Tag: solavellan

dreadwolfiscoming:

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fjsklafs whatttt over 500 people?! as a thank you to each and every one of you (and future you’s) i wanted to host an art giveaway!! take a look at the prizes, read the rules, and enter! 🙂

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Prizes:

  1. First Prize: A full color, soft-cell shaded, waist-up scene with up to 2 characters. 
  2. Second Prize: A full body drawing of 1-2 characters complete with color, clean lines and cell-style shading. 
  3. Third Prize: A waist-up drawing of either your ‘quiz or a companion.

Rules:

  1. Must be following me! (Hopefully you’ll stay around afterwards!)
  2. Reblog this post! If you want to like it, you do you, but I’ll only pay attention to reblabs. Multiple reblogs don’t increase your chances.
  3. One entry per person. If your main blog (the one that follows me) is different from the one that it gets reblogged on make a mention of it in your reblog, or else I won’t be able to count it!

Things of note:

  1. To keep this easy, we’ll keep it to what this blog is dedicated to, the Dragon Age: Inquisition fandom. No Origins, no DA:2. I’d love to stick in Solavellan Hell, but its not a requirement.
  2. Nothing NSFW. Kissing, romantic, intimate scenes are okay, but no nudity or illusions to any sexual acts. What you see in that first image is probably as far as I’ll take it. 🙂
  3. If you’re doing your ‘quiz, I’ll need several headshots from a couple angles to make sure I capture them correctly!
  4. I don’t do crazy armor – my poor brain just can’t work out the angles. 
  5. When the giveaway ends, I’ll contact the winners via DM. They will have 48 hours to respond, and then I’ll move on to someone else. 

Giveaway ends July 9th at 11:59 EST.

Again, thank you so much to all who are following! Love to you all!

Ooooooh more Solavellan art, me likey!

My fiancé doesn’t understand Solavellan hell

Me: Check out my new armour! Now I match my elf boyfriend.

Fiancé: Too bad your feelings don’t match.

Me: No, that’s – that’s not true, it’s complicated, but that’s not the point. Look, Solas’s armour is asymmetrical, and so is mine-

Fiancé: But he’s wearing green. You’re wearing white.

Me: I know, I wanted the dragon bone on my armour, but LOOK MY ACCENTS ARE THE SAME GREEN AS HIS, AND WE HAVE MATCHING LYRIUM STAFFS-

Fiancé: But he’s not even your boyfriend. He’s going to leave you.

Me: OMG YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND HIM GO AWAY

All New, Faded For Her

pikapeppa:

Quick and poetic Solavellan smut inspired by the anagram of All New, Faded For Her. Read on AO3 here.

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

She shifts in shades beneath his hands. Porcelain, ivory, the icy blue of Emprise, sunkissed and sandy-gold, the ever-changing colour of her skin as they move from moonlight to candlelight.

Do you like that

He traces every inch, memorizes every bruise and scrape. The marks are fleeting, not unlike the moments they spend pressed together. Sparse freckles form constellations, eternal waypoints for his curious tongue to taste.

Run your hands across my body

Salt spreading over his tongue, inviting saliva to flood his eager mouth. He presses his fingers tight, feels the firmness of her flesh beneath his fingers, pebbled nipples beneath his solid palms.

Easy, slow down, let me look at you

His head is often in the sky, his mind flitting over ancient ruins and broken memories. Pressed against her bed, her lips flit across his ear and fill his head with whispers. She brings him back, towers over him, her weight draped across his lap and holding him firmly to the ground.

All I could think about was this

She shifts in shapes beneath his hands. Curves that rival the grandest sonallia; fingers arched into dragon’s claws that scrape across his skin; angled knees and elbows and hips, a masterpiece of geometry to put the oldest dwarven thaigs to shame.

Don’t stop

Threads of her hair slide through his fingers, dark as a starless night. Her neck resists the press of his teeth. Sweat and sweetness and salt fill his lungs on every inhale. Tighten the fist, pull back and breathe her in: the sweetness is most intense just behind her ear.

Keep reading

All New, Faded For Her

Quick and poetic Solavellan smut inspired by the anagram of All New, Faded For Her. Read on AO3 here.

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

She shifts in shades beneath his hands. Porcelain, ivory, the icy blue of Emprise, sunkissed and sandy-gold, the ever-changing colour of her skin as they move from moonlight to candlelight.

Do you like that

He traces every inch, memorizes every bruise and scrape. The marks are fleeting, not unlike the moments they spend pressed together. Sparse freckles form constellations, eternal waypoints for his curious tongue to taste.

Run your hands across my body

Salt spreading over his tongue, inviting saliva to flood his eager mouth. He presses his fingers tight, feels the firmness of her flesh beneath his fingers, pebbled nipples beneath his solid palms.

Easy, slow down, let me look at you

His head is often in the sky, his mind flitting over ancient ruins and broken memories. Pressed against her bed, her lips flit across his ear and fill his head with whispers. She brings him back, towers over him, her weight draped across his lap and holding him firmly to the ground.

All I could think about was this

She shifts in shapes beneath his hands. Curves that rival the grandest sonallia; fingers arched into dragon’s claws that scrape across his skin; angled knees and elbows and hips, a masterpiece of geometry to put the oldest dwarven thaigs to shame.

Don’t stop

Threads of her hair slide through his fingers, dark as a starless night. Her neck resists the press of his teeth. Sweat and sweetness and salt fill his lungs on every inhale. Tighten the fist, pull back and breathe her in: the sweetness is most intense just behind her ear.

What are you waiting for

Every dip and crevasse is highlighted by his gaze. He stares at the bow of her lip, the blade of her cheekbone, the notch at her throat, the shallow groove at the base of her sternum, the path it traces to her navel. He follows his gaze with fingers and tongue.

Oh please, yes

Smooth and soft shift to slick and slippery as he spans the rippling landscape of her skin. His lower lip is the perfect brush for this type of canvas; he strokes from the edges of her skin towards her center and uses her honeyed juices as his paint.

Lie back, close your eyes

He tilts his head, a flash of tongue and mouth. Coax her in a certain manner, and she sings a certain note. If he plays her just right, he can hear an entire symphony.

Face me, I want to see your face

Shivering, shuddering, an earthquake against his mouth and hands. She erupts in a shower of sound and sensation and scintillating colour, vivid and vivacious, everything he failed to appreciate until she erupted into his shackled life.

Fuck me please I can’t wait anymore

Hot and gripping, no hesitation, a hand on his shoulder and a hand between his legs. She presses the pillows of her breasts against his cheek, a shameless coaxing of her own. He pulls her close to his greedy mouth, soft skin and softer flesh and a pearlescent nipple against his teeth.

Eager, aren’t you

Soft and breathless laughter sinks into his mind, a compulsion that numbs his eternal worries. Canvas becomes creator as she traces the planes of his body with her hands and mouth, and he tries to remember how to breathe; her lips spread a network of fine delicate fissures across his limbs, into his throat, through the backs of his eyes.

Now, right now, I need you

He pulls her up and ravages her luscious mouth. This mage calls to him, summons him, pulls him from the Fade like nothing else ever could. She welcomes him, a willing host clutching him in eager arms, an intoxicating press of skin to skin.

Harder, harder, oh yes please

She gasps against his cheek. Fine bones of her skull beneath his fingers, soft skin beneath his palms, insistent hips pulled tight, a pleading moan against his cheek. He soaks her in, every whimper and every scratch, every drop of sweat against his tongue and every trace of heat from that sugared spot behind her ear. With every wisp of her that he takes, he leaves a piece behind.

Ar vara prear nasan in’na ga’man tuatha

Electric, fizzling beneath his skin, pressure at the juncture where they meet and flex, a thrumming through his limbs, it feels like magic but so much more: solid, so solid, this is real, did anything ever have any substance before her, he can’t remember now, forgetting everything except the woman twined in his arms.

Right there – that’s it – yes –

Fracturing, shattering, their pieces meld and meet, his jaw clenching so hard he hears the grinding of his teeth. He grips her nape, breathes in her lips, falls into the depths of her shining eyes.

Everything. I want everything. I want every part of you

The shuddering tension of her arms clutching him close. Her nose burrowing against his throat, seeking the same scent that he stole so happily from the crook of her neck. Her lips pour words into his ear, words of adoration he shouldn’t take, but her heated body is a shield deflecting the guilt he knows he should feel. He buries his face in her neck until he can’t see or breathe, can’t taste or feel or smell anything but her. He brushes his words against her skin, a fine layer of love that will crystallize and coalesce over time.

Lathan na, vhenan

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

Elvhen phrases, thanks to @fenxshiral:

– Ar vara prear nasan in’na ga’man tuatha = I leave a piece of my soul with you every time we join
– Lathan na = another way to say ‘I love you’

Solavellan Fluff: Flower Crown

Read here on AO3. 

Solas holds the veilfire torch high and peers curiously around at the gloom in the hidden cave. Vivienne and the Iron Bull stand ready as well while Elia crouches beside the chest. Solas hears a soft creak as she opens the chest… then Elia snickers.

Bull turns at the faint sound of her mirth. “What’s in the box, Boss?”

“Just a minute,” Elia says, and Solas raises one eyebrow as she putters around with the contents of the chest, then tugs surreptitiously at her cowl. She gives a tiny, subtle cough, and a smirk pulls at the corner of his lips; Elia is in a playful mood, and he has no doubt that something amusing is about to ensue.

Finally Elia rises to her feet and faces them; then, biting her lip to quell a grin, she lowers her hood.

On her head is a crown.

A crown made of flowers.

Bull snorts with mirth and shakes his head. “Damn. How come you get first dibs on the flower crown? It would go perfectly with my eyepatch.”

Vivienne sighs musically. “Oh, darling. You can’t wear that. Nobody will take you seriously with a flower tiara on your head. You might as well run barefoot through the streets yelling about riding a halla all the way to Halamshiral.”

Elia smiles sweetly at Vivienne, but Solas detects the subtle bite in the Inquisitor’s words. “I don’t mind if they talk,” she says lightly. “I’d rather be known for what I do than how I look.” She shoots the tiniest sidelong glance at Vivienne’s opulent silk-and-velvet gown as she delicately readjusts the ludicrous crown on her head.

Solas watches with a rising tide of affection as she tweaks one ivory petal, but his admiration is for deeper things than the blossoms on her brow. It’s her attitude that truly makes him stop and stare. The only thing that Elia boasts is a quiet conviction. She lacks pretension, focusing on her goals rather than her image, and her methods are so idealistic and unjaded that Solas can’t help but admire her. It’s how he once wished to operate, yet he’s forced now to do the opposite: he must occlude the things he’s done and project a completely benign persona, hiding his true goals behind a duplicitous mask.

Elia rests one hand on his forearm, pulling him from his brooding. “What do you think?” she says, and bats her eyelashes flirtatiously. Her eyes are clear and free of guile, and Solas wishes he could protect her from everything bitter in this world – even him. Particularly him.

He gazes seriously at her. “You are beautiful,” he says softly.

A slow smile lights her face and sets her eyes aglow, and Solas is helpless to do anything but smile back. Vivienne tuts impatiently, and Bull wolf-whistles. “Can’t believe I’m saying this, Boss, but how about you two save your foreplay for later when there aren’t a bunch of insane lyrium addicts around the corner?”

Elia chuckles, then gently takes the veilfire torch from Solas’s hand. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s show these Red Templars my new crown.” She shoots him a tiny wink, then leads them toward the quarry.

Solas follows the eerie glow of the torch as she runs back up the stairs. The veilfire highlights the velvety glow of the petals on her head, and despite his melancholy, he smiles at the sight of her.

He might be forced to hide many facets of himself, but his love for Elia Lavellan is a truth he’s free to show.

A Solavellan kiss: Taarsidath An-Halsam

pikapeppa:

Kisses and hugs to my darling @hellarcanine​ for this kiss prompt. Here is #42 (out of pride) for Solas and Elia Lavellan. Read here on AO3 if preferred.

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

Elia pants with exertion as she flicks the hilt of her spirit blade. “Is everyone alright?” she calls.

“Never been better!” Bull roars, and Varric waves a tired hand before sitting heavily on the ground. “Damn,” he gasps. “This girl was more vicious than that Fereldan Frostback. That was a piece of cake compared to this beast.”

“Exactly! This was magnificent!” Bull replies. “When are we going for the next one, Boss? Tomorrow? Tonight? We can make it to the Hissing Wastes by morning if we leave right now!”

Solas ignores them and strides over to Elia’s side. He takes her face in his shaking hands. “Are you all right?” he demands. His eyes flick across her body; a slash of blood crowns her shoulder from where the dragon’s tail nicked her, and she’s covered in soot and dirt, but otherwise she seems remarkably unhurt.

“I’m fine, Solas. I promise,” she assures him. “Not bad for a mage, wouldn’t you say? Landing the killing blow on an Abyssal high dragon?” Then she sighs and winces guiltily. “I feel like I should be proud, but I think Frederic might be disappointed that she’s dead…”

“Enjoy your victory, Boss! We’ll be drinking to you tonight!” Bull bellows, and Varric chuckles as he hefts himself to his feet again.

Solas continues to stare at her. His whole body is tight with residual anxiety. He was secretly disappointed that she didn’t specialize in rift magic – they would have had even more to talk about if she had – but he hadn’t accounted for how utterly horrifying it would be to see her running headfirst towards an enraged fire-breathing dragon with only a staff on her back and a hilt in her hand.

He slides his fingers into her sweat-dampened hair. “You killed a dragon,” he says stupidly. It’s an obvious fact, a waste of words to even say it, but he can’t get past the strangeness of it. His Elia killed a dragon. In this blunted world, a world that’s so solid and static and staid, a Dalish mage used an ancient elvhen technique to form a blade of pure magic. She struck this legendary beast low with the power of the Fade alone.

She smiles at him and strokes his wrist with her glowing left hand, and Solas can’t resist: he pulls her against his body and kisses her hard.

“Hahaha, yes! Taarsidath an-halsam!” Bull bellows, but Solas barely hears him; Elia grips his tunic for support as he bends her back, then her tongue is thrusting into his mouth, and Solas melts into her like lyrium into a dwarven masterwork. He vaguely hears the clatter of her spirit blade hilt hitting the ground as she wraps her arms uninhibitedly around his neck. The stench of burning rocks and melted bone is acrid, but her hair is electric with the scent of lightning and her tongue is hot and smooth, and Solas is lost. The blood still pounds anxiously in his ears and his muscles are shaky with exertion, but none of that matters, for he is lost in her.

Elia grips his neck in her hands, then finally breaks their kiss with a gasp. She leans back and grins at him, then starts to laugh.

He smiles helplessly at her breathless mirth and admires the sweat-streaked soot smeared across her vallaslin. Battles are the kind of memory he prefers to forget, but this – the relief of victory, the joy of love, the unequivocal, unquestionable pride pounding through his veins as he clutches his triumphant Dalish lover close: these are the moments he will never forget.