing and biting at Darva’s thigh. Darva couldn’t stand it then. He laced his fingers into Dorian’s hair and tried to tug him back to where he wanted him, half expecting a teasing jab about how long Dorian had taken that morning to make sure his hair was perfectly arranged. But Dorian only looked up, smiled that devilish smile again, and then let Darva guide him, sealing his lips at last around Darva’s swollen clit.

Darva was no mage, but he couldn’t help but imagine that this was what magic felt like when it coursed through your body - the white hot electric heat that flooded him as Dorian sucked and licked and lapped at his clit, the way it made his fingers and toes curl up, his breath come short. Dorian took his time here, each movement long and slow, and Darva wasn’t sure whether to bless him or curse him for that - for the way he pressed the flat of his tongue against Darva’s needy body, hesitating for a moment there, building up the sensation, before flicking his tongue up, sending a wave of skittering pleasure through his core. There was only so much of that he could take before he was begging Dorian for more.

Dorian, of course, sat back then, his perfect hair and moustache in perfect disarray - how did he manage that? - and a grin on his face.

“You know, amatus, I should have waited until this moment to declare you the most handsome man in Thedas.”

“Declare away. But please, vhenan -”

Dorian’s chuckle was soft and low and full of promise. “I know. I have you, amatus.”

On another night Dorian might have teased him a little bit more. He had never quite done the dance with seven silk scarves that he had promised at the Winter Palace but he certainly knew how to draw out any kind of dance. But tonight, Dorian was as hungry for Darva as Darva was for him. It was the weeks of hard travel, no doubt. And, too, the other things happening with Darva’s body -

But none of that mattered, not now - all that mattered was Dorian’s lips, hot and soft and firm around Darva’s straining sex, the way he alternated quickly now between flicking his tongue quickly there or sucking on Darva instead - the way all of it was filling him up, building a deep, steady pool in his core, something wet and molten that would inevitably spill over and he was so close now, so close to spilling out, coming totally and utterly apart, and Dorian was right there with him, not letting up now, sucking and licking and then finally fucking Darva with his fingers and -

He felt nearly blind with pleasure when it happened, when the pool spilled over, wet spasming heat filling his body, wringing him out with every wave, a mess of sound and sensation, his fingers tight in Dorian’s hair. Dorian was making sounds too, appreciative moans, as he brought him through it, drawing away when Darva became too sensitive, leaving little kisses on his thighs instead. He was still smiling up at Darva, but it was a softer smile now.

“Are you still with us, or have you ascended to another plane of existence?” Dorian asked when Darva’s breathing slowed.

“Get over here,” Darva said in reply, arms outstretched.

As always, the simple pleasure of feeling Dorian’s bare skin against his own was remarkable, almost beyond words. After so much bad, so much suffering, it was hard to believe there could be anything as beautiful in this world as the feeling of his lover’s bare chest against his own. Darva wrapped his legs around Dorian, curled his fingers in his hair, cupped the back of his head, kissed him drunkenly, tasting himself on Dorian’s tongue. Dorian’s trousers were still on, though, and that was something that had to change immediately, so Darva pulled away and began scrabbling for the laces there, his usual finesse gone, because even though his sex was still twitching with satisfaction from his climax, he needed Dorian to fill him now, needed to be as close to him as he could be.

Dorian tried to help, but that just ended in their fingers getting in each others’ way, in the laces of the trousers getting knotted, in both of them laughing. The desk was starting to dig into Darva’s back, into tender places where he’d been bruised during all their fighting. All of it made him feel suddenly, sharply alive - the smell of beeswax candles, the coarse leather of the laces, the sound of their ragged breath and laughter, the places where they were touching, the hard edges of the desk.

“There,” Dorian said, the laces finally coming loose, his trousers peeling away, revealing all the rest of him, brown and beautiful, the dark tight curls that ringed his cock, thick and hard and glistening at the tip already, and this was another moment that Darva knew was already searing into his mind, like the afterimages fire painted on the inside of your eyes - this moment of being alive and with the man he loved, and knowing nothing else mattered.

“Your eyes, amatus,” Dorian murmured, his thumb tracing down Darva’s cheek. “They are so wide and dark just now.”

They are taking all of this in, capturing it forever. Something nothing and no one can take from us. But Darva didn’t feel up to words just then.

He stood up from the desk then, forcing Dorian to back up, and wrapped himself around his lover, kissing him, slipping a hand between them and palming Dorian’s cock, one long slow stroke of his hand over the length of it that made him shudder and groan into Darva’s mouth. Then again, in the other direction, root to tip, reveling in hard flesh and silky skin, pausing at the top this time to rub the plump soft head in a slow circle, gathering the sticky moisture there, feeling the fine shudder that ran through Dorian’s whole body.

“You’ll have to stop that if you don’t want me to shame myself and spill myself all over you,” Dorian said, his voice harsh now. “Although that does paint a pretty picture, now that I imagine it - you spread out on the bed, covered in my spend...”

Darva wrapped his hand around his cock this time, his grip firm, but the strokes still slow. Dorian’s eyes fluttered shut and his hands tightened on Darva’s arms. He was always surprised how undone this seemingly unflappable man was by a simple touch. By intimacy. Sometimes it seemed to shock him into babbling, like he could hide just how much he needed this. Other times it stunned him into silence. Either way, it surprised him, and that made Darva feel fierce and protective of him. He would fill him up with this kindness and these soft touches, so much so that the memory of them would be enough when Darva inevitably -

He pulled his hand away, returned to the feeling of being alive and in the moment.

“No. I want you inside of me.”

“Whatever my lover asks of me,” Dorian said, but he was too breathless to really make it sound coy or playful. Darva probably could command him to do any number of things in this moment. But the only command he wanted to give was be here, be now, be with me in this moment that will pass and then never come again.

He didn’t need to say it, though. He could see that Dorian was here with him. He could feel the connection between them like a thread of silk that bound them, in the way they kept meeting each other’s eyes as they stumbled backwards towards the bed, in the way neither of them said anything now, in the way Dorian lay back without having to ask Darva where he wanted him, in the way Dorian ran a hand up and down the length of Darva’s body, from collarbone to navel, as he straddled Dorian’s legs. Not a sexual touch. Just one that acknowledged the moment. That acknowledged them.

Darva caught hold of Dorian’s hand with one of his own and held it tight, pressed it against the space between his breasts, where he hoped Dorian could hear the hammering of his heart. He kept his gaze steadily on Dorian’s as his other hand went to his cock, held him still so he could sink down onto it, and then he couldn’t hold his gaze steadily anymore because it felt so fucking good to be filled up by Dorian, to feel every last inch of him sliding home, to feel the way Dorian’s body went tense as a bowstring beneath him. He kept his hold on Dorian’s hand, though. Lifted it once to press a kiss to the knuckles, then put it right back where it was. A feeling as precious as the feeling of being joined.

A string of Tevene words spilled from Dorian’s lips as Darva started to move. Darva liked to ask what they meant at other times, but for now he just let the sound of them wash over him, alien and yet familiar, because it was the language of the man he loved. He started slow, rolling his hips, a gentle rocking motion that let him feel every part of Dorian where he was buried inside of him. It made his toes curl, made his clit ache and twitch again. It made Dorian ball up the coverlet into his free hand and twist it, his eyes shut tight. Darva wanted to stretch it out, to stay like this, moving slowly, to watch each expression as it flitted across Dorian’s face - but he wanted to see him fall apart entirely, too, wanted to feel his lover’s cock moving hard within his own body, wanted to see if it would make him come again.

He found himself speeding up just imagining it - going from those rolls of his hips to a quick bouncing movement, then switching back to the slow swivel. He leaned forward, bracing himself with one hand, refusing to drop Dorian’s other, so he could change the angle, grinding himself against Dorian’s body, sending sparks of pleasure through his core at the feeling of it.

That was when Dorian reacted, twitching his hips upward, meeting each of Darva’s strokes, and each one pressed perfectly on that sensitive place within Darva that made him bite his lip and moan, and of course Dorian caught on to that, seized it the way he would seize an advantage in chess, started working harder at it - short, sharp thrusts now, building in speed, and Darva’s breath was growing shallow at how good that felt, and he did have to drop Dorian’s hand now because he had to brace both against the bed so he could meet Dorian in turn, so he could be even closer to Dorian, so Dorian could grab his hips, his ass, move them both at once into a sweat-slick frenzy of thrusting, of hard and wet and good and close and other murmuring sounds -

When Dorian came it was with his head tipped back, his eyes screwed shut, his breath caught in his throat, and Darva could feel each long hard pulse of it, how his whole body had gone still but his cock was still moving, still twitching hard as he spilled. It made his own body clench tight in response, once, twice, thrills of pleasure filling him, too. Not as powerful as his first climax, to be sure, but enough to make Darva sigh and shudder, too. It seemed to take Dorian a moment to remember how to breathe, and even then each breath was accompanied by a long moan, and Darva bent his head to kiss along Dorian’s throat, to brush his cheek against the stubble that was just forming along his jaw now that it was the end of the day.

“Vhenan,” he said when Dorian’s eyes fluttered open again.

“Amatus,” Dorian said, a soft smile on his face, guileless as dawn, secret and perfect, something Darva wanted to tuck into his pocket and keep forever.

Sometimes they returned to their playful teasing, their back and forth banter, after they made love. This was not one of those times. They stayed joined as long as they could, and Darva only strayed to the bedside table to clean himself up quickly, and then he was back in Dorian’s arms, beneath the covers this time, the two of them lying face to face in the darkness as the fire burned low. Dorian brushed the back of his hand over Darva’s cheek, sending shivers through him. Darva wondered was he was thinking in that moment. About the past, or the future. He did not ask. He hoped it was only about the present - about warm smooth sheets, pleasantly sore bodies, the way their feet were intertwining now beneath the sheets. Darva realized he was smiling, that Dorian was smiling back. Then he knew they were together - in the right place, at the right time. Here and now. Darva kissed the man he loved, and was content.

#beach does commissions #beach writes #darva lavellan #darva x dorian #i love these twoooooooo #thank you again for commissioning me friend

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