#darva x dorian

[buttsonthebeach]

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!

My Ko-Fi || My Commissions (Slots currently CLOSED as of 8/7/19 - but check out my giveaway!)

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.

[impossible-rat-babies]

A doodle of Dorian and Darva that got out of hand, but still some good goods

[musingmycelium]

Commission for @goblin-deity thank you so much for commissioning me!

Pairing: Darva Lavellan x Dorian Pavus Rating: Gen Words: 2001

commission info

Warm like sunshine on a cold day, soft like eyelashes on cheeks. Darva watches snow fall outside, faded white on midnight blue. Imagines the chill of it on his skin to cool him down but the crackling fire Dorian started hours ago now is keeping both of them warm. And even if it wasn’t the heat of Dorian’s skin on his and the smoldering remains of a fire they built together still flush Darva’s skin.

It might be his favorite part. Dorian’s chest pressed against his back, his hand on Dorian’s where it rests in the dip between his collar bones. Their sheets bunched around Darva’s legs where he’s stolen them all. Familiar as breathing.

New as fresh snow. Casual intimacy in the night, brown skin blushing under pale on Darva’s cool grey sheets. Darva’s heart calms from its earlier racing listening to Dorian’s breathing and matching it to the fall of snow on the balcony. The silence of sweet twilight filled only with heartbeats and slowing breaths.

Tender touches explore Darva’s skin, crimson vallaslin on freckles caressed by Dorian’s calloused palm. Bared without a second thought. Darva knows it’s Dorian’s walls coming down, a lifetime of doubt unraveling slowly. Every moment is one Darva treasures, a gift he can’t begin to fathom.

Picking up Dorian’s hand from his chest Darva interlocks their fingers together. Palm to palm. Brings the back of it his lips for a quick kiss. Love in little measures. Small gestures. Heartbeats matching in the night without a hint of hesitation. They’re both past looking over their shoulders now.

It’s something special in the darkness. In Dorian’s fingers fitting perfectly between Darva’s own. In the snow falling outside to land on the balcony where Darva kissed Dorian under the setting sun.

Wants to kiss him now. The desire sits in his chest like the fading sun but Darva doesn’t act on it. Savors it as the soft heat in his chest and just lazes against Dorian instead.

“If you don’t want me to freeze to death you’ll have to relinquish some of your blankets back over.” Whispers into Darva’s ear, a complaint given in almost sleepy leisure.

Twisting his ankles where they lie buried Darva smirks. “Cold, vhenan?”

Fake shivers and exaggerated clattering teeth, “The south is a land of heathens and traitors.” Darva can hear the pout in his voice, “Heartless heathens and traitors.”

Laughing Darva kisses the back of Dorian’s hand again, squeezing his fingers. “I know of a way to warm up.”

“I am far too worn out by your ideas already.” Dorian sneaks an arm around Darva’s middle, hand falling to rest on his hip. “I fear I’ll have to be content like this.”

Darva stretches out next to Dorian, well-worked muscles and lingering embers sitting in his chest. “What hardship for you.” Smile in his voice Darva tilts his head back to the crook of Dorian’s neck. The lingering scent of ink and magic still clinging to his skin. Darva’s come to think of it as home.

Arms around his waist and Dorian’s lips on the crown of his head have Darva all but melting back against him. Sated and content. Darva releases Dorian’s hand and immediately gentle fingertips trail along paths Dorian kissed earlier when outlines of tattoos and freckles were explored for no reason other than he wanted to.

Still wants to if his slowly wandering hands on Darva’s skin are telling him anything. Branching lines down his collarbone, an arrow down the center of his chest, dots inked under his breasts. Each traced with a simple dedication, an easy adoration.

“Have you ever thought about getting tattoos, Dorian?” Darva slips a leg between Dorian’s, relaxing against his chest. “You like mine well enough.”

Dorian’s amused huff ruffles Darva’s hair. Thigh to thigh, calf to calf, Darva wiggles in Dorian’s arms just enough to turn over. Brown eyes reflecting firelight and Darva’s heart skips a beat. Dorian’s soft smile is enough to steal the breath from Darva’s lungs. It’s so honest. Unguarded. Darva counts himself lucky to see the open side of Dorian, the warmth of his gaze only for him.

“When I was younger I toyed with the thought of one, sure. I created a sigil for my dear alma mater, a new kind of warding dealing with delayed spirit retrieval and recording. Simple enough really but I thought to commemorate the achievement by inking it on myself.” Dorian brings a hand to Darva’s forearm, where his own tattoos crisscross themselves intricately, warm fingertips drawing a new pattern on his skin.

Tilting his head in question Darva asks, “Why didn’t you?” From what he’s heard of Dorian’s, hm, raucous youth it surprises Darva he’d even given it much thought beyond doing it.

“Ah, well. It turns out if I’d done so I would have most likely activated it each time I cast a spell. Spirits can be useful but not when there’s a hoard of wisps trailing after you because you wanted to warm yourself up in the morning.”

The disappointed tone in Dorian’s voice, as if he’s still let down at least a decade later, has Darva giggling. “It would add to the evil magister act.” Picturing it in his mind Darva can see a little sea of fog surrounding Dorian’s ankles, dozens of tiny ghosts floating from inside the mist to near the top of Dorian’s head. The annoyed look on Dorian’s face as he tries to dispell them only for the magic to create more of them.

It doesn’t quite match the unimpressed roll of Dorian’s eyes under him now. “I’m not a magister, amatus.”

“But you don’t deny the evil?” Darva grins, folding his arms on Dorian’s chest just to be taller for him for a moment. Looking down at him triumphantly. Laughter in Dorian’s eyes and in Darva’s chest, a moment shared with only the moons to see them.

Everything either of them ever wanted.

Dorian’s hand trails up Darva’s arm, down his side following the curving rust-red lines of his vallaslin. “Why am I here again? If accusations are to be thrown around I would hope they’re more exciting than the common ‘the mage from Tevinter is evil’ variety.”

His smile is still lighter than the snow falling outside. Touch still warmer than the fire across the room. It sets something alight in Darva, something soft and precious and vulnerable.

“Vhenan you know I’m more creative than that.” Words almost wobbling on his tongue, heavy with some unknown burden. Darva gives in to his desire and shifts to kiss Dorian.

One of many. Even just this evening Darva has kissed and kissed and kissed Dorian until they were both senseless with it. Now their kiss is simple. Lips meeting in a brief hello and parting with a sighed goodbye. Nothing more than a desire fulfilled in the heartbeat Darva couldn’t wait any longer. Two smiles and two brown eyes on green ones.

Never enough for either of them, Darva could kiss Dorian until the Creators returned from the Beyond and still would feel robbed of the time they could have had together.

Fingertips ghost over his sides as if Dorian is afraid Darva will vanish if touched. No, wait, not quite. It isn’t fear holding Dorian’s hand back, it’s reverence. Worship. The light in Dorian’s eyes has Darva’s heart stuttering and his hands are just under his ribs and his lips are parted in prayer.

Or, they are until his hands brush down Darva’s sides and Darva giggles in surprise.

Both of them freeze for a moment before Dorian’s lips curl up into his mustache in a grin. “Are you ticklish?”

The second he asks his fingers skim over Darva’s sides again and Darva smacks his hand away. Fights down unamused laughter. “No.” He absolutely is not.

Dorian just grins, but he moves his hands up from Darva’s side. Trails them up his spine delicately like he’s searching. Darva schools his smile into a twist of a frown to keep himself from laughing.

“Mind sharing the blankets now? This southern cold is doing nothing for my health.” Sneaky hands run across Darva’s back to match the coy mischief in Dorian’s voice.

Sitting up to avoid Dorian’s attempts Darva looks down at Dorian and grins. Props himself over Dorian with his hands on his chest. Raises an eyebrow with a taunting, “Make me.”

Hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

Dorian’s grin is brighter than the twin full moons shining through the balcony doors. His hands falling from Darva’s back to the crest of his hips where Darva is straddling him. Holds him there.

There is a moment of anticipation. The silence between heartbeats where the world stops turning and their eyes are open only for each other. A private challenge in the middle of the night where no one else can see their walls fall down and their smiles grow. Heat like a shooting star in Darva’s chest, warm and bright and blinding in its intensity. Hope in its presence.

The fire pops and the moment breaks. Both of them jumping at the sound, fingers curling into the skin of the other.

Both of them laughing. At themselves for getting so caught up in each other, at the lateness of the hour and the early morning they’re sure to have tomorrow. Sliding touches from Darva’s hip down his leg, warm fingertips pressing into the soft skin behind his knee.

Darva grins crookedly, teeth catching on his lips. Their sheets are tangled at the foot of the bed, a crumpled pile of soft grey cast off when Darva turned over. He’ll let Dorian have them, after a bit. But first, Darva plans on warming up.

Shifting his legs under Darva, Dorian reaches for the sheets and Darva curls his fingers on Dorian’s chest. Rests his weight there and lifts himself up slightly higher. “Looking for something?”

Chuckling low in his throat Dorian moves one hand back to Darva’s waist. “I found it.”

Without a warning beyond his grin, Dorian flips them. With a breathless gasp and a rush of air Darva hits the pillow. Laughs with Dorian above him and pulls him down for a kiss filled with mirth.

Hands finding Dorian’s hair and tugging, tasting Dorian’s laugh on his tongue, Darva hooks a leg around Dorian’s and melts. Loses himself in Dorian. Night breeze caressing his skin fended off by the warmth of Dorian. Darva wants this moment forever, a never-ending kiss shared in their bed lit only by the moonlight reflected in their eyes.

Dorian grazes Darva’s cheek softly, cups his face with his palm and kisses him with a smile. Absolute devotion. Darva doesn’t notice the blankets being pulled up around them until they’re both bundled up together.

“Did you use magic to steal the sheets back?” Amusement and nearly contained disbelief, a question asked against lips.

“Did you expect me to use my hands? They’re a bit preoccupied.” Dorian flexes his fingers across Darva’s jaw and kisses his cheek.

Darva rolls his eyes, “Are you at least warm now?” Laughs at Dorian’s put on sigh.

It takes them a moment to readjust. Dorian rolling to his side and Darva curling up next to him. Tangling together in the night, playfulness fading with each breath. This could be Darva’s favorite part too.

This soft embrace, the quiet of two heartbeats alone together. Darva shuts his eyes and slows his breathing to match Dorian’s, the pull of sleep finally calling them both. Their mornings begin early and the dawn won’t wait for them to be ready for it. But, for those few hours, they don’t have to be anything other than in love.

Snow continues to fall outside and the moons continue to shine. The chill of night swirls in through the open door but Darva’s kept warm by Dorian’s arms around him. Sunlight held behind brown skin, a secret freely given. Neither of them stirring except to draw the other closer.

[bitchesofostwick]

Close

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.

***

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.

[thereluctantinquisitor]

Ship-A-Thon

I got tagged by @goblin-deity - thank you!

I will tag: @sulevinblade, @chosenofyffre, @lavellanlove, @chaitea09, @carverly, @frenchy-and-the-sea, @bladeverbena, @cadenshok (and the usual open invitation to anyone who feels like doing it! Also if you have already done it feel free to ignore lol). I popped some under the cut because it got long-ish!

1. First ship you ever wrote fic for:

It was FMA. It was an OC x Roy Mustang. It was all in second person. It is the reason I am glad Quizilla was shut down. Okay NEXt---

2. Ship you write the most now

Honestly, now I am mostly a self-indulgent soul writing for ships between my own OCs or my OCs and those of friends. The biggest culprit lately is probably Cyrus x Darren (Darrus) or Hanin x Avira (Hanavira - Avira belongs to @lavellanlove). 

3. Ship you read the most now:

Mostly whatever my friends and mutuals are posting. I don’t venture out into ship tags, so it’s whatever crosses my dash. Sometimes it’s OC x DA character, sometimes it’s OC x OC, sometimes it’s original fiction.

4. Newest ship:

Delton and Damiros. It’s a hot mess.

5. Rare ship you wanna read more of:

Hmm, I don’t know if I follow many rare-ships? I think I’d like to see more Fenris x F!Hawke (particularly red!Hawke) because it’s just not a dynamic I see very often. Gotta be a friendmance, though!

6. Your taboo ship:

Fenris x Anders (not into it, sorry). Also not keen on Adoribull.

7. They never met in canon ship:

There were some cute asks a while back about Varlen x Zevran which were a lot of fun haha, but they’ve never met in-canon.

8. Your unexpected ship:

Darren and Cyrus was actually my most unexpected. I never went in expecting the two of them to form a relationship (and they didn’t until about 4 years after the events of Inquisition), but some persistent anons planted the idea and then I couldn’t shake it (and big thank you to those anons - it has been the most fun to write about!)

9. The ship you always forget to give love to:

RIP me always forgetting to make content for Darva and Dorian. I still love them a lot and their relationship will always be special to me.

10. Ship your OC with a canon character (if applicable):

Lol maybe this is more applicable in fandoms outside of Dragon Age

11. Ship you’re embarrassed to ship:

None, really? Sometimes I feel a bit embarrassed when I think of stories between my two OCs but at the same time I feel like y’all know what you’re in for at this point haha

12. Your most romantic ship:

Probably Varlen x Dorian. They’re sappy sometimes. None of my ships really qualify as High Romance. OH maybe Jaime x Cassandra, if I ever got around to writing any content for them lol

13. Your sexiest ship:

Ralon x Himself  Okaaay probably Delton x Iron Bull (Red Bull)

14. Your most tragic ship:

Probably Hanin x Josephine. At first they were really drawn to each other, wanted to be there for each other, etc. But as the stress of the war and the needs of the Inquisition mounted, Hanin started to withdraw. He became more terse, erratic, and short-tempered (not with Josie, but word would get back to her). She’d worry, he’d push her away, he’d regret it, she’d be hesitant to take him back (but always did). It got to a point where they both just realised it wasn’t healthy, and Hanin knew he couldn’t be the person she deserved, and he certainly couldn’t go with her after the Inquisition disbanded to live among aristocrats.

15. A ship you want more content for:

There aren’t any in particular? Just give me all my mutuals’ content and I will live in joy. 

[buttsonthebeach]

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.

[impossible-rat-babies]

DADWC -- Nonsexual Intimacy prompt: Accidentally falling asleep together for a pairing of your choice!

Thank you! 

886 words | pavellan | mostly fluff | for @dadrunkwriting

–

Laughter echoed around the library, only a few sparse candles alight to guard against the darkness. A chill filled the spaces between the old stones of Skyhold, but it didn’t bother Darva and Dorian, both too wrapped up in a book and the warmth of each other. It was some awful tragedy and comedy fiasco all in one shoved to the back of a bookcase, hidden behind several other much more serious books. Any and all paperwork had been abandoned after finding the wretched thing, the pair finding far too much amusement out of it. Dorian came up with the most atrocious voices, creating the most perfect maniacally evil laugh Darva had ever heard. The most magister of magister voices that Darva had ever heard.

It could have been the wine, another fine vintage Darva had picked out of the cellar earlier in the evening, that made it all seem that much funnier. Or perhaps the lateness of the hour, the pair isolated in each other. Or the comfort Darva found in a humorous distraction, the ache heavy in his joints and the points of his jaw swollen. It was the long days where he felt the wasting the worst, but the brief reprieves with Dorian brought the levity back.

Darva wasn’t blind to the medicinal books Dorian hid in the bottom of his glorious collection of stacked books, or the correspondence he had with others in Tevinter, a few from Mae herself. Darva had written to her himself after he told Dorian, telling her not to let him lose himself in trying to solve Darva’s problem. He hadn’t quite contented himself with the inevitable that would fill his bones and skin alike, slowly killing him, but he was learning grace.

The others were learning slowly as well. He knew Vivienne was doing her own research, quietly asking about, keeping his secret close to her chest. Josephine had been careful about her schedule for him, minding his good days and his bad days. She had been softer and freer with him, for once taking his advice that they needn’t always stand on ceremony. He liked the way she would call him by his name, a smile adorning her face. Sera had declared that there would be endless pranks--plenty to fill him up for an endless stream of amusement. He would never want for a distraction when she was about. But he had seen how even now the idea of losing him was painful and he hoped to show her that it was going to be alright. Teach her grace as she gave him a reason to laugh.

“Darva?” Darva craned his neck up to look at Dorian, blinking slowly to clear the fog around his head. “Losing yourself in your thoughts?”

Darva snickered, tucking one of his feet under his thigh, resting his head against  Dorian’s chest.

“Getting lost the dulcet tones of your perfect evil laugh more like it.” Darva remarked and Dorian laughed, playing with one of Darva’s stray brown curls.

“Not the worst thing, now is it?” Dorian leaned in and kissed the top of his head, returning his attention back to the book to continue reading. Darva watched the pages without reading, quietly listening to the sound of Dorian’s voice rhythmically sailing through the words, the movement of his breath in his chest, the gentle way his fingers traced through his hair. A soothing distraction in the midst of all the pain; one that Darva was immensely grateful. He didn’t know where Dorian had learned his own grace from, taking all of what Darva had told him in stride. A hiccuping stride, but hadn’t faltered or given up. He’d been given every chance to turn his back, to let what they had go in favor of a broken heart. Dorian had rejected each chance given to him. Darva occasionally thought of him as a fool, remembering but not understanding as his father started to wither away, knowing that Dorian would be the witness to his own messy decline. But then they were both fools.

“Amatus?” Dorian mumbled and Darva hummed, opening his eyes that he didn’t remember closing.

“Mir’vhenan?”

“You feeling alright?” Dorian asked, brushing a hair away, his hand trailing down to the side of Darva’s neck. He winced at Dorian’s touch, pain radiating out into his jaw and down his back. 

“Hurts.” Darva mumbled, brushing Dorian’s hand away. The pain still traveled down his spine, setting into his hips and knees where it always hurt the worst. His hands briefly clenched, lips pursing into a thin line.

“We can go to bed, if you like.” Dorian mumbled, returning his hand to Darva’s hair.

Darva shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh.

“I want to keep listening to you, not giving into what my pain wants. Can we do that?” Darva asked, looking up at Dorian. A smile crossed his face and Dorian leaned in, kissing his forehead, nose, and finally his lips.

“We can do that.” 

Dorian returned to the book, his voice not as animated, but still soothing as the story continued to unfold in all of its utter absurdity. Darva felt his eyes growing heavier and heavier and he let it be, listening in the quiet warmth and comfort all around them until sleep finally took hold.

[impossible-rat-babies]

For the @dadrunkwriting monthly prompt “oh no we’re stuck here!” Funny enough most of this came from some very old writing I did back in 2016 that I’ve held onto for several years now. I changed a great deal of it around, but it’s still very interesting to compare between my writing skill then and now.

Pavellan | 2445 words | some character introspection really + pining

--

Elven ruins would be fun, he had said. On top of the searching for any references as to why Corphyeus was ransacking them all over Thedas, it would be fun to see a slice of history and ancient magic. Hopefully without any negative side effects, but luck was rarely if ever on their side. Dorian was kidding himself; luck was rarely on their sides, especially taking Darva anywhere. He was a magnet for anything and everything going wrong. It shouldn't have surprised him that much when they stepped into some little alcove--at his behest--that some magical switch or another would trigger and drop a rather large stone door over the entrance.

Sera had yelled, let out some ungodly sound with the cacophonous crash. Both Cassandra had tried to grab to lift it open, but it was a futile effort in the face of thousands of pounds of rock. He should have seen it coming, but hindsight was only kind in the pitch black dark and the sure feeling that they were completely and utterly stuck.

"This is the most excitement we've ever gotten out of these old ruins." Dorian grumbled, listening to Darva still fussing about the door, cursing under his breath. Dorian ran his hands down his face, a heavy sigh escaping him.

"Could be more exciting if you could make some light to see how much fun my face is having." Darva mumbled, abandoning the door to yank his helmet off. He shook his head, pulling down the wrap around his hair.

"Oh I'm sure it is utterly delightful." Dorian replied and Darva squinted at the sudden spot of flame in Dorian’s hand. It casted shadows across the whole of the small enclosed room and onto Darva’s scrunched up face.

"You look more like you're going to sneeze. And your hair is a mess." He noted and Darva huffed, tucking his helmet under his arm to ruffle his hair. It only served to make the curls poofier, which looked not unlike a strange bird nest on top of Darva’s head.

"You're impossible..." He muttered under his breath, turning back to the door. “At least Sera and Cass saw it happen, so hopefully they'll figure something out." He heaved and sigh and ran his fingers down his face.

"It was the magic that affected it, I’d wager...do we still have that bet going? On how your extraordinary bad luck is magical?" Dorian asked, a hint of cheekiness in his tone.

"My bad luck isn’t magical; it’s as you put once: you're simply a complete and utter fool a great deal of the time." Darva replied with a wave of his hand and Dorian rolled his eyes.

“You’re far too charming with your ability to make friends and be...friendly with everyone to be that much of a fool.” Dorian spoke and Darva chuckled, glancing over at him with his green eyes reflecting in the dim light.

“Do I have you all fooled then? Because it rather feels like the blind leading the blind.” Darva mocked him and Dorian scoffed.

They'd been traveling all across Thedas for months now, following threads of rumors on who was planning to kill the Empress and what was going on with the Wardens. Only slivers of leads, but a small lead was better than nothing, even if it took them to the strangest places. Deserts had left Sera with a terrible sunburn she whined about for weeks and sand still in the pockets and crevices of old gear. Many pairs of boots had been ruined by rain and mud seeping into the leather, others worn to the barest sole from sliding and skidding across rocky ground and putting one foot in front of the other. Countless whetstones and spare cloth had been used to sharpen daggers and swords alike; hundreds of broken bow strings had nearly costed Sera her eye, but each time it happened she laughed and got to work restringing her bow. There was little around but the four of them on the long treks, only the four of them to talk to, to keep entertained. There was only so much “sightseeing” one could do before it as mind numbing. Camps in the wilderness left little to entertain them beyond talking to each other or making a game to pass the time; none of them quite had Varric’s talent for stories, but Sera still tried and they were all plenty good enough at cards even with Darva cheating. Even more so after he had taught Sera how to cheat too.

It was a strange collection they had, the company that was presented as the Inquisition, but they were trying their best. It was all anyone could ask of them, all that could be asked of Darva.

“Best not let them hear you say that, or the facade of their great leader in shining armor would be ruined.” Dorian jested and Darva laughed.

“Yes, the wicked skill and integrity of a dalish elf with zero leadership experiences. They should all be disappointed.” Darva remarked, his tone skirting the line between jest and genuine self deprecation. A narrow line.

“You’re selling yourself awful short. I’ve never quite met a man so set on exploring ruins, even if they might kill you. A wondrous shame to die alongside you in a horrid ruin." Dorian spoke, letting the flame go. It rose up to the ceiling, casting a pale orange light all across the small alcove.

“At least dying would be for a good cause. You could be a martyr, Dorian! Even if your magic is the one to blame.” Darva joked, plopping down among the dirt and grime, examining and picking his nails.

"Hardly my fault if the ruins decide that magic isn’t their forte." He resigned himself and grimaced at the ground. He would rather sit than stand, even if the ground was rather...ghastly. He sat himself down beside Darva, almost close enough to touch--to reach out and brush fingers against skin.

“Oh? Where is all that pride in your great and wondrous skill in magic?” Darva smirked and Dorian rolled his eyes, tucking his staff against his neck, resting his hands on the haft.

"Now you're just making fun of me." He huffed.

"I am not." Darva insisted and Dorian’s face curled, mustache raising in indignation. "Well, only half making fun of you, but I’m being honest." Darva patted Dorian's thigh, his hand drifting away before the shock of the simple touch wore off. Dorian cursed his reaction, how it felt like electricity on his skin with just the simplest touch; it was a simple reassurance, nothing more. A touch from...a friend to a friend, nothing more. Not all it took to break the thought from his head, but enough for his reaction to quiet.

"You flatter with reckless abandon, I’ll have you know.” Dorian replied quickly and Darva snorted.

“It only means something if you’re honest about it.” Darva pointed out. “Which I was in this case. And I do learn from the best.”

"You know you do have a tone for that and it’s a sickeningly sweet flattering tone. Perfect for the ladies who flirt with you with reckless abandon." Dorian remarked and Darva laughed, bright and warm, like sunlight in the depths of summer. It never failed to color Dorian’s cheeks, light up the little places in his chest.

"Never going to get anything past you, hm?” Darva raised a brow and his lips curved to a grin just so. Dorian casted his eyes away, ears burning. Always and forever foolish notions bubbling in his head.

“Maybe, if we ever get out of here.” Dorian leaned his head back against the stone, neither warm nor cool to the touch, almost tingling against his skin. Old elvish places were full of magic, just crackling below the surface.

"You think they forgot?" Darva wondered, lips quirking. He had no clue how long they had been sitting in the dark, alcove room. His butt was numb and Dorian fussed with his mustache, tweaking the ends over and over in a nervous tick.

"I would hope not.” Dorian sighed, drumming his fingers against his staff haft. The flame bobbed steadily above them, carried by the air still flowing into the chamber. It hardly seemed designed to choke them, but dying in other ways was much less enjoyable.

"You don't have to keep the light on, you know. I can imagine it gets exhausting..." Darva told him and he put his hands on his knees, willing his legs to stand. He shook out his ankles, gingerly rubbing the numb out of his butt.

"It makes it feel less like the temple is going to trap us here forever and kill us." Dorian droned and Darva sighed, rocking from one foot to the other, hip to hip.

"Cheery thought..." He brushed himself off and looked back at the imposing block of stone that had blocked their way.

"Maybe it's a puzzle or something." He added, looking at the stones. "Not like any of the temples give you their secrets readily, but the ancient elves were fond of puzzles." He mused, biting his finger as he scanned the patterns of the stone. A nervous habit of his own.

"Might as well give it a try." Dorian blew a sigh out of his nose, watching as Darva’s foot tapped on the ground, fingers fidgeting.

How he was going to figure it out was beyond Dorian; he didn’t necessarily doubt Darva's abilities, but skepticism wasn't unwarranted. Darva could be foolish, but many would be fools to think he was stupid. He had a head on his shoulders, one capable of frightening amounts of determination. Dorian had witnessed it when he took the burden of leading the Inquisition, taking the struggles of it in stride with a half grin on his face, saying it was another adventure along the way. Or even back when Haven was destroyed when Cassandra and Cullen carried him half frozen into the camp, lips and ears a deep blue, shivering all over, but eyes still open. Struggling to stay open, but still open.

"Indulge me, will you Darva?" Dorian questioned and Darva took a moment, foot still tapping on the floor.

"What'cha got?" He replied, eyes still on the stonework.

"You didn’t want to be Inquisitor, but you took it up anyway. You didn’t go running, or leave when you could have. You kept going. Why?" Dorian asked, watching as Darva looked all around the stonework. The silence stretched on and on between them until Darva finally spoke up.

"Combination: conscience, and making it up along the way. No one else was going to do it, so I decided I was going to do it. I don’t want to be a savior. I’m just helping people." He spoke surprisingly sincerely, his focus still on the stones as he mouthed numbers and pressed against them.

Dorian chuckled in disbelief. "Just like that then? You make choices that influence the whole world and the future of it by making it up along the way and doing it because no one else will?" He pressed and Darva shrugged, putting his hands on his hips.

"I may be oversimplifying it. There are people around whom I rely on to help make choices. Informed ones hopefully. Leliana gives me reports, plus Josephine does a lot of the heavy lifting. Plus you. You do read to me in fact.”

"Giving me as much credit as them? What will people think?” Dorian snickered and Darva laughed quietly.

"Right? Mother Giselle would have a heart attack." Darva shook his head, his grin lopsided--his big tell on his genuine enjoyment.

"But, still," Darva cleared his throat, "you are a mage, which I am not, and you have insight and abilities the other Mages in the Inquisition do not have. You are also from Tevinter, and there is a rather large lack of such opinions in the Inquisition.” Darva explained.

“An opinion many would not want.” Dorian reminded him and Darva gave a casual shrug as if the weight of the statement ran right off of him.

“You are Tevene, but not all Tevene people are you.” Darva reminded him, giving him a pointed look. “You hardly meet the expectation of the horrifying legend the south has built up. You want to do good and to help the people you care about. You have faith in them--in how they can be better. You haven’t sat idly by. You’ve risked everything to help people who don’t even like you, Dorian.” Darva spoke quietly, keen eyes watching Dorian the whole time.

“I value your opinion highly.” He concluded, looking back at the stones. Quiet filed the space between them and Dorian sat in it, unsure of what to say next. Genuine praise from a man who was rarely genuine, who hid much of that behind a mask of niceties, of strained happy looks. He bore the burdens as well, but underneath Dorian saw the cracks--the strain. 

It was easy to see, seeing how they shared that much between them.

“You are selling yourself awfully short as well, Darva.”

Darva turned back, brow raising with a question on his lips.

“Playing the paying a compliment back game?” Darva asked, something in his tone, something in his eyes: skepticism, frustration.

“No.” Dorian spoke plainly, meeting Darva’s eyes. He pushed himself up, only a few short steps to reach him. “I am being honest and genuine. Not many could do what you are doing, and you are doing it well. You’ve been trusted to this position and you’ve worn it well. It’s...brave.” Dorian spoke plainly--plainer than Darva had ever heard him speak before. No gimmicks hiding behind his teeth, or testing the boundaries of it in his eyes.

Darva managed a half chuckle, looking away from Dorian. “I keep expecting a joke. Genuine honesty in hard to come by, I’ll have you know.” Darva half grinned and Dorian snickered.

“It’s strange to say, I’ll have you know.” A faint smile twisted Dorian’s face and Darva chuckled.

“Well I do rather appreciate genuine Dorian honesty.” Darva gently reached out, lightly patting his hand against Dorian’s chest, fingers lingering longer than they needed to--longer than appropriate.

But it only took a second for Darva to pull his hand away, for the touch to end and the intimacy that came with it. The warmth snuffed out, as quick as flame with a cover pulled over it. Only smoke remained, the touch still felt.

“We’re going to get out of here.” Darva spoke to clear the smoke, the embers dying back to nothing once more. 

[impossible-rat-babies]

“Smile, Marrow, Kind” for Darva+Dorian pretty please? ❤️

Totally! I love writing these two :D

Pavellan | 1144 words | Angsty fluff? Angsty fluff

for @dadrunkwriting

--

Darva slowly--achingly--finds his way up the stone stairs, the weight of the day heavy in his bones. Meetings after meetings, day in and day out, all of it turning to a mind numbing mess in his head. Their forces still waylaid in the Arbor Wilds, still gathering themselves back up for what would come next. Darva feels the anxiety in the air, anticipation in every day. It’s a waiting game now, nothing more left to do; it’s Corphyeus’ turn. All they have to do is be ready for the retribution he would bring.

Darva reaches the top of the stairs, the sharp glare of the setting sun catching in the glass, leaving fractals across the bookcases lining the walls and the stone floors. Darva finds Dorian exactly where he always is, ankles crossed and lounging deep in his favorite chair. He runs his fingers across the top edge of the book propped against his stomach, his other hand tracing mindless circles across his temple. His jaw clenches and his lips fuss, his thoughts almost visible in the air from how hard he’s concentrating. A smile breaks across Darva’s face and he leans against a bookcase, content to watch Dorian. A quiet breath in the chaos, a moment where nothing else exists.

A yawn escapes Darva’s lips and it doesn’t take long for Dorian to look up and spot him. His brow creases and he slowly shuts the book, the two of them still sheltered between each other.

“You look exhausted.”

Darva laughs briefly, shoulders sinking.

“I’m that obvious, hm?” He shakes his head, another yawn threatening to rise over him. He holds it back, but his eyes still water and he quickly wipes it away. 

“Ghastly business having meeting after meeting all day. We’re just waiting now...” Dorian shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “I don’t entirely know how you manage it.”

“Well, I’m managing...well enough.” Darva half lies even though he knows Dorian will see right through it. He’s far to transparent nowadays, the facade he builds up crumbling down when he sees Dorian. A vulnerability he’s come to appreciate, a soft candor.

“You’re too kind, amatus.” Dorian stands, one, two steps to reach Darva. A weak chuckle spills from his lips, hands reaching out for Dorian. He takes them in his own, ten fingers pressing against Darva’s eight and a half. Warmth tickles Darva's palms, the smell of books and magic washing over him. Familiar, comforting, warm. A reprieve.

“Maybe to them. But never kind enough to you.” Darva mumbles, taking Dorian’s face in his hands to press a kiss to his cheek. Chaste and soft, but he’s close enough that Dorian wraps his arms around him, pulling him in close.

Before Dorian would tense, wouldn’t have stepped nearly close enough for Darva to touch him. His touches--no matter how chaste, no matter how much they would appear to be friendly and nothing more--were too much. Fear used to overrule any desire, any thought Dorian had to touch Darva and let himself be touched. People would see, people would talk--reputations would be ruined. A magister consorting with the elf, taking advantage of him, his nativity. Using him to take control of the Inquisition, learn their secrets. They would tear him apart, surely, but wolves chewing on his bones for the marrow center below would find nothing there. No secrets to keep when there were none...or at least ones kept between them, not only his to have. But, they would still come up with thousands of reasons why the two of them were so close, but none would come close to the actual reasons why. Reasons that took Dorian far too long to accept, far too long to let himself feel in earnest.

Darva did much the same, letting the game run between them like a gamble, a game of chance, letting the pieces fall wherever they would land. A back and forth, give and take, half truths and words left unspoken in the spaces between kissed lips. It took him far too long to say they both had lost the game, the objective long gone with breathless words and soft lips; love before they both knew it was love.

Darva pulls away and holds Dorian’s face in his hands, runs his thumbs across the curve of his cheekbones and down the shallow planes of his cheeks, arriving at the hard line of his jaw. His nail catches there across the prickly stubble, rough as he sweeps his finger back towards his ear, smooth as he traces a line back to his chin. Darva repeats the gentle motion over and over again, slower and slower each time. Taking his time, face relaxing with each motion, green eyes tracing the paths he loves over and over again.

“You spoil me.” Dorian breathes, just between them and Darva tsks.

“I could never spoil you, vhenan.” Darva murmurs and Dorian’s forehead presses to his, nose bumping nose.

“I beg to differ.” Dorian jests and Darva snickers.

“Well I beg otherwise.” Dorian rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t object, letting the sentiment be--learning to let the sentiment be. Dorian presses a kiss to Darva’s forehead, letting his lips rest, letting them stand in peace, letting the moment slide by. There are fewer and fewer of them lately, chances to breathe, to be close, to be in love. Dorian didn’t know he would miss it, crave it, fear for it, not until now--not until the threat of danger hung over them like a cloud.

“Are you afraid?” Darva speaks, warmth ebbing away into trepidation. Jests rise to Dorian’s lips, but they don’t slip past his teeth. He can’t lie to Darva anymore, can’t put up his front.

“I am.” He answers in earnest and Darva nods, lifting his head to look up at Dorian.

“We’re going to make it out alive. We're coming back from this fight alive and we’re going to be together.” Darva doesn’t question, doesn’t hope. He speaks it like it will make it the truth and it could almost be enough to still the fears that worm their way into Dorian’s stomach. He spent too many long nights imagining all the ways he could lose Darva when retribution came down on them. Darva is tough, but Dorian knows he can’t bear all that fury on his own; he would try, blasted, how he would try. Darva is too stubborn for his own good and Dorian knows it. Hopes it won’t get him killed.

“Well, we can at least be afraid together.” Darva chuckles weakly and Dorian shakes his head, forcing a smile. Darva sees right through it and he knows it, but he still puts it on--if not for him, for himself. Dorian presses another kiss to Darva’s forehead and then his lips.

“That we can be, amatus.”

[impossible-rat-babies]

21. “Literally everything about this is illegal.” for DWC!

Thank you!

For @dadrunkwriting | 2134 words | pavellan fluff | pre-relationship

—

Cool night air filled Dorian’s lungs, almost cool enough to have him wishing he brought a thicker cloak. The cold was barbaric and he despised every bit of it, even if people did call him craven for thinking the smallest breeze was “too cold.” It was nonsense how the breeze got under his clothes and chilled his skin. People hardly had sympathy, saying all he needed was more clothing. The south was still utterly barbaric, including the weather.

Dorian grumbled silently to himself, breath coming in a cloud of steam, looking from one end of the alley to the next, finding no trace of guards or anyone else. It was close to the middle of the night—when they should have been asleep by all rights—so he didn’t expect anything, but he was nothing if not rightfully on edge. He looked at Darva who cursed yet again, flipping his own cloak aside for a new tool. His other one was lodged in the lock still, keeping the contraption open for him to try again.

“You said this would be quick!” Dorian hissed and Darva looked up at him sharply, green eyes catching enough of the light to glow, expression foul.

“Hush and keep watch!” Darva snipped at him and Dorian rolled his eyes, crossing his arms as he once again looked from one end of the alleyway to the other. He tapped his foot against the dirt, twisting one end of his mustache.

“I needn’t remind you that literally everything about this is illegal!” Dorian hissed and Darva paused, looking up at him again. He didn’t even have to speak to be sarcastic.

“Since when are you concerned about the legality of things?”

“Since this could get us into major trouble!”

“For someone who goes on about how I murder people all the time like he takes no issue with it, you have a surprising amount of care about breaking and entering.” Darva whisper shouted back at him and Dorian threw his hands up, grumbling to himself. Darva sighed quick and sharp.

“I’ll also remind you,” Darva turned back to his work, cursing under his breath, “that I have done this hundreds of times and you,” there was a quiet click and Darva grinned, tucking away his tools. 

“You reminding me won’t stop me from doing it again.” Darva stood and straightened himself up, carefully trying the door knob, only opening the door a crack. He looked up and down the frame before pushing the door open to slink inside. He briefly turned back to Dorian, fingernails drumming on the door.

“Give me five minutes.” He spoke and silently shut the door before Dorian could cut him off. He mumbled and grumbled, eyeing the second story of a building.

It was exactly the same as all the other homes around it, save for the side door they had found and promptly used to slink into the house. Nothing at all out of the ordinary. So why Darva was here, much less why he brought him along, was an utter mystery to Dorian. Insofar this was just another stop on their way back to Skyhold. A hold over in a small Orlesian trading settlement before they would climb the Frostbacks and take the passes up to Skyhold. The place had a half way decent inn and tavern to stay at with beds much better than a bedroll, but anything else was utterly unremarkable about the town.

So why had Darva taken such a strong interest in this one place? It looked like any other structure for the lower class in Orlais or Ferelden. If there was one thing the two countries had in common, it was how all their little homes for all their “little folks” all looked the same. There were only so many nice words to call the poor wood and stucco homes and the word quaint was starting to lose it’s charm.

But despite how it was utterly illegal to go tromping into another’s house, Dorian knew that Darva knew what he was doing and he trusted that he knew what he was doing. It wouldn’t stop him, but he had the pleasure of the possibility of saying “I told you so” at some point. 

Maybe at some point Darva had taken delight in robbing someone blind for the mere fun of it. He was a colorful man with a colorful past for certain as Dorian had learned through bits and pieces of stories he had told over campfires, horse back rides, and over a drink or two in the tavern. Stories of card tricks to rob half a dozen men all at once; stories of being chased by the authorities, each manner of escape more outrageous by circumstance alone. He had told stories of Llomerryn for weeks now, each one different than the last one.

But nowadays were hardly the times to be going off on fantastical adventures that would get one kicked out of town for certain. At least Dorian wasn’t keen on getting the gaff of the authorities here.

Dorian clicked his tongue to himself and he scanned down each end of the alleyway, seeing no signs of anyone else around still. They had the right idea about sleeping when it was dark and Dorian’s shoulder’s sank with a heavy sigh. There was a nice warm bed back at the inn, a warm drink if he wanted it, and a place where his ass wouldn’t hurt from hours on horseback. It was efficient surely, but he wasn’t ever going to get used to the way his thighs ached after a long ride.

All the waited for him, but he stayed put beside the door, glancing up at the side of it, waiting for Darva to come back. Why he had even come with Darva was a mystery. Darva hadn’t ordered him, or demanded that he come along. He had asked him, quite politely:

“Would you like to come with me somewhere?”

Kaffas, he should have asked more than just going along with what he said. A simple walk around the town, Dorian! Just to get some time together, Dorian! A ploy to wrap him up into something no doubt of use, but still illegal. He cursed Darva and his bright big smirk, the terrible puppy eyes his green eyes gave him, how he had given him a squeeze of the arm and told him everything was going to be alright. Dorian cursed under his breath, shaking his head, face burning up enough for him to feel his nose again.

“Kaffas...” He grumbled, looking back up at the house. Darva had no right using how...how infuriatingly cute he was to his own advantage. While it hadn't gotten them into any real trouble, it made Dorian’s stomach turn to butterflies and he couldn’t have any of that. He couldn’t be getting too attached to Darva, reading too deep into the way they discussed, the way they bickered, the way Darva looked genuinely at him and asked sincerely if he was doing well. How he told him he was a good man, that his mission here in the south was a good one, that he should’t give up on the things he loves just because they seem too far gone, too broken to fix.

Dorian didn’t need to get attached to the hope of something more lurking behind Darva’s eyes, his words, the comfort he gave. He was content in the comfort of witty banter, content to be friends and...nothing more than that. Just friends, nothing more.

The door creaked opened and Dorian nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Kaffas!” He cursed and Darva poked his head out, eyes blinking as they reflected the light back at Dorian. “Festis bei umo canavarum...” Dorian breathed out heavily and shook his head.

Darva snickered, stepping back out into the cold, silently shutting the door behind him.

“Come on...” Darva patted his shoulder and turned to head back down to the street. Dorian shook his head and followed behind him. But he gently grasped his arm, stopping both of them before they turned out into the street.

“Wait, Darva. What did you get in there exactly?” Dorian asked and Darva raised a brow.

“Figured it was for more than just fun, eh?” Darva asked with a touch of a cheeky grin on his face.

“Well I wouldn’t put it past you, but I have seen enough to know you do have some professionalism.” Dorian replied and Darva hummed, brow still cocked.

“I have more than enough professionalism to get the job done. Experience is what really matters.” Darva huffed, but continued on. “Leliana has been keeping an eye on spy rings and spy masters in Orlais to maybe pick up on some sort of information on who could be after the Empress. There are few leads, but bits of info all connected here. A bit of a spy ring, no doubt.”

Dorian looked back up at the building as Darva kept talking, seeing no sign of anyone waking or walking around.

“After a bit of poking around I found several documents linking the spy ring we’ve been watching to notable nobles in Orlais. I vaguely recognize the names, but Leliana will be able to make more out of them.” Darva explained and Dorian looked back at him. A small self satisfied grin came across his face.

“Was there anyone inside?” Dorian asked and Darva shook his head.

“There was nice furniture inside, but nothing more to suggest people were living there. Curtains were drawn tight too, probably to hide that it was only used for occasional meetings.” Darva answered, scratching at the ring in his nose

“And she couldn’t just send one of her agents to collect this?” Dorian asked and Darva shrugged.

“Well...considering I put the puzzle pieces together myself and figured out what was here,” he jerked his thumb back at the house, “it should be a nice gift for Leliana when we get back.” Darva’s smirk grew bigger and Dorian paused before he chuckled, briefly shaking his head.

“Darva you far too clever for your own good, you know that?” Dorian smiled and Darva grinned, the tips of ears turning red as they twisted down.

“Oh I know, but I do enjoy hearing it over and over again.” Darva joked, turning on his heel to continue walking. Dorian watched him briefly, cloak dancing about his ankles with each fluid step, always a quiet confidence to his walk. Whether it was forced, or part of his bearing, Dorian did not know, but Darva certainly wore it well. A man making the best of a situation he had been thrusted into, trying to make the world a better place.

It sounded terribly familiar.

“Are you coming along, Dorian?” Darva turned and asked and he shook his head, only taking a few long strides to reach him.

“Oh I did get you a present.” Darva spoke, reaching under his cloak and into his bag as they kept walking. “It took me longer in the house for this reason, but worth it I believe.”

He pulled a long glass bottle full of red liquid, passing it off to Dorian. He skeptically looked at Darva and he gave him an encouraging look. Dorian sighed and turned the bottle over; the cork was still intact, well taken care of too. carefully reading the handwritten label glued to the front. He blinked, reading it over yet again.

“Is this--”

“I didn’t think they would have rare tevinter vintages from the Storm Age hidden in a scrappy place like that, but people put all sorts of things in their cellars.” Darva grinned and Dorian took a deep breath, shaking his head and unable to fight back a vicious grin.

“You are...completely and utterly atrocious, Darva Lavellan.” Dorian half laughed despite his words and Darva laughed, grin lighting up his whole face.

“Don’t be saying that now if it turns out you have vinegar instead of a nice wine.” Darva waved his hand and Dorian chuckled.

He still marveled at the gift as they reached the inn, still puzzling over why in the world such a bottle would be in Orlais of all places, but puzzling more over the reason Darva had gotten it for him. The way he genuinely looked at Dorian when he handed it off to him, lips turning in a barely there smile like he always did when he tried to contain his excitement. It was a gift and nothing more than that, one to make Dorian happy.

He guessed he would just have to be happy with the gift, the illegal thing they had done...and maybe a small hope that the way Darva looked at him wasn’t only just as a friend.

[impossible-rat-babies]

How about 43 on for the micro story prompts for whoever you choose?

43. undone

–

Darva mumbled and grumbled under his breath, pulling at the collar too tight on his shirt, shifting from foot to foot, hip to hip. He hated the Inquisition formal wear, hating the way silk slid across his skin, cool to the touch and never warming. He breathed out, eyes closing to hold his composure. He didn’t get his way this time around with his choice in formal wear like at the Winter Palace. This event was far less extravagant, much more…leaning on looking less inconspicuous. He begged to differ that his Winter Palace outfit was inconspicuous, but Josephine had insisted that exposing many of his tattoos was…not required for this evening. A shame really, since they were quite nice to look at, beautifully designed and all that.

Now that sounded like Dorian, he thought. A little bit of him sitting inside of his head from all the time they spent with each other...as friends and lovers. The thought colored his cheeks and ears, a smile warming his lips over at the butterflies filling his stomach.

He hadn’t called someone that in a long time. No one had come close to being precious enough for the illustrious title of lover in Darva’s thoughts. None had been close enough, accepted him enough, or let him be undone with them. It seemed like a simple matter to love him, but affection and trust was far from simple. Darva had been spurned both calmly and violently enough for him to learn to be more selective in those he let close.

But Dorian had found his way, unexpectedly of course, right into that little place in Darva where the love would grow. It had grown slowly and surely, but grown nonetheless, blossoming. Shocking since Dorian was much the same, his own heart reserved and tucked away. Love spurned enough to hold onto ones affections, keeping them locked down tight.

It was a wonder they came together as they did in spite of everything.

Darva turned his gaze up, tracing across the crowd, finding Dorian as easy as breathing. Or Dorian was magnetic enough to draw everyone in. Even with the same gaudy formal wear, Dorian lit up the room. He laughed and joked around with the group, but it was all fake smiles and jests for sociability of it. Darva knew each detail of his smiles, how the real ones sparkled in his eyes and how his lips turned just so. Dorian had a talent for lighting up rooms with bravado, but Darva craved the tiny sparkles when it was just the two of them all alone. He shined brightest in those moments, that quiet intimacy. The ways new lovers sat and stared at the world like it was all brand new.

It was childish and youthful, but giddy and bright too.

Dorian’s eyes slipped away from the crowd, finding Darva’s easily. A dip of his head and the smallest most real smile he had seen all evening danced across his lips. Darva grinned, butterflies dancing once again in his stomach, his head nearly bursting. He knew how he looked like a fool, punch drunk on how love had blossomed inside. It was all foolish notions, but they could be fools. Complete and utter fools.

“It would be foolish not to.”

“So let’s be fools.”

--

[micro story prompts]

[impossible-rat-babies]

Prompt: [I found you] 43. watching me while I sweat from exercising

1737 words | fluff | pavellan

—

The training yard was too full for it being only mid-morning and Dorian cursed, winding his way around the lot of it, peering through others hard at work. He was grateful he decided to wear something simpler, the ground only half as dry as it looked, squelching underfoot. The snow and rain had finally abated long enough from Skyhold to allow the grounds a bit of reprieve and it seemed everyone was enjoying it. 

He spied several groups of fresh faced recruits in their jumbled practice stances, eyes still wide with curiosity, holding their weapons like they barely knew which end was the pointy bit. Their time in Halamshiral bolstered their forces with old warriors from the civil war and many green recruits still fresh to what laid before them. Maker, it was going to be a tough one for them.

Dorian looked away, nose wrinkling. He was starting to sound like Darva when the warm jokes about the atrocious state of dress of the soldiers ran dry and only the cold reality of their predicament was left staring them in the face. The state of dress equal to their lack of funds, the dangers of the situations, how quickly they ran through uniforms, blood and life slipping through the chainmail. A thousand lives and deaths within stacks of fabric. Dorian never liked seeing the way his ears dip low with his shoulders sinking too. It was far from a good look for his already potent doe eyed sad face he conjured, but more importantly it was watching a sunshine of a man turn from optimism to realism, to look at just how horrible things were. How much worse they were going to get.

He trusted that Darva knew exactly what the costs were and how his bleeding heart treasured each sacrifice, but it still hurt to see how that wore him down the wire, down to snapping if there was just one more burden on his fragile shoulders.

For the sake of himself, Dorian hoped it would never come to that. And maybe he reserved a bit of that hope for himself too.

He sighed, pausing his investigations briefly. His fingers drummed on his chin, tweaking the curl of his mustache. He had held out hopes that the sunshine rays of the Inquisitor would have appeared by now. Darva did say how he was keen on getting his usual training in, with or without Dorian. He hadn’t the time for it earlier, still nose deep in his research on old Tevinter bloodlines to discover something ancient on Corphyeus. But the recent chapters were proving beyond aggravating on account of poor record keeping and some inane change in the system. Measuring things by maternal or paternal surnames? He hadn’t the slightest clue which one was being used at the time and he hadn’t the patience to decipher the asinine system right now.

So the research had been abandoned to his dusty little table and had gone searching for the Inquisitor.

He scanned the groups sparring once more, a sudden yelling pulling his attention to the opposite side of the yard. How he had failed to notice the gathered spectators, all keen on watching what is happening in the small ring, was beyond him. Dorian sighed nonetheless and made his way over, glancing back once or twice just to double check.

He didn’t need to, the man he had been looking for before him in the ring, sparring with a man twice his height and weight. It was hardly fear that hit him, but the resignation of “of course he would decide to spar with one of the largest soldiers around.” A heavy sigh escaped his lips, but he didn’t turn away. It was exasperating, yes, but worth watching.

Darva always had a way about him in the heat of battle or a spar; his eyes would grow focused, narrowing as his lips curled in a smirk during a spar, and a sneer at a real enemy. He wasn’t a mage, but he moved like he had electricity in his veins.

The soldier wielded a blunted sword and shield, Darva armed with blunted daggers as was always his choice. Dorian watched him parry a blow from the sword with one hand, quickly disengaging from a swipe with the shield. He ducked around the soldier, poised on the balls of his feet, moving swiftly. In the mid morning sun, Dorian eyes caught the sweat down Darva’s face and across his tattooed arms, breath deep and even in his chest. His hair a wild mess atop his head, curly strands all about.

They had to have been at it a while, neither having gotten the better of the other. At the least the soldier was doing well at keeping his wits; most took Darva at face value, but it was a mistake many didn’t see until it was too late. Spars hardly held the same stakes, but Darva wasn’t one to skimp on raising them if possible.

Darva’s brows furrowed in thought, lips curling, still keeping his guard up as he stalked around the circle. A sign that the soldier was learning enough to put him on edge. But Dorian knowing Darva, he always had his hidden little tricks. He was an assassin by trade and necessity with all the demands that came with the profession. Dorian had hardly lied when he said he could take the trade to Tevinter if he so wished. He could rival the best of the Antivan Crows if given cause.

Darva swung the blunted dagger around in his hand, shifting his main hand to backhand. Dorian grinned, knowing that look across Darva’s face. One that meant he was getting the upper hand, how he could almost see how things were going to play out. A chess master five moves ahead of his opponent. 

He charged the soldier, brandishing a blade with a sharp intent, sending him off to the defensive. He parried Darva’s off handed blow, shield raised, blade skittering off. But it was enough time for Darva to counter the force, eagerly slipping his off hand towards the space between the shield and body, right under the ribcage. A blow Dorian knew could slipped up under the ribcage, up through the lungs. Certainly one that would have killed a enemy if it was a real fight and not a spar for fun. 

“Match!” 

He pulled his daggers back, straightening himself up. The soldier slumped, hands on his knees to catch his breath. A mix of boos and cheers came from the crowd, but Darva shooed them away with a few short words. It was nothing if not harmless fun, a good way to interact with the soldiers; Dorian may have seen a few coins passed back and forth, but all harmless fun for everyone. Maybe it would be enough that they would see Darva as more than Herald, just a man willing to stand against the chaos. It was always easier for people to see themselves in each other, not in a deity.

Dorian watched the crowd shuffle off and Darva clapped his sparring partner on the back, ushering him off. Darva breathed out and slipped the daggers back into the holsters on his hips, turning on his heel to Dorian.

“How long were you watching?” A cheeky grin filled his face, approaching Dorian with his hands on his hips.

“Long enough to be exasperated by your actions.” Dorian replied dryly and Darva laughed, picking up a rag dangling out of a bucket of water beside Dorian.

“I can’t have a little fun with my spar?” Darva’s brow raised, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck and down his arms.

“Oh yes you’re more than welcome to go sparring with me twice your height for the fun of it. As if our current occupation didn’t lend itself to enough of a thrill.” Dorian droned, his tone painfully dry, watching Darva wipe the sweat from his face and push his hair from his face.

“I can't very well go off cheating at card games and swindling people for that sort of thrill now can I? I adore Josephine too much to put that stress on her.” Darva snickered, discarding the cloth back to the bucket to let the breeze dry his skin, leaning against the fence.

Dorian clicked his tongue.

“Tsk, tsk, imagine her having to explain that scandal.” Dorian leaned his back against the fence, side touching Darva’s hand. His tattooed fingers lightly pressed against Dorian, an acknowledgement, something neither of them would have thought to do before this. Before them. Dorian wouldn’t have dared to stand so close, to not move away from the casual touch, the smallest movement that would put them too close for comfort. There would be too many  eyes to watch them, too much to be read from their contact with each other. A thousand swirling anxieties in his head, but now they were silent as Darva laughed, a smile blossoming across his face.

“Like I said, I adore our ambassador far too much to put that scandal on her. She deals with enough.” Darva shook his head even with a smile.

“True enough.” Dorian happily conceded.

“I wasn’t expecting to find you here watching. Your books lose your attention?” Darva asked and Dorian let out a long groan, head falling back.

“The insufferable system of family lineage is what pushed me away. Whoever wrote it deserves a job at the ass end of Thedas.” He complained.

“What if they did have the ass end job of writing down family lineages? Maybe they enjoyed it. A wonderful job transcribing old family lines.” Darva grinned, arm casually wrapping around Dorian’s waist.

“Well it was either spectacularly boring enough for them to throw the whole system into chaos, or they were just that asinine about the whole process.” Dorian grumbled and Darva chuckled, watching and listening as Dorian continued on with his rant. His face twisted with each emotion that came to him, no longer the guarded mask Darva had known for so long. It was like there was nobody but them in the world, each allowed to be themselves as they stood before the other. Darva would never wish for Dorian to be anyone but the person he was, the one before him, so different from the man who he had found back in the Redcliffe chantry, the one now unafraid of his affections. One not so afraid as he used to be to show his face to the world.

Dorian’s hand came to rest near his waist and Darva slipped his hand into his, holding on gently. The smallest and quietest affection always meaning the utmost.

[impossible-rat-babies]

for dwc 'Grace, Dark, Holding' with darva and dorian??

Thank you Vi!

--

Darva + Dorian | Post-trespasser where Darva is in Tevinter with Dorian | fluff fluff | 1289 words

for @dadrunkwriting​!

--

Darva’s footsteps are light on the smooth marble floors, an almost silent step from heel to toe, only the creak of the floors to know he’s there. He almost blends in with the dark of the hallway, save for the midnight moonlight splashing in through the high arched windows he walks past. The cool breeze cutting in from the garden carries the distant smell of sea salt air and the more present jasmine and lily from the gardens below. The sheer curtains gracefully dance around Darva’s feet and he steps around the patterns they paint all across the floor.  He spies a familiar heavy door at the end of the hallway and a hint of warm light slipping in from the crack under the door.

Dorian is still awake...Darva sighs and he continues, only lightly knocking before testing the handle and stepping inside.

He blinks, adjusting to the dim orange light barely filling the study. The windows flanking him are open, but the breeze does little to cut through the thick air of the study, dark wood and heavy books soaking in all the light. A quill briefly scratches against parchment and Darva’s eyes fall onto Dorian.

He sits with his chin in his hand, brow deeply furrowed and eyes heavily staring down, quill slipping from his fingers. The fireplace frames him in a warm orange glow, the candles across his desk casting his face in deep shadows, painting him gaunt and drawn sharp. Darva silently wonders if that was how he looked sitting at his own desk in his tower of Skyhold, pouring over documents and the countless letters, all filled with problems that the Herald of Andraste needed to fix. Dorian only had Tevinter to face, but the depths of its depravity and nastiness rivaled that of any Darva had seen as Inquisitor.

It had been two weeks--almost to the day--since the fourth assassination attempt on Dorian. It had been much messier than the ones in the past, having moved onto just sending assassins in the night to catch him asleep. Easily done in most cases, but infinitely harder when there was an assassin in that same bed. One who kept a knife hidden under his pillow and no hesitation to take a life.

Still, Darva hadn’t come out unscathed, taking a stab wound to the shoulder and half a dozen deep cuts along his arms. It was a brief scuffle before his own knife buried deep into the assassin’s neck and Darva had held it fast and hard there until they had stopped squirming. It hadn’t taken long, but he wasn’t about to take chance.

It was sad how after the high of the attack had faded and he was bandaged up that he realized he expected an attack. Before then, Darva had never thought to face an attacker in their home; the possibility wasn’t past him, but they kept a careful eye on rivals and their movements, keeping up with the dance of deadly politics of Tevinter. It was always watching their backs to make sure it was safe, watching the drama unfold as they pressed harder and harder for change in the Imperium.

He was himself a witness to the drama that went on, always standing firmly cloaked and hidden beside Doran during senate meetings, listening to the Magisters go on and on. They bickered with the same old rivals, keeping to the same old traditions as before. The same old things they had been going on about for generations, keeping the status quo firmly where it belonged. A system too broken for them to see it and blinded by rage when Dorian and Maevarius stood too proudly among their fellow Lucerni and demanded too much.

It was nothing short of patronizing how they tolerated them at times, eyes like disapproving parents hoping that they would quietly sit down and abandon their revolt. But Dorian thrived under the disapproval, their looks having no power over a man who was going to redeem his country--damn the consequences. A withering gaze meant nothing to a pariah, a man with nothing to lose.

But that measure, it had only a matter time before the disapproval turned to anger and would bubble over into full on assassination attempts.

Darva sighs and he quietly walks to Dorian, his only hand sliding across his shoulders as he comes around. A breath leaves Dorian and he turns his head, eyes meeting Darva’s own, weariness thick across his face. Darva manages a sympathetic smile and Dorian lift his hand to press a kiss to his palm, lips leaving a lingering tingle down Darva’s spine.

“How are you?” Dorian murmurs, keeping hold on Darva’s hand, finger’s lacing together. His palm warm, golden rings cool to the touch.

“Getting better.” Darva replies softly, stepping in close. His hand runs idly down Darva’s forearm, barely touching the puckered red lines that would fade to shiny scars in time.

“How are you?” Darva asks, turning his eyes to the parchment scattered across the desk. He spies account reports, expenses, letters of all kinds sprawled across the mahogany desk. He spots Mae’s handwriting and several others of the Lucerni party, no doubt more plans and other secret coded writings.

Dorian sighs, picking up his discarded quill to set it aside properly. “Not enough time in the day...” He mumbles, grey eyes sightlessly scanning the mound of work, shadows heavy around his eyes. Darva knows the feeling well and he presses a kiss to the crown of Dorian’s head.

“You need to sleep. There’s a senate meeting in the morning and it’ll be posturing and arguments for sure..” Darva gently speaks and Dorian grumbles, playing with the linen of Darva's shirt.

“I don’t want you coming along tomorrow.” Dorian speaks and Darva pulls back.

“Why?” He asks, face scrunching. “It’s been two weeks, I am more than capable of doing my duty, Dorian.”

“We won’t be defenseless. I would be an embarrassment for them to attack outright in the Senate.” Dorian defends, deflects.

“I would hardly put it past them to try something on your way to the Magisterium, or in privacy there. They’ve failed once and it’s only escalated with each failure.” Darva argues and Dorian heaves a long sigh, the corner of his mouth twitching with things he won’t say. Darva knows what he won’t say, an argument they’ve played back and forth for ages.

“Amatus, please--”

“Don’t start that.” Darva cuts him off, staring at him with a frown. “I know you better than this; you’re worried about me getting hurt again.”

Dorian almost scoffs; Darva sees it written all over his face, but he knits his lips into a thin serious line.

“Hardly a ridiculous worry, Darva. Very much warranted, need I remind you?” Dorian shakes his head and Darva rolls his eyes.

“And do I need to remind you that I am here to keep you and the Lucerni safe? It’s my duty to go with you, both as your protector and your lover.”

“As your lover, I don’t want to see you getting hurt again.” Dorian reaches out to touch his cheek and Darva doesn't pull away, but puts his hand over his. His thumb strokes across Darva’s cheek, fine shiny white likes barely there, marring the tattoos.

“You’ve seen me get into worse trouble back in the Inquisition, need I remind you.” Darva chides, a barely there smile turning his cheeks to dimples. A small reassurance, but they are worth their weight in gold to Dorian.

Dorian stares up at him for a long moment and Darva squeezes his hand, a reminder in his touch and in his voice.

“I love you.” He speaks softly. “Remember, they cannot take it.”

[impossible-rat-babies]

I picked another comm of my boy Darva and Dorian reading together from the wonderful @pegaeae, who is a fantastic person and great to work with! Thank you so much!

[impossible-rat-babies]

For DADWC! How about "Relic, Wild, Chest" for Darva and Dorian?

Relic, Wild, Chest | Darva x Dorian | 1203 words 

For @dadrunkwriting!

–

The uphill climb burned in Darva’s knees, ankles and hips and he came to a stop, his legs trembling underneath of him. He breathed deep and harsh through his nose, swallowing despite his dry throat. His back ached and he squinted his eyes shut, shoulder’s heaving with breaths. Ahead, Cassandra and Vivienne had already made it up the steep slope, Dorian not far behind them. For once it was Darva who was falling behind, not Dorian and his endless complaints. 

There was some supposed elvish relic or hidden temple in the wild forests not far from the Emerald Graves, but they had found neither hair nor hide of such a place. Instead they had only found buckets and buckets of Red Templars, which had to have meant they were on the right track to something at least. Darva sucked in a deep, sharp breath, pain radiating out of his chest to grasp his ribcage in a death grip, seizing his chest. His lungs protested the sharp cramping, but the pain paralyzed any breath he needed to take. 

His knuckles turned white and he groaned through his teeth, counting the seconds as best he could. His vision was hazy behind his eyes and he could almost feel himself faltering when the pain eased enough for him to take a gasping breath. He cursed and sucked down deep breaths, his knees shaking.

Darva had passed off the blow from the templar earlier, saying it was nothing. At least it had felt that way at the time. It had been a sharp punch directly to the chest, but that was what his breastplate was for. But even with that, the blow had knocked his breath away something fierce and sent him stumbling back; he caught himself and charged back in, not minding the pain even after the adrenaline of the fight had gone. But it had been several hours of the cramping pain coming and going, each one worst than the last, leaving him little doubt something more was going on. That time hadn’t been the first time he had seen stars, but he doubted it would be the last. It was only going to get worse, but they couldn’t stop the trek here. There were no safe places to rest with the trees so dense and they had no idea what could be hiding around the corner. 

He would just have to grin and bear it.

Dorian paused near the top of the hill looked down, spotting Darva hunched over at the bottom. That didn’t look good and it wasn’t like Darva to get so winded easily. He carefully picked  his way back down the loose stone slope and Darva looked up, spotting him.

“What’s wrong?” Darva asked and he coughed to clear his throat. Dorian came to a stop in front of him, resting his hands on his shoulders. He had seen his trembling legs all the way from the top of the hill and he could feel it even now.

“I was getting worried, you know. Didn’t know if the hill would beat you or not.” Dorian spoke and Darva managed a chuckle, his face growing pale.

“Nah, I just needed a brief moment to catch my breath.” Darva spoke, voice faltering for a moment. Dorian watched his eyes grow glassy and roll back in his head. That was all the warning he got before Darva went limp as a rag doll, legs giving out from under him.

“Whoa!” 

Dorian quickly scooped him up under his arms, pulling him close to stop him from falling back and taking a nasty tumble down the rest of the hill. “Cassandra!” Dorian shouted up the hill and it took only a moment for her to come sliding down next to him, confusion riddling her face at the predicament.

“What happened?!”

“Let’s get him up the hill and we’ll find out. Maker’s breath…” Dorian urged her and she easily took his limp body over her shoulder, grunting at the effort. Her hand settled against his side, easily feeling his shallow, fast paced breaths that were nowhere near normal. She swallowed down any sort of burn from the weight of him and climbed up the hill.

“What happened?!” Vivienne quickly spoke as Dorian came up the hill, Cassandra not far behind.

“He isn’t breathing right.” Cassandra spoke, easily setting him down to start pulling apart his armor. Vivienne quickly crouched down beside her, helping to pull away the layers. His coat came off first, tossed to the side as the straps on his breastplate slipped off next.

Dorian’s mind raced through the past few hours, trying to think of exactly what could have happened to cause it. It could have been any number of things: the long hike they had been on, any number of the fights that had happened in the meantime. Anything could have happened to cause the change. It certainly didn’t help that Darva would’ve kept the pain to himself, stubborn man. 

He worried his lip as fast as his mind, but then he easily remembered: the Templar knight that had struck him earlier. Landed him directly in the chest, sent him reeling back, but he had picked himself back up without a second thought. A nasty blow like that was going to hurt, leave some damage behind. But Darva had shrugged it off like it was nothing, like he was going to be peachy.

Obviously he had been far from such.

But, surely enough as Cassandra pulled open his shirt and undid his undershirt, a blooming mass of deep purple and pink decorated his sternum and across his breasts. It had only been hours since that fight and to have something bloom up that quick had to have issues lingering beneath.

Dorian’s hands clenched tightly around his staff and he didn’t know whether to curse Darva for being such a stubborn man or curse the one who had given it to him.

“Vivienne?” He asked and her hands already weaved with pale green magic, eyes full of concentration, wrinkling in thought.

“I can soothe the bruising, but he will need a healer to see how bad the damage is.” She spoke smoothly and easily, placing her hands against his chest. The soft light faded, disappearing in thin lines underneath his skin into his skin. The tinge of purples and pinks faded where the light touched, the bruising receding, but not all of it disappeared.

“Where’s the next camp from here?” Dorian asked.

“A few hours north.” Cassandra answered as she busied herself fixing his shirt. His breathing was much calmer, a steady beat compared to the panicked rush earlier. “I do not imagine Darva waking soon. We’ll have to carry him.”

“Can you manage?” Dorian asked as she finished putting together his armor, simply slipping the jacket back over his shoulders. Cassandra grunted, pulling Darva up onto her shoulders, adjusting his limp body. She glanced back at Dorian, quirking her lips into a line that was either out of doubt of him questioning her abilities or out of worry. The worry certainly had Dorian…worrying.

“I will have to make it due.” She concluded simply with a sharp nod, starting their trek back up again.

[impossible-rat-babies]

Writing Snippet #42

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Repercussions of the confrontation with Halward leave bigger issues than intended or thought of before between Dorian and Darva.

cw; vague brief mentions of past abuse, misgendering | 2643 words | Angst | Darva x Dorian, pre-relationship

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Darva twisted his ankle briefly, chewing his lips as he tried to get the leather of the new shoes to flex a little. It wasn’t quite keen on budging just yet. They were ones he picked out himself and hadn’t stopped wearing since; he never thought it was preposterous to wear what he desired around Skyhold—his own home essentially. He gave up for the moment and tapped his toes against the stone and made his way up the library stairs, sliding briefly aside as a messenger passed him by. He chewed his lip, slipping the reports into as much of an organized fashion as he could with his inability to read.

He heaved a sigh and spotted Dorian in his nook, half slouched into the chair with his ankles folded, a book propped up in his lap. Darva left the reports on his designated table and he turned to the man, watching nimble fingers flip pages. He was oddly quiet and Darva tried to ignore the automatic panic bells at the silence--a long and regrettable conditioned response. He was used to a “hello” or some acknowledgement from the man and, lately, smiles that even rose to his eyes.

This time he had nothing.

“I trust you’re feeling better?” Darva inquired gently since he knew better than to assume he was fine or that he was alright.

The day in the tavern was still fresh in his mind and so was the conversation within that nook once they had returned not a week earlier. Dorian had seen fit to drown himself into a morose puddle of alcohol and Darva had stayed beside him. Not out of pity or to watch him, but because he had invited him. And he needed a friend; Darva knew well how one friend close by could make a world of difference. After that it seemed to have returned to normal, but Darva knew it would take a long time—if ever—for Dorian to feel anything close to better or okay when it came to his father.

A feeling Darva knew better than he felt he could admit on certain days.

“A bit.” Dorian answered as he turned the page and Darva took the embroidered hem of his sash in his hand and nodded, running his thumb over the raised lines.

“If you require anything, I’m here. Not as the Inquisitor, but as a...a friend.” Darva stumbled briefly over the words before he collected himself again, picking a chapped lip. Dorian gave an idle nod and Darva turned, but stopped and turned back.

“I left the reports on your table to go over at your convenience...” He added and Dorian gave a quick nod that only set more warning bells off in Darva’s head. He swallowed and he turned to leave, the sound of his clicking shoes far too loud on the stone.

“Inquisitor.” Dorian spoke before he got too far away and this time Darva knew the warning bells weren’t an exaggeration; his ears flicked and turned in response before they smoothed his expression to curiosity, hiding away the fear. Dorian was rare now to use his title and his tone was nothing but crisp with an edge of hidden anger? Or was it disappointment? He was too good at picking out tone like that.

Darva turned back on his heel, walking the few paces to the bookshelf beside the nook.

“Yes?” Darva asked smoothly--a well aged and practiced gesture--and Dorian idly put his book upon the stack next to the chair.

“When were you going to tell me?” He asked and Darva’s blood froze, his heart pounding his ears as panic clouded his thoughts. He searched Dorian’s eyes and the man only looked at him with his brow half cocked, something accusatory or angry hidden there. It made his gut twist sharply and he quickly looked away, regretting looking too hard into his face. That was a bad...that was a bad…that was a bad...

“Tell you what?” The answer came out faster than he thought it would have, sliding the mantra away.

“You...encouraged me to talk to my father.” He continued and Darva let him, foot tapping and fingers twitching behind his back. “You said that I shouldn’t leave it or I wouldn’t forgive myself. Well, I was speaking with Ashby not the other day and she asked me how things had gone in Redcliffe.” His voice was smooth and flawless and it made Darva’s stomach twist to near pain, throat swelling.

“Ashby is one to express concern. It’s in her blood.” Darva spoke with a forced chuckle and Dorian only replied with a nod.

“She did however tell me that she wished you and your mother could do much of the same.”

Darva didn’t say anything as it felt like a bucket of ice water dumped across his body. He couldn’t feel his fingers nor the toes in his new boots, only the pounding in his head and chest with the lump in his throat. He was frozen in place, watching as Dorian waited expectantly for an answer. Darva swallowed back the sting resting in his nose and he pinched his hand hard.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He didn’t have any of them to speak and no justification would work.

It wasn’t different from Dorian’s situation.

It wasn’t something that Darva would get around to.

It was pure hypocrisy and Dorian knew it.

“We’re not the same people, Dorian.” He reminded him with much more solidity in his voice than he thought he could muster, juggling between the thirty year old man he stood now and the sixteen year old girl hiding away from her mother.

“You’re calling yourself a coward and a hypocrite then?” Dorian accused and Darva’s ears curled against his head, unable to bite back his words like a caged animal being provoked.

“As if you’re free of those sins.” He remarked bitterly and Dorian waved his hand.

“But yet you push the resolution onto me.” Dorian shot back and Darva knew where this was going and he was putting his foot down.

“No.” He spoke quickly and coldly before Dorian could add on. “No, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“Then now else should I read it, Inquisitor? It looks like some of it might be posturing on your behalf to gain some sort of...satisfaction of resolution with your own failed relationship—“

“I did it because I’m your friend!!” Darva raised his voice above Dorian’s, his voice cracking at the volume and the lump in his throat. He held back the tears that had crept in from his nose and dared not let them sting; he didn’t need to look as if he was throwing a pity party for himself over what Dorian had said. It was about him, not himself.

“I did it because you—and only yourself—deserve a chance to have reconciliation on your own terms. What I said back there was encouragement from a friend since you appeared to be lost in how to deal with what was presented before you.” He sniffed quickly, anchoring himself to the steady beat of the words--how they tasted, how they felt. “I apologize if you weren’t ready for that and I forced you into that. I apologize for giving off the impression that I was seeking atonement for my own lost relationship through yours because nothing could be further from the truth.” He spoke quietly, his voice as even and level as he could muster.

Silence passed between them; enough to fill the space between them and then some.

Darva knew apologies meant little and the intention mattered more; still, he had forgotten to speak of such things and was feeling the repercussions. Nothing less than he deserved for failing to bring it up, but that was a quiet thought to bury deep down.

But such was the way things went, even if the growing divide from the silence between them was like a painful burning in his chest.

“Simple as that?” Dorian spoke, his own voice much more dejected than Darva had thought. 

“It is all I have to offer to you as an apology.” Darva’s voice sounded solemn and he looked up to see Dorian crossing his arms with a sigh through his nose, eyes sliding down to the floor.

“What happened with my relationship,” Darva began again to try and give the man more, “is my own matter and I will not drag it into affairs that are not my own. I realize how that may come off as hypocritical, but such is the fact of the matter. It is all I have.” His held his hands out briefly before they dropped to his sides at his sides, waiting for Dorian.

Dorian didn’t speak, his expression smooth and practiced in the face of what they had said before he casted his gaze away, turning on his heel back to the shelf. Darva cleared his throat, taking the silence as his cue to leave.

“I’ll be taking my leave.” He mumbled and turned for the stairs without a word. Silence suffocated the air around him, trapping him and making his eyes sting and his breath too short in his lungs, pain filling them inside.

He knew what drowning felt like and this...this was somehow worse.

He waded through the puddles of it back to his room, the floodgates opening as he closed the door behind him. The tears ran races down his cheeks and he sank to a heap at the door, sobs he didn’t dare let slip from his mouth. That meant she would come, tell him to stop--tell him he was being a selfish little girl. What would her father think to see her cry like that? For all the bad she had done?

It was nothing less than he deserved; the only thing he had left to give.

-- Darva sat alone upon the couch in his quarters, the furniture pulled up close to the fireplace to calm the cold the windows failed to protect against. His foot was tucked under his thigh, his other leg swaying to a gentle tune he sung to himself in the quiet. He lifted his shirt closer to the light, running his thumb over the seam before he sighed out of his nose, content with the fix. He pulled the needle from the thread and artfully tied the last of it off, breaking the last bit of thread off with a sharp yank. He tossed the garment onto the armrest and picked up a pair of pants from his other side, easily finding the rip in these ones. He briefly took an orange slice from the small plate and ate it, chewing as practiced eyes pulled matching thread from a basket. He easily cut the length he needed, his hands slipping the thread into the needle with years of practiced ease. He tied the end of the thread off with a few simple knots, examining it before he quickly got to work repairing the tear. How they got there was beyond him most days.

He huffed to himself, chewing on his lip. He hadn’t spoken to Dorian in five days now, but the argument still laid fresh in his head. He knew it would be best to be the better man and take himself down there and apologize for his actions and say that he was wrong for ever making the assumption to make a choice for Dorian. He was the one in the wrong in every single way, all his fault and his mistake--

He roughly yanked and the thread snapped, tearing the fabric even worse. He stared down at the needle and thread in his head, taking in how his hands shooks and his breath rolled fast from his mouth. Those were not his words; he knew well the harshness of that self critique she had grown in him, encouraging it with each transgression.

He took a deep breath, settling his hands to pull the old thread out.

His ear flickered at the sound of the door below opening and he cursed under his breath.

“If one of the advisors requires my attention, they can come and find me themselves.” He droned on, not bothering to look up even with the footsteps on the stairs.

“Not quite who you were expecting, I’m afraid.”

Darva lifted his gaze and Dorian reached the top of the stairs, lingering there rather than crossing the distance between them. Darva’s ears raised curiously and he cleared his throat briefly, trying to keep his throat clear this time.

“What do you need?” He inquired, unsure if his name was too informal or if his title was too formal.

Dorian cleared his throat, pausing briefly even though Darva knew he wasn’t a man to hesitate or have difficulties speaking his mind. All the more important… “I must apologize.” He spoke first and the sewing dropped to Darva’s lap, hands folding on top of it. “For being presumptuous when you came to see me the other day. It was uncalled for—“

“Dorian.” Darva cut him off and he paused long enough for him to speak. “I don’t want to hear an apology from a man when his reasons were justified.” Dorian gave a pause long enough for Darva to continue, regardless if he wanted it or not.

“You were upset for good reason and I did not have a justification worthy of saying for what you were accusing me of. I still do not have a reason that will be worth it to you or me.” He finished speaking and Dorian crossed his arms, huffing out of the side of his lip which twitched his mustache.

“You’re utterly terrible.” Dorian groaned and Darva’s ear bent curiously, the seriousness of his tone having disappeared.

“What?” He asked, not feeling brave enough to joke, an eyebrow raising in hesitant curiosity.

“I had built myself an apology and everything; no simple task, but I had done it. But here you are: taking all the blame yourself.” Dorian explained and clicked his tongue.

“As I should.” Darva reminded him and Dorian heaved a sigh, finally walking towards him. Darva’s fingers knitted into the fabric of the pants he was repairing briefly before the anxiety eased and he sat back against the couch as Dorian sat on the opposite side. Neither brave enough to scoot closer.

“Regardless, you’re terrible for ruining my apology to you by taking the blame once again.” Dorian huffed and Darva chuckled weakly, looking away at the fire.

“Should I take blame for that as well?” He asked and Dorian scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“It’ll never end if we keep it up.” Dorian grimaced and Darva let out a soft, almost genuine laugh.

“Whatever shall we do about it?” Darva asked and Dorian sighed, wiggling his fingers as he waved his hand.

“But...” Darva spoke quietly before he didn’t have the time or place to say it, “I am sorry for what happened Dorian. Honest.”  Darva watched his face Dorian swung between making a joke and replying honestly, lips quirking in a way Darva has already learned. Too observant for his own good.

“Thank you, Darva. It wasn’t what I intended by far, but it is something.” He admitted honestly and Darva smiled softly...for real this time.

“I still think you’re very brave.” He replied in earnest and Dorian hummed. “Will the wonders of you never cease?” He asked in jest as Darva laughed, his cheeks flushing in happiness.

“If you continue to underestimate me, then you’ll always be surprised.” He teased and Dorian laughed. The first real laugh he’d heard from the man in a long time. Darva’s ears redden from blush and he half smiled as a strange feeling stirred deep in his chest.