#14daysofdalovers

[elvhenfaer]

14 Days of DA Lovers

1. Hart

This was actually a drawing I was working on before I saw the prompts list and, let’s be honest, that’s the only reason it’s done on time. One of the things that happens in my fic is that Til makes Dorian ride a Hart and Dorian takes to him. It’s a Red Hart named Ghilana but they call him Gil.

@14daysdalovers

[emotionalwarmth]

@14daysdalovers 10 - Captured "Ir abelas. I cannot let you stop me."

[noire-pandora]

DAY 1: Flirty Banter

Ahhhh, here we go, my favourite DA event is here. I’m so happy I can join for a second time. You can find the prompt list here.  Thank you for this fun event.

Here’s my Solavellan take on the prompt Flirty Banter. For @14daysdalovers​ You can also find it on Ao3, if you feel like leaving a kudo/comment. 

"Iron Bull," Solas began as silence settled over the camp, "how do your people put on shirts?"

Elluin snorted, the bowl she held on her knees dangling dangerously and a few drops of the hot stew staining her trousers.

Bull gave her a sidelong glance, but shrugged, holding his spoon halfway to his mouth. "We don't, usually," he blew into the hot stew before slurping it carefully so as not to burn his lips. "It's pretty hot where we're from."

"Don't tell me you run around half-naked all the time," Elluin interjected. "Maybe I should visit Par Volen more often."

She winked at Bull and a shit-eating grin spread across her face, eager for his response. This game of words between her and Bull always brought a smile to her face and pulled her out of the shadow of fear that followed her every step of the way.

"You don't have to move there, Boss," he said, abandoning the stew on the ground and flexing his arms. "I'm here."

A ripple of laughter rang out in the forest, and with it came the warmth Elluin craved after two days of trekking through mud and rain. Bull always knew what to say to bring back the cheerfulness she had lost on the road. She slurped the last drops of the stew and smacked her lips contentedly.

"I am still waiting for an answer," Solas murmured, and for a second he reminded her of a pouting child whose questions are ignored by adults.

"Right, sorry, Solas." Bull continued, '' I can get into anything with a loose collar. Just gotta ease one horn through and then angle it up."

"That sounds like a pain," Elluin commented. "No wonder you don't wear one. And here I was thinking you wanted to show off your muscles."

Solas tsked, as if annoyed by Elluin's remark. She giggled with amusement. Teasing the man had gone from an anger-inducing event to a delightful activity lately.

"There's a term for getting caught unprepared that translates to "running around with clothing stuck on your horns," Bull said, as if to relieve the tension between them.

"Colourful," Solas smiled at Bull, the joy of a new realisation written on every line of his face.

In Solas' eyes, Elluin recognised the same giddiness that touched her soul when he spoke of the stories found in the Fade. She frowned, for the information Bull shared sounded like something that would interest her or Varric, but not the mysterious apostate who preferred the company of spirits.

"You're so strange, Solas," she found herself saying, her mouth opening without a second thought.

"Excuse me?" he retorted, frowning, and the smile melted from his face like spring in summer.

Bull's eyebrows lifted, an unspoken question hidden in them. He and several others suspected the reason behind Elluin's growing affection for the elf, and this sudden affirmation contradicted the secret they hid from Solas.

Elluin winked at Bull before looking back at Solas with her head tilted to the right. "Just when I thought I knew how your mind worked, you ask that question. I never suspected you'd be interested in how Qunari dress. Strange, indeed."

He huffed. "I am merely curious. If you find my curiosity strange, then you do not know me at all."

Elluin saw Bull mouthing something that looked like what are you doing? as Solas looked down at his bowl and avoided her insistent gaze, but she shrugged in a gesture that beckoned him to wait.

She hummed and tapped her lips with a finger. "You got it wrong, Solas." Her voice wavered between a whisper and a purr. "I like strange. Strange excites me."

Solas' head jerked up so quickly that Elluin feared for the integrity of his neck muscles. His lips parted as if words waited to be released, but to her disappointment he said nothing, staring instead at finger pressed against the self-satisfied smirk playing across her red lips.

Driven by the desire to see the pink blush that tinged his freckled cheeks from time to time, Elluin captured her finger between her teeth and bit the fingernail as the grin widened.

The blush followed more quickly than Elluin had expected, and with it she hoped for a smart remark to follow, a sentence uttered in a low, husky tone that would send a shiver down her spine.

"Is that so?" The spark of playfulness, so rare and precious, emerged in the grey of his eyes, promising to give her what she desired. "You flatter me, Inquisitor. If you crave excitement, I am more than happy to provide it."

A giggle rushed through her lips as soon as the words reached her ears, and with it a wave of heat rose from her belly up to her cheeks.

"You two need some time alone? I can go," Bull commented, breaking through the lure of the moment. Elluin startled as she found herself drawn to the stormy grey of his eyes.

"Are you jealous, Iron Bull?" To Elluin's disappointment, Solas turned to face him.

"Nah, I know I can't compete with you, Fade Walker."

"Now, now, Bull," Elluin laughed, watching Solas out of the corner of her eye. "You're strange in your own way."

What Bull replied went over her head as she started back at Solas, following the now fading blush from the tip of his ear down the sharp line of his jaw to his neck, where it disappeared beneath his tunic.

Eluin gulped when her mouth watered as her imagination ran wild. The need of Solas to provide other methods of excitement spread like wildfire through every fibre of her being.

One day, she thought, wrestling her mind back to the present. One day, when we're both ready.

Until then, she would have to settle for flirting.

[theharellan]

Prompt: Stolen Glances Pairing: Solas x nb!Lavellan (he/him)

@14daysdalovers

Ian laughs and the campfire flutters, spitting errant embers into the air as Solas’ heart settles. His eyes turn from their watch, disregarding his duty to steal a glimpse of the lingering humour that quirks the corners of Ian’s smile. The sight draws heat to Solas’ cheeks, colouring them a gentle pink he hopes the midwinter winds will explain.

But it is Ian who succumbs to their chill, first. In spite of the fire blazing before them, he shivers, shaking like a dog emerging from water.  “Are you cold?”

“There’s snow on the ground,” Ian says. “It’s more remarkable— it’s more— are you not?”

A mildly amused snort escapes his lips in a puff of condensation. “Sit closer,” he suggests, gesturing to the empty space between them. “You might find it more comfortable.”

There is a look of incredulity in Ian’s eyes, but he relents, edging along the log until a finger’s gap lay between them. Knees knock together as they aim towards the fire then bow apart, fumbling. The scent of creation, the rain that helps the flowers grow, lingers upon Ian’s sleeves. A memory of a spell coaxed through the Veil he tries not to breathe too deeply. Appreciating Ian’s company in ways beyond the conversations they keep feels like a bridge too far— an indulgence he ought not to allow himself (even as his eyes move to their corners to look at him).

They glance first to his lips, teeth drawn over them, pressing lightly down to mitigate how they rattle. He sees a thought gleam in downcast eyes, cheeks burning a heated red beneath his freckles.

Their eyes meet, and it’s Solas who falters first, gaze falling to his lap before lifting to scan the darkening horizon, remembering there is ample excuse to look elsewhere.

“Is that better?”

Ian nods wordlessly, the apple of his throat bobbing up and down as he swallows hard.

Shoulders brush then settle together, but not with the simple familiarity of friends. Every square inch they rest against one another is drawn into sharp focus, the easy slope of his shoulders belies a mind that quickly outpaces itself.

“Good.”

The fire at their feet kindles, heat snapping the wood with every skipped heartbeat.

[fairfaxleasee]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Free prompt entry for @14daysdalovers using “What would you do if I kissed you right now” with my FenHawke ship.  

Thanks to @bevosgirl and @xqueen0fhellx for betaing.

[oftachancer]

Day 13: Love Marks (14 Days of DA Lovers)

The lazy patterns of fingertips roving his back roused him even as they played a tactile lullaby upon his flesh. “Good morning,” Dorian murmured; he tested the whole truth of that statement by opening one eye. The light through the casement was that gray feather softness that could have been early morning or snow-flocked afternoon in the winter-cloaked southern city. The sort of light that found one lost in timelessness. In that light, Tristan was alabaster; firm nearly-white planes of muscle honed by loving chisels and hammers into a miracle of smooth velvet over stone. His hair rumpled from sleep looked like spun sugar, wildly tangible and intoxicatingly edible.

Tristan blinked slowly, cat-like, no more pleased at the prospect of waking than Dorian himself, a frown playing at his lips as he studied Dorian’s back.

“All well?”

“Hmm,” Tristan hummed, a nasal sigh, playing gentle chords upon his person with calloused fingertips. “Puzzle.”

“What is?”

“Quod spirat tenera malum mordente puella;” Tristan sounded the words slowly, imperfect, and Dorian felt a slow-rolling catch in his chest.

“You’re hungry?”

Tristan’s eyes, sharp as cut sapphires, flicked to meet his. “So it is Tevene. I thought it was.”

“What is?” he asked again, amused.

The fingers tapped lightly down the length of his spine. “Quod de Corycio quae venit aura croco.”

He dabbed his tongue to his lips, fighting a tremulous, too revealing sigh. “Oh?”

“Vinea quod primis floret cum cana racemis.”

Dorian shivered, skimming his own fingertips over Tristan’s clavicle; the air suddenly bright as it touched his palate, the words caressing his mind as surely as Tristan caressed his skin.

“Gramina quod redolent quae modo carpsit ovis.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, turning away to rest his other cheek against the pillow. Was one supposed to feel their heart so clearly? The gentle tripping cadence of it? The language of his homeland on the lips of his lover. His lover, who, only the night before, had been slick with sweet sweat; earth and spice, as he was describing. Dorian and the lover he had shared again. Three times now, they’d succumbed. Three times three. Once could be a happy error in judgment, easily brushed aside. Twice was amusement, for the sake of memory. Thrice… three times was dangerously close to becoming a habit.

“Quod myrtis, quod messor Arabs, quod sucina trita, Pallidus Eoo ture quod ignis olet…”

On fire was right. Vacillating between warmth and searing heat. Pleasant, oh, very pleasant certainly, but he couldn’t help wondering what it meant. It was far too early for thoughts like that- if he should have them at all. But watching them together, his thoughtful lover laughing and cavorting with his decadent hedonist accomplice while Dorian looked on. Touched. Tasted. Allowed himself to be drawn into and between them like thread into their loom.

“Gleba quod aestivo leviter cum spargitur imbre, Quod madidas nardo passa corona comas…”

“Tristan…” Dorian murmured, heart tight, turning again to watch Tristan’s lips move over unfamiliar words; he brushed his thumb over one pale, beautiful nipple until it began to pink and tighten. “What-“

“Hoc tua, saeve puer Diadumene, basia fragrant. Quid si tota dares illa sine invidia?”

His fingers stilled. Tristan lifted one pale brow without effect. Genuinely curious. “It isn’t that simple,” he whispered.

“What?”

Dorian searched his eyes. “When did you start studying Tevene anyway?”

“About a month ago.” His cheeks warmed in the morning light. Afternoon? Evening? “What does it mean? What I just read?”

“Read?”

“On your back.”

“On my…” Dorian frowned, sitting up on his elbows to peer over his shoulder to see in the mirror. Words scrawled, calligraphic, across his back in black marker. “What in Thedas?”

“I should have warned you…” Tristan smiled in the reflection, kissing his shoulder. “Aran has a thing about drawing on people.” He turned onto his stomach and eyed his own back in the mirror, similar handwriting scrawled across his shoulders and cascading down his spine. More Tevene.

Ask him to read your shoulders to you, my friend. He’s been working on improving his pronunciation and it would mean a lot to him for you to tell him he’s coming along. You mean a lot to him. I don’t know if he’s told you. Sometimes it’s hard for him to speak the things that mean the most. Sometimes I think I see you worrying about that, so I thought I’d be a pain in the ass and tell you, just in case. This is nice, eh? Hope you enjoy the poem. You smell really good. Wish I could stay. You’re both bloody beautiful.

“Only a month?” Dorian spoke slowly. Carefully. “You have an excellent grasp of the pronunciations.”

Tristan flushed, resting his cheek on his folded arms as Dorian traced the note. “Really?”

“Truly. It is... an unexpected pleasure to hear my mother tongue from your lips.” He watched goosebumps raise beneath his fingers, texturing text. “You didn’t have to trouble yourself.”

“It’s no trouble. I want to learn to speak your language.” Tristan’s gaze slipped shyly away. ‘You mean a lot to him,’ the words flexed as he moved. “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Very much so.”

“Good,” he breathed. “Good. So what does it say?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Dorian smoothed golden hair from the back of Tristan’s neck and kissed the tender skin there.

“...it’s not a dirty limerick, is it?” he asked, suspicious.

“No.”

“What does it say then?”

“Your boyfriend wanted us to know that we smell good.”

Tristan laughed. “In as verbose a way as possible, I guess?”

“He is certainly… periphrastic.”

“There’s a word. Remember when you thought he was quiet?” Tristan glanced up, eyes dancing. “You can never trust a linguistics major to keep things simple.”

Not simple, Dorian thought. No. But clear. He was beginning to have a great deal of clarity where he’d been confused before.

———What’d the Latin Say?———

A poem by Marcus Valerius Martialis, 1CE (translated by me and Google, interpreted/interfered with by me):

That breath of an apple when a young girl bites into it;

The perfumed effluence that comes with saffron;

The first vines, in the spring, blooming with clusters of new flowers;

The grass, sweet-scented, newly nibbled by a lamb;

The odor of myrtle, of the Arab spice, blended with

Pale eastern frankincense, on fire;

Or lightly sprinkling summer rains on freshly turned soil beneath

The crown of your hair slicked, aromatic, with muskroot...

As all these, your kisses, boy Diadumenus, are fragrant.

How much sweeter if you were to give them without embarrassment?

[paraparadigm]

14 Days of DA Lovers: Napping Together

@scharoux​ @14daysofdalovers​

A stab at Josie/Blackwall :)

The beast of burden labors through the snow, and the cart lurches from side to side, jostling them around. If there’s an end to the blighted Frostbacks, Blackwall has yet to see it, so he anchors himself, his muscles tensed to compensate for the cart’s rocking. Outside their makeshift cover of hides and furs, the frost is deep and blue and ringing with its own brittleness.

His beard is clumped with icicles — or “beardcicles”, as Sera calls them — and his eyes water from the cold, and Maker only knows if he still has his toes, because he hasn’t felt the sodding things for the last hour.

Then again, his arse could be frozen to the bench, and bits of him could start snapping off at the edges, and he likely wouldn’t notice — or care, for that matter. He has no good word for the warmth coiling in his chest, tiny and tender — like tucking a wounded bird into your shirt until you can get it someplace where it might weather the winter.

The Ambassador is slumped against his shoulder, her eyes closed, her eyelashes fluttering slightly with the movements of dreaming eyes. If he turns his head, he can catch the scent of her hair, some exotic oil she uses to smooth it, rich with cinnamon and summer and a hint of blue seas — and he chides himself for his flights of fancy, because if ever there was a bloke too old and too used up for poetic embellishments, he’d be hard pressed to find one.

A strand of silver weaves through her locks — and the newness of it leaves him tight with an impotent, directionless sorrow and the hollow realization of his own insufficiency.

All he can do is offer her a shoulder to rest her head. It’s not nearly enough — but it’s what he can give.

[johaerys-writes]

Day Eight: Patching Up

For day 8 of @scharoux‘s @14daysofdalovers, featuring my OC Inky Tristan Trevelyan, @oftachancer‘s OC Inky Aran Trevelyan and Dorian! Set in the as yet untitled Modern AU we’ve been working on :)

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

“It’s too tight.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

“Not this tight,” Tristan grunted. “It doesn’t fit.”

“It will if you push a little harder.”

“No, it won’t. I’m telling you, it’s the wrong size.”

Aran glanced at him over the instructions in his hands. He leaned forward, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Hmm. This doesn’t look right.”

“See?” Tristan said, sitting back down on the floor. “I told you it’s the wrong size.”

“Did you use screw A or screw B?”

“Screw B. Like you told me to.”

“No, I didn’t. I said screw A.”

Tristan glared at him, then at the multitude of screws that had come with the unassembled armchair parts. “Aran. You said screw B.”

“No, I didn’t! The instructions were clear; ‘Insert screw A into hole 1 with pozi screwdriver, then tighten until secure’, yeah? I know what I read.”

Tristan huffed in exasperation, rubbing the back of his neck. “Remind me why we are doing this?”

“Because our old armchair broke and we needed a new one?”

“Right. And why did we buy this one, instead of that other one I showed you that would have come pre-assembled?

“What, that plush one with the velvet covering? That cost a blighted fortune!”

“I told you I was happy to pay for it,” Tristan said quietly.

Aran gave him a soft smile, sliding off the couch to sit next to him on the floor. “I know you were. But you won’t be the only one using it. It’s only fair that we all pay for things we use. Besides, Sera and Cole wanted to chip in, too. You know they wouldn’t be able to afford the most expensive armchair in the shop, even if they only paid part of it.”

Tristan sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, mate.” Aran reached up, brushing Tristan’s hair behind his ear. “It was a really pretty chair.”

“It was.”

“Perfect for fucking.”

“That, too.” Tristan smiled mischievously, fingers skimming Aran’s thigh. “Want to test this one out?”

“Was that a serious question?” Aran grinned at him, leaning forward to brush his lips over Tristan’s ear, catching his earlobe between his teeth. “But we’ll have to assemble it first.” He scooted back, reaching for the paper with the instructions once more. “Right. So. Here is the right screw, and… I believe this is the right screwdriver,” he said, pointing inside the toolbox next to Tristan. “After that, we’ll drill a couple holes for the legs, and that’s it! Easy as pie, yeah?”

Tristan nodded half heartedly, picking up the screwdriver. “If you say so.”

After what felt like at least a couple hours, Tristan sat back on his heels, examining his work. “How does it look?” he said, brushing a hint of sweat from his brow.

Aran frowned as he glanced at the armchair before them, then at the picture of the armchair in the instructions. “Is it supposed to tilt this way?” He cocked his head to the side, moving closer. “That leg definitely doesn’t look right.”

“Well,” Tristan said, leaning back on his elbows, “it is what it is. I’m done.”

“Are you?” Aran purred, an indecent smile spreading on his lips. “Done?”

Heat blossomed in Tristan’s chest with the look in his bright blue eyes. He reached out, fingers sliding under his T-shirt as he drew him towards him. “What time is Sera coming back?” he whispered before catching his lips in a kiss.  

“She’ll be staying at Lace’s today. And Cole will be at the library until late,” Aran replied, pulling his T-shirt over his head. Their mouths parted only for a moment before he surged forward again, kissing and licking and nipping at Tristan’s bottom lip. “We have the flat to ourselves all day. We can fuck anywhere we want.”

“We already do that,” Tristan chuckled, pulling at his belt.

“But we won’t have anyone walk in on us like last time, yeah? Lace was red to the tips of her ears after seeing us in the kitchen the other day. Sera was ready to bite my head off. Said she would move in with Lace permanently if we don’t keep it in our pants.”

“Oh.” Tristan frowned, tilting his head up as Aran kissed the underside of his jaw. “She’s one to talk. It’s not like her girlfriends have ever been particularly quiet. Well, except for Lace, that is. Do you know how many nights she has kept me up?”

Aran edged back, his eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Has she? I’ve never heard a thing.”

“That’s because my room is adjacent to hers, and yours isn’t. The things I’ve heard...” he shuddered. 

Aran grinned. “Nice.”

Tristan rolled his eyes, laughing. “Deviant.”

Aran chuckled as he stood up, pulling Tristan up with him and pushing him towards the armchair. “You have no idea.”

“Actually, I do,” Tristan teased, snaking an arm around Aran’s waist. The plush cushion dipped under his weight as he sat down, Aran sliding on to his lap. Tristan brought his hand up to cup Aran’s neck as they kissed, leaning back on the armchair, leaning, leaning…

“Fuck, what-” Aran managed to gasp before the back of the chair broke with a loud snap and they both rolled on the floor in a tangle of limbs. 

“Bloody fucking hell,” Tristan groaned when Aran landed heavily on his chest, an armrest digging into his back. He glanced at the mess on the floor, huffing in annoyance while Aran trembled with laughter on top of him. “Damn it, Aran, I told you that wasn’t the right screw for that hole!”

Aran pushed himself up, and shot him a toothy grin that made his ruddy flush look even brighter. “I have the right screw for your hole.”

Tristan glared at him for a moment, but Aran’s giddiness was infectious, as always. Tristan eased the armrest from under his back and pulled him down again, smiling against his lips. “You’re incorrigible.” 

“Mm-hm. That’s what you love about me, isn’t it?”

Tristan was just about to tell exactly what he loved about him, and how he planned to show it, when a knock on the door made them both freeze. “Are you expecting someone?” Aran shrugged, giving him a questioning look as he got off him, walking towards the door. “Is that how you’re going to answer the door?”

Aran glanced down at his blue and yellow dinosaur boxers, then swung about on his feet, searching for his jeans. He pulled them on hastily, the tight muscles of his back flexing and rippling under his skin as he hopped along the hallway. Tristan had just finished buttoning his own jeans when a deep, melodic voice sounded from the door. 

“Whatever are you two animals doing?”

Dorian walked inside the living room, Aran in tow. His gaze swept over the broken armchair and the scattered screws and bolts on the floor before settling on Tristan. “Hi.”

Dorian crossed his arms before his chest. “Hello. May I ask in which dark corner of your room you have left your phone again? I’ve been texting you. I finished grading early and thought we could have dinner together, but I guess you have been otherwise engaged.”

“Fuck.” Tristan bit his lip, threading a hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry, Dorian. I guess I lost track of time trying to assemble this blighted thing.”

“And being very unsuccessful at it, I assume,” Dorian said, quirking a perfectly groomed brow at him. 

“You… could say that,” Tristan said, shifting on his feet. He stole a glance at Aran, then gave Dorian a small smile. “Perhaps you could help us with it?”

Dorian blinked at him for a moment, then let out a startled laugh. “Help you? Who, me? My dear man, I’ve never had to assemble furniture in my entire life.”

“So what? If anyone can fix this, it’s you,” Aran said. He tugged at Dorian’s arm, giving him a teasing smile. “We’ll make it worth your while.”

Dorian looked from Aran to Tristan, who nodded eagerly. “We will. We promise.”

The Tevinter glanced at both of them for a moment longer, then rolled his eyes and huffed. “Very well, I’ll help you. You seem quite hopeless at this anyway. I’ll need the instruction manual, a screwdriver and a glass of wine. Red, if you have it.”

“On it,” Aran said with a grin, winking at Tristan before running to the kitchen.

**

Tristan stood in front of the armchair, admiring Dorian’s handiwork. It looked good as new, despite the fact that its back had almost snapped in two earlier, and there was definitely no tilt this time. Dorian came to stand beside him to examine his work, rolling down the sleeves of his shirt. 

“Fuckin’ A!” Aran exclaimed, sliding between the two and placing his elbows on their shoulders. “That looks fantastic, mate.”

“Of course it does. I said I’d fix it, didn’t I?” Dorian said. He picked up his glass, then strolled over to the armchair. He sat down, crossing one leg over the other, the wine in his glass swirling. “Well? You said you’d make it worth my while.”