#dorian pavus/m! trevelyan

[adamnagaitits]

yarimxoday — covet

(part one)

Cornelius knew whose names he'd taken to live under. Cornelius knew whose lives he'd taken to make sure his own went on and as luxuriously as possible. Cornelius knew whose reign and wrath he fled to be his own monarch none would dare overthrow. Cornelius knew Calhoun Trevelyan was the man he'd lust for sooner or later. Cornelius knew he had to join the Inquisition.

Cornelius knew not he would not belong to just himself after having made the sole objectively good thing in his life, or to himself at all.

part two of the da:i au is here!

Hickey replaces Dorian Pavus, a high-born mage who fled his home where his desires, preferences and worldview could never be acceptable and his fatherland ruled by meritocratic revanchism and the haves and have-nots alike sneering at those born lower and scheming against those born equal to them higher. and, well, it wouldn't be hickey if the replacement wasn't literal.

in his home canon, Cornelius Hickey is an egotistical murderous con artist who's one step away from becoming either the victorian karl marx or the rags to riches poster boy, unable to communicate the love his heart does know and the obvious need for it to be returned — just Calhoun's type!

[yamisnuffles]

Realized I’ve never done art for both of the boys in my Tevinter AU fic, The Altus Inquisitor. Had to simplify both of their outfits for my own sanity lol.

[hawkezone]

[[ RETURN TO HALAMSHIRAL - PART TWO ]]

A missing Queen Cousland, whispers of an elven rebellion, and one hell of a party: Hawke, Fenris, and Varric attend a lavish ball at the Winter Palace celebrating Empress Celene and Marquise Briala's alliance, where Hawke finds himself enlisted to help by a man with a strong Fereldan accent and a deep-seeded fear of swooping. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, sequel to The Seat of Power.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1] [2]

♕

“Dorian?”

Angus, leaning over himself in the library under the rookery at Skyhold, muttered into the flipped-open sending crystal his boyfriend had given him. He should’ve attended the party. Why did he let Josephine talk him into staying behind? And Leliana had been rather keen on him staying at Skyhold, too. Angus had long ago begun to put two and two together about “the safety of the Inquisitor”, but he was starting to get lonely in Skyhold, all alone, this evening. Even Cullen had gone off to the party, or, possibly, given up in defeat and was drinking alone in his carriage waiting for everyone to go home.

Angus waited, hoping Dorian would be in a quiet enough place in the party to hear him through the crystal. He knew Dorian wore it around his neck everywhere they went without each other - if only so Dorian could update him on the assorted social and/or fashion disasters he encountered on his many trips back to Minrathous.

“Dorian? Doriannnn. Come onnnn.” Angus, uncharacteristically, whined into the crystal. Next to him were several empty miniature novelty bottles of Seheron dry, which he insisted he hadn’t drank all by himself, and half a glass of whiskey. The whiskey, of course, counted as dessert.

Meanwhile, back at Halamshiral, Dorian could hear a faint buzzing coming from the locket he wore around his neck, as he continued to prime Alistair for more information - and pump him full of more ale. Unfortunately, the ale was indeed dwarven and watered-down, which meant he’d have to feed him much more of the stuff to get to the juicy bits.

Holding a finger up to Alistair, who was mid-woeful-rant, Dorian flipped open the locket, and strained to hear Angus’s soft, Marcher accent over the loud hustle of the party.

“Yes, my dear amatus?” he greeted, over the crystal, holding the rest of it towards his ear, frowning at the background noise.

“....come home soon so I can tell you I miss you… …bet you look good in your formal coat.. ….osephine left so many of these bottles here for the guests, can you believe….”

Dorian sighed. He could barely hear a thing, although it seemed like Angus, at least, was keeping occupied.

“Amatus,” he repeated, holding the crystal closer to his lips. “I can see you’ve had a lot of fun without me, and I can’t wait to get back to Skyhold to see how my Inquisitor wants to handle his lack of handling, but - you’re never going to believe who I’m talking to right now.”

Alistair watched, as Dorian continued his conversation, one-sidedly.

“Yes. No, not you. I know I’m also talking to you, but - yes. Mm-hmm. You know, next time I’ll just ask Josephine to put some mixers in with the wine for you to slow it down. No, you’re rotten. You are. …. Keep that up and I’ll really have to leave the party early.”

Alistair narrowed his eyes and sighed again, in defeat, taking another swig from his ale as Dorian’s conversation took another turn.

“You know just how to push my buttons. All right. But no necromancy this time. We both thought it would be funny but it just ended up being unsavory.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows. Dorian, it seemed, finally remembered why he’d interrupted Angus in the first place.

“But you haven’t guessed who! Right, right. Remember the meeting you had back at Haven? Yes! I know! That’s what I asked him!”

Dorian clapped a hand over the crystal, and turned to Alistair. “Angus wants to know if you’ve found your missing wife yet.”

Alistair gave him the most despairing look yet. Dorian perked up.

“Right! Right. That’s what you were telling me.” He turned back to the crystal. “No, he hasn’t. And he’s asking us if we know where she’s gone. I know. I told him about Hawke going to Weisshaupt. He is? He has? He - is - are they all here? …I’m going to murder Varric.”

With that, Dorian clapped the crystal locket shut, and carefully slipped it back under his shirt.

Giving Alistair the slyest of smiles, he leaned coyly over the bartop.

“Today, I think, is your lucky day,” Dorian smiled.

Alistair felt himself involuntarily skip a beat. Whatever was coming was sure to be something big.

-

The lowly music of the single harp played through the open courtyard, the golden light of the strung-up candles glinting off the gold and augments of the gathered Orlesian nobles, craning their necks to get a good look at the plucky minstrel who was chiming classic folk tunes, her belting lighting up the entire garden.

Away from the huddled crowds, in a secluded cloister, were Hawke and Fenris - and only one of them seemed to be having any sort of a good time.

Clutching one of his many beignets he’d tucked away, Hawke smirked. “You think the words are the same in Orlesian?”

“What?”

“They could be saying anything, you know. I don’t speak Orlesian. I wager you don’t, either. They could be singing about how all Marchers are freeloading anarchist backwater pigs, for all I know.”

Fenris glanced sideways at Hawke, who was grinning. He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but crack a tiny smile back. “I doubt that.”

“That’s what I’d do,” Hawke said, breezily, waving a hand at the bard. “If I was supposed to be entertaining a bunch of jackasses all night, I’d definitely try to take the piss.”

“That’s why we don’t let you entertain,” Fenris smirked.

Inside, the orchestra was starting to begin its triumphant wailing, the music coursing through the echoing halls and out into the gardens, just faint enough to mix with the bard’s singing.

“They’ve begun the formalities,” Fenris muttered, barely able to contain his scowl. “If they’re not entertained at every turn, they’ll start to turn on each other.”

“I can understand that,” Hawke said, thoughtfully, face full of beignet. “If I were a noble, I’d want my attention grabbed at every second. No point being bored, I bet.”

“Hawke, you are a noble,” Fenris replied, a bit despairingly. “I must admit, I wonder if your enchantment over snacks and lute-playing won’t betray a more deep-seeded sense of entitlement in the future, judging by how all these Orlesian courtiers act.”

“Me? Entitled? Over a title? Don’t be silly, goose,” Hawke grinned, elbowing Fenris playfully in the side. Fenris didn’t quite scowl, but he didn’t quite grin back, either.

Looking to either side of him, Hawke’s grin widened. Fenris could see the gears clicking together in his head, in ways that made him slightly suspicious - and even more trepidatious.

“Fenris?” Hawke ventured, with a sideways grin. “Can I make up for the Chateau in another way?”

Fenris looked wary, but his expression betrayed his true sense of curiosity. After all, he wouldn’t have followed this idiotic lug of a man all the way here if it weren’t for his morbid sense of passion.

“Make up for it how, Hawke?”

Hawke grinned even wider, and bowed, deeply and theatrically, like a footman. He extended a half-gloved hand to Fenris, without stooping back up, and smiled.

“Would you accompany me to the ballroom floor, milord?” he grinned.

For a brief second, everything froze. Fenris felt his face crack a little, as time came to a whopping halt, and Hawke immediately sensed he had done Something. Not necessarily something wrong, mind you, but the world didn’t come screeching to a standstill with the worries of a thousand centuries plastered across your beloved’s face for nothing.

“Hawke,” Fenris ventured, his voice cracking, like the first jolt of dry lightning in a canyon wracked with drought.

Hawke looked up at him, perplexed, then, immediately, read the expression on his face, backtracking as fast as possible.

“Sorry - I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I didn’t -”

Fenris, as if coming out of a daze, shook his head, rather firmly. “No, no. It’s just - not with - there’s all these people, Hawke-”

“Wait. Wait. I have an idea.”

Hawke got that mischievous glint in his eye - the one that meant he was about to get them both into massive trouble.

“Hawke - what - ”

Pulling Fenris by the hand, Hawke led him down the hallway into the vestibule, through the halls of the public appartements and out into the garden, where even more various nobles had gathered, listening to the dulcet tones of one of Orlais’ most talented bards. For a moment, Hawke could have sworn it was Maryden Halliwell’s voice, singing in the Orlesian tongue, but he chalked it up to his time spent at Skyhold having taken quite a toll on him.

Tucking into a cloister to the side of the garden, just out of sight - and just in the shadows - for naught but the nosiest of nobles to be seen, Hawke let Fenris go, and placed his hands on his hips, looking rather pleased with himself.

Fenris, bemused, placed his own hands behind his back.

“Plans, Hawke?”

Hawke, with a flourish, took a great, theatrical bow. “Indeed, my dear,” he said, putting one arm behind his own back, and extending the other in a deep, dramatic gesture, offering his open palm to Fenris like a noble on the ballroom floor. Which, for all intents and purposes, he was.

Suppressing a laugh, Fenris cocked a smile at Hawke, who looked up at him - still stooped - through his brow.

“Well?” said Hawke, raising his eyebrows, and tottering a little. “I’m starting to get a little sore, here.”

Letting out an actual chuckle - or, to Fenris’s denial, an actual giggle - he placed his hand in Hawke’s, and Hawke raised himself back up to full height, romantically sweeping Fenris in towards him by the small of his back.

“Your hand goes on my shoulder, I think,” Hawke smiled, teasing, a little primly, but full of warmth. “Unless you don’t want me to lead. Which I always offer, but we know how things usually go,” Hawke winked.

Fenris, glancing away for a moment, braced himself. For a second, he flicked his eyes towards the gathered nobles, through the shadowed cloisters into the well-lit gardens, entranced by the lute-playing of the bard and the thick, scented air of the evening. They were so occupied with their own, brightly-lit world, that they scarcely - if at all - noticed Fenris and Hawke, hidden in the depths of the marbled shadows.

He looked back at Hawke, his eyes expectant.

“I’ve - I’ve never actually danced. With anyone. Before,” Fenris ended, somewhat lamely. He looked away again, but his hand was still firmly placed in Hawke’s.

Despite himself, Hawke burst out in a brief spurt of laughter. Fenris, annoyed, looked back at him, but Hawke was clearly gazing at him with the look he only reserved for the man he loved.

“What, never? Not even at a party? Not even as a joke?” Hawke went on, tucking Fenris in closer by the waist.

Fenris, getting more annoyed by the minute, sighed. “No. It’s not something I had time to do in Tevinter. At all.”

“And in Kirkwall?” asked Hawke, holding Fenris’s hand aloft.

“Kirkwall is not exactly the place that makes one want to dance,” Fenris said, bitterly. “Despite any claims.”

“No one ever asked you?”

“There’s never been such an occasion. And I doubt I’d want to dance with anyone. At all.”

Hawke pouted, a little comically. “Not even me?”

Fenris, finally looking back up, saw that Hawke was trying his damndest to cheer him up. And he couldn’t help but smile.

“...Perhaps you’re the exception.” Fenris flicked his eyes downward, then back up at Hawke, their verdance as clear as ever.  “….You’re always the exception.”

Smiling, Hawke finished pulling Fenris in, and, laying a hand on his arm, gently guided it towards his shoulder.

“I’m not a very good dancer, I’m afraid,” Hawke said, as Fenris lay his hand against Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke’s stubble - which he was very bad at shaving consistently - poked through the thin Orlesian cotton of his upcollared formal shirt.

“Would I have been able to tell?” Fenris replied, smirking, flirtatiously.

“No, probably not. I should just keep my mouth shut,” Hawke said, laughing.

“Don’t,” said Fenris, softly.

Slowly, smiling, Hawke, holding Fenris by the hand, stepped in a graceful circle - as gracefully as he could - as the bard continued her enchanting rhyme. In the shadows of the cloister, nobody could see the two, slowly revolving, like planets gathered around a burning star.

Fenris, trepidatiously, laid his head against Hawke’s chest, as they turned; Hawke immediately clutched him closer, lowering his own head so it tucked gently into his.

As the song wound to a close, Fenris found his head still resting on Hawke’s chest, and he could hear Hawke’s heart beating at a breakneck speed. His fingers wrapped around Hawke’s collar, as he could feel his breath, hot as the night air was cold, burning down Fenris’s own neck.

Hawke, still holding Fenris in one muscular arm, the other hand wandering its way back down towards Fenris’s waist, felt the elf press closely against him, the clink of his armored shoulders and arms rubbing up against the thick fabric of Hawke’s formal coat. Fenris pushed against him, pulling him closer, and as Hawke felt Fenris’s cold, gauntleted fingers close around his neck, he grabbed him even more firmly, crushing him against his chest and hips, feeling the elf open up underneath him as Fenris intensely pushed his body against his, pressing every inch of himself against Hawke’s, as Hawke nudged his knee between Fenris’ legs - both of the men like pendulums in an imminent swing - if either of them moved, even one inch further, the whole thing would come crashing down. 

Hawke, breathing heavily, scarcely dared to move Fenris from his position, lest he lose control completely and pin him to the ground, disgracing this entire social affair - and probably causing the fine bard singing in the garden to completely lose her footing.

“Hawke,” Fenris breathed, roughly, in Hawke’s ear.

Hawke felt his heart skip a beat.

Intensely, softly, without breaking eye contact, Fenris pushed one thumb against Hawke’s Adam’s apple, biting his lower lip. Hawke gulped, feeling Fenris’s fingers press against him, barely choking him, the pointed backs of his gauntlet scratching the back of Hawke’s neck as his hairs stood on end, and he stood at attention. He knew that, at any moment, he could break Fenris’s hold, sweep him up by the legs and pull them both against him, pull his head back and take control, let Fenris drive him to the wilderness of extinction. He hoped that Fenris wouldn’t think he was too uncouth for already planning lines about needing a lot of help with handling his oversized, two-handed warhammer, since that was Fenris’s specialty, after all.

Hawke locked eyes with him, and Fenris’s eyes glowed with an intensity that sent the usually confident Hawke into a venusian, cloudy-headed rabbit hole.

“Perhaps it is my turn to surprise you,” Fenris growled, with an insistent half smile.

Hawke, losing control entirely, pressed his face against Fenris’s, biting on Fenris’s lip before sending himself into a spiral, flicking the inside of Fenris’s mouth with his tongue, holding him in place with one arm while running the other up and down his back, then his side, then down the front of his hips.

“Wait,” Fenris breathed, his voice still guttural, putting a single finger to Hawke’s lips. “Not here.”

He held Hawke by the hand, this time, and pulled him towards the end of the cloister, where a latticed wall covered in nightblooms anchored the corner between the palace and the gardens proper.

Indicating the wall with his head, Fenris withdrew his finger from Hawke’s lips, smiling with an intense, mischievous grin. Letting Hawke go, he backed up into the lattice, where Hawke, cottoning on, began grinning himself, helping Fenris up and over the garden wall with a light foothold, making a step with his cupped hands.

Following him over the wall, Hawke paused for a moment, at the top of the wall; one foot in the party, the other imminently in the outer gardens - and examined the scene.

The whole of Halamshiral spread out before him, the excitement, the romance, the buzz of the party, the ham that tasted of despair, the tittering gossip of the nobles, the rampant fireflies and the clink-clink-splash of caprice coins being thrown in the fountain - all accented by the intoxicating scent of jasmines and Andraste’s Grace - and he sighed, with great contentment.

Truly, really, it did not get any better than this.

He looked back down, at Fenris, who was already playing with the top buttons of his guardsman’s jacket, giving Hawke the most smoldering look he could manage.

Hawke grinned. Perhaps the night had great potential, indeed, for getting even better.

[warpedlegacywrites]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

Thank you for this ask @blarrghe!

Swept Away: Josephine Montilyet/Isabela. M. 75,162 words. This project was a real labor of love from start to finish. It was also the first work I ever made a concentrated effort to finishing before I published it. And the result, I think, is all the stronger for it. I adore this pairing as well, and I'm not usually given to rare pairs, but these two just sing to me. They fit so perfectly together, and I had so much fun imagining how that might happen. Major thanks to @rakshadow for being my ever-patient and ever-wise beta. And to @theluckywizard for the lovely artwork she contributed. You both helped this story take shape!

Lead Her Through the Darkness: Genfic. T. 3,121 words. One-shot. This was my first gift fic for an OC swap exchange, and I swear from start to finish I was possessed with this character. Ixchel is such an amazing protagonist and the symbolism around her, especially her name, felt such a vital piece of that, I wanted to explore that a bit. I am humbled and honored that @dreadfutures has taken this idea and run with it in her own canon. <3

Seeker, It's Cold Outside: Varric Tethras/Cassandra Pentaghast. T. 5,242 words. One-shot. Writing vitriolic banter is like 95% of the reason why I adore this pairing so much. Their dynamic is so messy, doomed from the start, but no less worthy of a story to be told just because the ending I foresee for them isn't an unambiguously happy one. It's moments like this one where I see them able to unpack themselves a little bit around each other, and that's so important for them both.

Fiercely Perish: Dorian Pavus/The Iron Bull. M. 23,033 words. Die Hard, but in Thedas. This was an April Fool's Day fic some years ago, and it remains a fic I look on fondly for how much unbridled fun it was to write. I especially love people recognizing the source material as they read and leave comments. It brings me such joy. This is also probably one of the sillier fics I've written, and I don't give myself the opportunity to lean into humor as often as angst. This is just. Fun. It's fun. I love it. ^_^

While Time Remains: Series. Cullen Rutherford/OC!mage!Trevelyan. M. 189,699 words, 2/4 planned arcs published. WIP. I'm cheating a little bit on this one since it's a series rather than one isolated fic. But the series is one continuous story, so I think I can count that. This was the series I turned to when I stalled on my main DAI-timeline longfic. Writing this gave me a chance to finally sink my teeth into the Cullen/Theresa pairing that I was longing for so badly with my main fic's slow burn. It also helped me really start to shape my voice as a writer, learning how to pace a story so that one arc felt complete while still being part of a greater whole. And it helped me discover my strengths as a writer, and grow in my confidence. But more than that, I was able to develop Theresa and Cullen's relationship beyond my wildest dreams. They've grown just as much as I have throughout the course of writing and planning this story for them, that was only originally conceived as a sweet and lighthearted domestic fluff series of vignettes. An epic, vast-sweeping story has grown out of those humble origins, and I can't wait until it's all finished and published so people can enjoy it in its entirety! ^_^

[amaryllis-sagitta]

Writing masterpost (2015-)

This list contains all my Dragon Age related published writing so far. Some of it I was proud of when still fresh out of university but wouldn't do again (looking mostly at the old character meta that makes liberal use of psychoanalysis), some helped me trudge through a toxic job, some I have orphaned in a creative crisis overthinking rage.

The list is also available under my blog's public address:

So, here it is:

🤔Cursed ancient meta straight from the Void that stink of Solas’s socks and I would not do them today (2015-2016)

A Glimpse Into Dorian Pavus’s Psyche

How easily can iron break? - A meta on the Bull

😱Ancient fics from Carastes Scrolls (2015-2016)

If I Ever Return to Minrathous (M!Trevelyan x Dorian. multichapter, discontinued)

Bloodline. A Tevinter Fiction (Gen, Dorian-centered, multichapter, post-Trespasser, discontinued)

Cracky Senshi Sailor Bull (Gen, Iron Bull-centered, DAI & Sailor Moon crossover, crack)

Eluviesta Fool’s Day Special (Gen, DAI & WH40K crossover, crack)

💀Reposts from @cheapertevinterglam era (2018-2023)

Speculative Timeline (up to The Missing)

Succession of the Evanuris and symbolic eras in the elvhen history

Some thoughts about Ghilan’nain’s and Fen’Harel’s apotheosis

Hesiod’s Theogony and Yes, Ancient Thedas (AO3)

Awkward PSA (Metaphysics of Thedas pt. 1, 2 & 3, now orphaned - AO3)

18-sign Astrology for Thedas (GDocs)

🌟Tag: By Magister Asinius Vivellius (2024-) - MAY CONTAIN DATV SPOILERS

😱What was I even thinking - a Lenormand reading on The Veilguard

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

[dragonageslowpoke]

The Experiment

A small fluff fic about one mage caring about another mage in a nerdy way.

Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, M/M, Gen, a lot of magic theory (probably non-canon compliant). Also the sufferings of mages in Thedas are discussed.

[johaerys-writes]

I finally have some more time to read fic and I want to make this a regular thing: reccing five fics every Friday, both fics I've read during the week but also older works that I love. So without further ado, here are some newer and older faves:

1. In Repair (Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, DA, T) by breadbowl: Inky & co are exploring some ruins when Dorian is attacked by Venatori. What follows next is a spoiler lol so I won't say anything else, but this fic was so angsty but also funny in places, with lots of action and banter. It was like extra content from the game which is my favorite kind of DA fic.

2. Librarian To The Future (Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan, DA, T) by norwasmeanttobe: The Inquisition needs a book of magic which has been destroyed, so Dorian time travels to the Ostwick Circle of eight years before to find its last copy. There he meets a young Inquisitor Trevelyan, who was the Circle librarian at the time. A truly delightful fic, plus the author's Trevelyan is such a sweetie. Loved this.

3. Chintz (Achilles/Patroclus, Hades/TSOA, M) by @baejax-the-great: Achilles is trapped in a miserable marriage, and in order to escape it -and himself- he starts drinking heavily while also sleeping with his best friend (and long time crush, but no one's talking about that lmao). The pain!!! The misery!!! All the suppressed emotions!!! It hurts so good 😭 My heart broke for both of them and now I am ANXIOUSLY waiting for a reunion that will mend it (i.e. poking Bae with a stick while she writes 👀) 

4. as we circle the moon (Keith/Shiro, VLD, E) by @monstersinthecosmos: follows the events in the show after Shiro disappears post s2, and is then found-- but fem!Sheith 🥺 Kacy's written some of my all time fave sheith angst, and this is no exception: an in depth exploration of Keith's state of mind after losing Shiro and Shiro's own struggles towards recovery, just so soft and sad and poignant and true to character. I love these gorls <3

5. Calamitous Love (Tadashi/Ainosuke, Sk8 the Infinity, E) by @starryskeyes: I read this one a while back, but boy howdy has it left its mark on me. I am a slut and a weakling for childhood friends to lovers to exes back to lovers (no one knows them like they know each other!!!!! ;w;) and this hit the spot JUST RIGHT, Chel's prose and characterisations are divine and made me feel so many emotions. I just want to wrap Tadashi in blankets and keep him safe. 😭

That's it for this week!! See you again next Friday 💙

[kittynomsdeplume]

First Lines

I was tagged by the lovely @alyssalenko to share the first line of my last ten published works or as many as I'm able and to see if there are any patterns!

Now, I've hopefully written ten new fics since the last time I did this tag game 😅.

Shelter From The Storm - Cullen Rutherford/Arhea Lavellan, G: They pressed on in the early twilight of dusk; climbing the pitted, winding path into the mountains.

2. Captured - Rylen/Farie Lavellan, Explicit: They splash from the river, buoyant in each other’s arms.

(Eeesh, already seeing a pattern here. Do not perceive me! 🫣)

3. The Inquisitor's Gift - Dorian Pavus/Jonathan Trevelyan, Mature: Dorian collapses with a heavy whoosh into the plush leather chair in his father’s office — the solid, old wood creaking in protest at such disrespect. 

4. Ding Dong Desk Dick Down - Cullen Rutherford/Warden!Alistair/Kiara Trevelyan, Explicit: “Who’s ready for round two?” Alistair asks with a mischievous grin and Cullen lets out an exhausted groan.

5. I'll crawl home to her - Anders/Kiara Hawke, Teen+: Anders thumbs through the loose pages of his manifesto, the light of a single candle dancing across the parchment.

6. Nobody's Fool - Dorian Pavus/Arthur Trevelyan, Teen+: The sunlight begins to slant low and amber through the library window, and Dorian rests his book in his lap, blinking his weary eyes.

7. Excuse me, Archdemon - Warden!Alistair/Elissa Cousland, G: Alistair wakes in a cold sweat, heart hammering in his chest as remnants of his nightmare slither through his mind.

8. Working Out The Kinks - Garrus Vakarian/Nihlus Kryik/f!Shepard, Explicit: “I don't mind the recoil on the M-29 so much, I’d only ever use it at mid-range anyway,” Shepard shrugs as she leads them out of the shuttle bay, wiping the sweat from her flushed face with the end of the towel that hangs around her neck. 

9. Templar Vows - Cullen Rutherford/Warden!Alistair, Teen+: Cullen leaps up the steps leading to the novitiate quarters.

10. Wounded Pride - Cullen Rutherford/Solona Amell, Explicit: Cullen steered his trusted steed, Kilead, away from the city gates of Kirkwall, and the stallion traversed the pitted earth with a smooth and steady gait.

Tagging: @charlatron | @pikapeppa | @knuttydraws | @blackwallmancer | @cleverblackcat | @kemvee | @rosella-writes | @dreadfutures | @inquisitoracorn and anyone else that would like to participate

[phillipsgraves]

i was tagged by the lovely @leviiackrman to make some of my clowns in these meikers! [f/f | m/m | m/f ] thank you ❤️

tagging @kourumi, @queennymeria, @chuckhansen, @denerims, @florbelles, @dihardys, @unholymilf, @jackiesarch, @arklay, and anyone else who'd like to do this! no pressure as always and apologies for any double tags 🤧

capt. john price / dr. madeline ortega | cmdr. phillip graves / lt. apollo de rossi

inquisitor antonio trevelyan / dorian pavus | warden andreas cousland / queen anora mac tir

[dacreateathon]

All’s Fur in Love and War

By: @midnightprelude and @oftachancer

Pairing: Dorian Pavus/m!Trevelyan

Rating: M

Tags: Character turned into a dog, puppy love, non-explicit sex, developing relationship

Word count: 5899

Dorian has been waiting for ages for Aran to return from some Blighted Ferelden marshland. He does, blessedly, but the morning after, Dorian finds his lover unexpectedly absent with a blue-eyed shepherd in his place.

[justabrowncoatedwench]

My OCs & Their Progeny in 9:54 Dragon

This is before any birthdays.

Hero of Ferelden

Queen Milena Cousland, 42 -m- King Alistair Theirin, 43

Crown Princess Elena Theirin, 19

Prince Cedric Theirin, 16

Kalliana Tabris, 41 -m- Zevran Arainai, 48

numerous ex-Crow novices, maybe a bio kid or two?

Marek Mahariel, 45 -m- Morrigan, 49

Kieran Mahariel, 22

Alanna (of Trebond) Surana, 42 -m- Zevran Arainai, 48

Thom, 18

Alan & Alianne, 16

Champion of Kirkwall

Arienne Hawke, 48 -m- Anders, 54

Bethandra Hawke, 14

younger children post-DAI?

Viscountess Yvanna Hawke-Vael, 48 -m- Prince Sebastian Vael, 46

Prince Carver Vael, 14

Prince Andrew Vael, 10

Daine (Sarrasri) Hawke, 48 -m- Anders (aka Numair), 54

Sarralyn, 21

Rikash, 20

Inquisitor

Tanith Trevelyan, 41 -m- Cullen Rutherford, 42

Nathan Rutherford, 9

Haven & Hope Rutherford, 5

Kadan Adaar, 45 -m- Iron Bull, 50

Asaaranda, 10

Sataareth, 8

Talanaan, 7

Atishavir Lavellan, 43 -LI- Solas

Samahlfen Lavellan, 11

Renanlas Lavellan, 6

Revassan Lavellan, 39 -m- Dorian Pavus, 42

several freed slave children subsequently adopted by the Daddies Warbuck

Countess Alyssana Lavellan, 38 -m- Count Joslen Campana, 43

Saffron Campana, 8

Rosemary Campana, 3

Basil Campana, 1

(Amandine Campana, b. 9:55)

Bonus Round - My AU Fanfic Continuity:

HsoF: CP Elena Theirin, 19, P Cedric Theirin, 16; Kieran Mahariel, 22

Champion: Bethandra Hawke, 14

Inquisitor: AU Solona Amell, 44 -m- Cullen, 42 -> Niall, 8, Regan, 7, Dalya, 6, Meira, 5

[officialpeebee]

Lament

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Pairing: m!Trevelyan/Dorian Pavus Word Count: 5110 Commissioned by: @tessa1972​

David leant against the rail of the ship, looking out at the water that churned and broke against the prow. The Waking Sea was grey as steel, its dim colour a mirror to the clouds that gathered overhead. If they were lucky the storm would not break for a day or so. David was not feeling especially lucky, however. He would not have been surprised if thunder began to rumble above them within the hour.

They had boarded at Jader two days before, after a long, difficult ride from Skyhold. Winter had settled upon the mountains and the rocky passes were even more difficult to navigate than usual. David could have covered ground more swiftly if he had travelled alone, but he had insisted upon staying with the wagon for the entire journey. The cargo was too precious to be guarded by anyone else. It was his responsibility. His burden.

The box was ensconced in the passenger quarters now, only a wall separating it from where David slept. The crew had attempted to stow it in the belly of the ship at first, among coils of rope and stacked crates of merchandise. David’s outburst at that had frightened the younger hands half to death, and they gave him a wide berth when they passed him on the deck. He did not care. He had no wish to speak with them.

As he stared out across the choppy waters David tried to remember how long it had been since he was last aboard a ship. It surprised him to realise that it had been on his journey to the conclave, a merchant vessel making the crossing from Ostwick to Highever. He had thought then that it would be mere weeks until he returned to the Free Marches. Yet over a year had passed, and so much had changed, and only now was he making his return.

So caught up was he in his thoughts that he barely noticed Dorian walking up behind him. When the mage placed a hand upon his shoulder he started, jerking away from the touch.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright,” David replied. “My mind was elsewhere.”

“Hardly surprising, given the circumstances.” There was boundless sympathy in Dorian’s eyes. David could hardly bear it.

“If the weather holds we should reach Ostwick by tomorrow morning,” he said, desperate to speak of anything else. “Though it looks like rain.”

Dorian cast his eyes up to the darkening sky. “It certainly does,” he said. “But I doubt you really want to talk about the weather, Amatus. You’ve barely said a word about any of this since we left Skyhold. It’s not good for you, keeping things like this locked up. I should know.”

The mage reached for his hand, but David moved deliberately away from him. “Not now,” he said. “The current is no good for me. I need to get some sleep.”

He refused to meet Dorian’s eyes as he walked away. It was petty of him, but he knew he could not keep his composure under the look that the mage would be giving him. Instead he went to the lower deck and lay on his narrow bunk, feeling his stomach lurch as the ship rolled beneath him.

The Inquisition had won a major victory the day before the messenger had come. David and his companions had finally managed to seize a stronghold in the Hinterlands, a tactical position that Cullen had been coveting for months. It had been hard, bloody work, clearing out the bandits who infested the place like cockroaches, but in the end they had prevailed.

They received a hero’s welcome upon their return to Skyhold. Josephine had organised a small banquet with her usual efficiency, and the wine had been flowing freely. Food was served, stories were told, endless toasts were made. Everyone’s spirits were high, and David’s more than most. He was surrounded by his friends, the Inquisition was gaining strength by the day, and he had Dorian beside him. Things were as perfect as they had been in a long time.

David and Dorian retired early that night, ignoring the jibes of their companions as they made their way out of the main hall and up to their quarters. They had fallen upon one another the minute they walked through the chamber door, wine-stained lips meeting clumsily in the darkness. Hours later they slept, and when they woke their appetites were no less sated.

They did not know then that a messenger had arrived at Skyhold, and was already speaking hurried words to the soldier on the gate. All they knew then was each other, exchanging fervent touches as the sun rose over the Frostbacks. So tangled up were they in their passions that they did not hear the footsteps on the stair outside, or the voices in the hall. Only a sharp knock on the chamber door broke them from their reverie.

Eventually, reluctantly, David got up to answer it. The moments after that were hazy.

The next thing he remembered clearly was sitting on the cold marble of the balcony, the thin blanket around his shoulders doing little to keep off the winter chill. Dorian stood silently nearby, his fingers trembling where they gripped the balustrade. He seemed to be anchoring himself there, as if he did not know what his hands would do if they were unoccupied.

David could do nothing but look out across the yawning void of the valley, his eyes vacant and dull. He kept running through what the messenger had told him, unable to process any of it. A rescue mission gone wrong. Templars caught in the crossfire. One had been killed. David could not reconcile Ser Rheda, the dead Templar, with Rheda, his sister. It could not be right. A mistake must have been made somewhere. He had not even known that she was close to Skyhold. Somewhere in a far corner of his mind, a voice whispered at him. She must have been coming to see you, it said. If it wasn’t for you she’d still be alive.

“I have to go to Ostwick.” David started, as though he had not been expecting himself to speak. His voice, usually so low and calm, broke on the last word.

Dorian looked at him, mouth slightly open. He looked as if he wanted to say something but did not know where to start.

“I have to go to Ostwick,” David repeated, as though saying it could make it more real somehow. “I have to go to Ostwick-” he choked on the statement, his voice a mixture of anger and almost childlike fear.

His lover walked over to him then, wrapping his arms around David and pulling him to his feet. David stumbled, but Dorian managed to keep him upright. His hands were firm where they gripped his shoulders, and he looked into David’s eyes as he spoke.

“You don’t have to go alone,” he said quietly. “We can go together. If you don’t mind, of course.”

David felt relief wash over him. It eased his heart, just a little. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak aloud.

Dorian nodded at him, then made a face. “That means a sea voyage, I suppose.” His tone was breezy, but a little strained. It was obvious that he was attempting to turn David’s mind from his grief, futile as his efforts might be. “Kaffas, but I hate the ocean. Deep and damp and full of horrors. Well, can’t be helped. I’d swim across it if you needed me to, Amatus.”

His monologue forced half a smile out of David, who leaned forward to kiss Dorian and end his tirade. “I know,” he said. “And I’m forever grateful for it.”

They had departed for the port at Jader later that afternoon. The Inquisition’s advisors assured David that they would be able to handle things in his absence, and urged him to take care on his journey. The messenger had shown them where the surviving Templars were camped, a few miles to the north of Skyhold. David met them there in person, to collect Rheda’s remains and offer them shelter in his halls. The Templars were grateful for his assistance, and spoke in glowing terms of his sister’s dedication to her cause. David wished that they hadn’t. He did not want to dwell on thoughts of Rheda.

Dorian did his best to comfort David during the long days of travel, but David found himself pushing back against the mage’s consolations more often than not. The guilt he felt for Rheda’s death crept up on him slowly, consuming him by degrees. By the time they boarded the ship to Ostwick he would barely speak to anyone. Bitterness festered in him, and every kind word felt undeserved.

It was early afternoon when David was awoken by one of the deckhands shouting that they were ready to dock. He rose, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and made his unsteady way up to the deck. The storm was about to break, and the first cold rains were lashing the ship. David shivered, pulling his coat closer around himself as the silhouette of Ostwick materialised out of the mist. The great double-walled city rose up from the cliffside, the overcast sky turning the grey stone almost black.

David insisted on helping the sailors carry Rheda’s casket from the ship onto the waiting wagon. They insisted that the Inquisitor need not trouble himself with such menial work, but one look from him silenced their protests. Dorian lent his strength too, though his help was unnecessary. David knew it was a gesture more than anything, a reassurance that the mage would support him even through his silence.

The Trevelyan retinue that David had been expecting was nowhere to be seen. Only one of his relatives had come down to the docks with the servants, and she stepped forward to embrace David as soon as Rheda’s casket had been loaded onto the wagon.

“David,” Fae said, her voice thick in her throat. “You came swiftly.”

“I left as soon as I was able.” David hugged his eldest sister tightly, unmindful of the rain that soaked them both. “Maker, Fae, I didn’t know what else to do.”

Fae took a step back, holding her brother at arm’s length. “There is nothing more you could have done. Come, let’s go home. You must be freezing.”

David nodded in acquiescence, then caught sight of Dorian out of the corner of his eye. Ashamed by his momentary lapse in manners, he gestured for the mage to come and join them. “Fae, this is Dorian. Dorian, my sister, Fae.”

“It’s good to meet you.” Fae stepped forward and clasped Dorian’s hand warmly. “David has spoken of you in his letters, of course.” She paused, then turned to David. “I do keep meaning to reply. Things have been hectic in Antiva, though I suppose that’s no great excuse.”

“It’s fine,” David said. “You’re here now.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too,” Dorian said to Fae. “Though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Quite.” Fae cast her eyes down. “Come now. Mother and Father will be waiting.”

David and Dorian followed Fae into a waiting carriage, and they began the trundling ascent up the road to Ostwick. The three of them sat in silence, none of them wishing to broach the subject of Rheda’s death. David was thankful for that. He was not yet prepared to think about it, and especially not when a reunion with his parents was impending. A knot of anxiety had settled in his stomach at the thought of it.

The carriage passed through the great gates of the city, and wound its way through the cobbled streets towards the Trevelyan estate. The rain had stripped the usual scents of fish and saltwater from the air, and the open markets were quiet and empty. Ostwick felt like a different city to the one David remembered. Perhaps much had changed since he had departed. Perhaps he was the one who had changed.

Eventually the carriage pulled up outside the steps of David’s childhood home. He climbed out, taking a long breath to ground himself, and he and Dorian followed Fae as she made her way up towards the entrance.

His parents were waiting for them in the hall. David’s father, Bann Fagen, looked older than he remembered. His face was deeply lined, and there was more white than grey in his hair now. Beside him stood Valerie, David’s mother. She wore black for mourning, and her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. He had not seen either of them for years.

David stopped a few paces away from them, not sure what he could say. They had rarely been affectionate towards one another before. To start now seemed wrong, somehow.

“Father,” he said. “Mother. I am so sorry.” The words felt empty even as he said them.

“Sorry won’t bring Rheda back,” Fagen said, his voice hoarse. “Did you bring her with you?”

David nodded. “Of course.”

He sniffed. “That’s something.”

“It’s been so long, David,” Valerie cut in. “Would that you had come home sooner. We’ve heard nothing but rumours since the conclave. Rheda had been gone almost as long-” She put her hand to her mouth, silencing a sob.

“I am so sorry, Mother,” David said. He could feel his own tears coming. “Truly, I am. You know how I loved her.”

Valerie, unable to speak further, merely nodded. Beside her, Fagen had turned his attention to Dorian. “And who is this?” he asked.

David steeled himself. He had known this was coming. “Lord Dorian Pavus, of Minrathous.” He paused for half a breath. “My companion.”

“You bring a Tevinter into our home?” Bann Fagen asked, his eyes widening. “Maker’s breath, boy-”

“House Pavus, you say?” Valerie interjected quickly. “I believe we share some relations, do we not? I was Lady Bhradain, before marriage.”

Dorian made a small, formal bow towards her. “Indeed we do, my Lady. I believe one of my forebears married into the Bhradain line generations ago.”

David marvelled at his mother’s masterful handling of the situation. Bann Fagen could not do insult to Dorian’s heritage again without causing offence to his lady wife. Valerie had always been a true diplomat, and time had not dulled her wits. David was deeply grateful for her assistance. While he was sure that she would not exactly approve of his relationship, her desire for domestic harmony would eventually win out above all else.

Luckily, the house steward chose that moment to arrive. He took their luggage and showed them to their rooms, speaking to David as though he were a guest in the house and not a member of the family.

David was strangely relieved that he and Dorian had been placed in rooms on opposite sides of the west wing. It would be easier for him to keep his distance that way. He did not know himself where this desire for isolation had come from, and he did not think he could explain it adequately if he was asked. Better to chalk it up to propriety for now.

David bathed and changed in his chamber, grateful for the warm water and dry clothes. The room he had been put up in was not the one he had inhabited before leaving Ostwick. He imagined that his suite had been reassigned to some visiting noble, or repurposed for some other use. He was not surprised by the lack of sentimentality. His father had done the same when Rheda had joined the Templars.

At that thought David was overcome with a wave of grief, and had to lean against the wall to steady himself. For a while he had been able to ignore his reasons for being there, to pretend that it was simply a long-overdue visit. The funeral would be soon, he realised, perhaps as soon as the following day. He could not pretend for much longer.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of tension and silence. The family ate together, seated far away from one another around the dining hall’s central table. Fae’s husband Rosco made several attempts to engage the Trevelyans in conversation, but each time their exchanges were brief and stilted. David felt bad for the man. Lord Rosco was a kind man, and his Antivan warmth was ill-suited to the emotional austerity of a Marcher household. He and Dorian got along well, however, and David was relieved when the two of them began to talk between themselves.

The only break in the tension occurred when David’s sister Leah arrived. She lived as a lay sister in a Chantry near Markham, and the news of Rheda’s death had taken a while to reach her. Leah was open in her grief, embracing her family in turn and weeping openly over their loss. It was a balm, David felt, to have someone so frankly acknowledge why they had come together. It lanced their shared pain, allowing some of the hurt to drain away.

They all retired early that night, exhausted by the day and dreading what tomorrow would bring. The funeral would begin in the morning. David did his best not to think of it as he lay alone in his bed, staring up at the canopy. His efforts were for naught. Hours passed before sleep finally found him.

***

It took a moment for David to remember, when he awoke. For a brief second he thought himself still in Skyhold, and he turned to speak to Dorian beside him. When he found himself alone everything came back; he was in Ostwick, and today was his sister’s funeral.

If anything the silence was worse over breakfast than it had been at dinner the previous night. None of the gathered group could bring themselves to eat, and even Rosco was quiet as the servants cleared full platters of food from the table. Eventually Bann Fagen announced that it was time to leave for the Chantry.

Dorian caught David’s shoulder as the family filed out of the estate. “Are you alright?” he said. “I’ve barely seen you since we arrived.”

“I wish we didn’t have to be here at all,” David replied. “Maker, Dorian, but I hate it here. I would leave Ostwick today if I could.”

“I know.” Dorian took his hand and squeezed it briefly. “It won’t be long, Amatus. I promise you that.”

David managed a smile. “I know,” he said. “Is this your first time at a Marcher funeral?”

Dorian nodded.

“They’re long affairs,” David sighed. “Pious. Pointless. A Revered Mother who barely knew Rheda will extol her virtues, and every relative from here to Orlais will try and use the loss to gain traction with my father.”

“Tevinter funerals are not so different,” Dorian said. “The nobility is the same almost everywhere. No tragedy is above manipulation.”

“Unfortunately so,” David said. He walked in silence for a moment, turning something over in his head, before speaking again. “It would mean a lot if you would take the place beside me, today.”

Dorian frowned at him. “That is traditionally reserved for family spouses, is it not?”

“It is,” David conceded. “And I would have you there.”

“I… don’t know what to say to that,” Dorian said quietly. “Apart from to accept, of course. I will do whatever you need to make this easier.”

“I don’t know about easier,” David said. “Father isn’t going to like it, that’s for certain.”

The funeral was exactly as David had expected it would be. A room full of strangers pretending to mourn. It felt false, somehow, like a dream. He could not cry, could not feel grief at all. This was nothing to do with Rheda.

Chantry sisters burned incense and sang canticles, and all the time David could feel his father’s eyes burning into him. His capacity for caring was running out. As the Revered Mother instructed them to bow their heads in prayer, David reached across to take Dorian’s hand in his.

There was a wake at the estate once the funeral was over, and most of the mourners went with the family when they returned. David was dreading this more than the funeral itself. Everyone there knew of his new title, and he had already heard people whispering about the Inquisition. He did not want to spend the day dealing with nobles who wished to court his favour. He could imagine nothing worse.

When they arrived back at the estate Bann Fagen pulled David to one side. “I need to speak with you.”

“Is there something you need?” David asked.

“What were you thinking?” Fagen hissed, shaking his head. “Bringing the Tevinter with you, keeping him beside you today of all days. People are already talking, boy. Your antics with the Inquisition have caused rumour enough without this.”

David forced himself to remain calm. “People may say what they wish, father. I came here to bring my sister home, and to say farewell to her. Nothing else concerns me.”

“It should,” Fagen said. “You are my heir now, boy. The future of our line rests on you. Does our family name mean nothing to you?”

“Not especially,” David shrugged. His patience was worn thin. “I never asked for this, father. I never wanted it. Give it to a cousin, for all I care. If you’ll excuse me.” He walked away, leaving his father gaping after him. David was sure there would be consequences for his impudence, but at that moment it mattered little.

He found Dorian at the side of the room, watching the gathered party.

“That didn’t look like it went well,” Dorian said.

“It didn’t,” David said. “But no matter. It’s done now. Maker’s blood, I need a drink.”

Dorian produced a glass of wine from the table beside him and handed it over. “I thought you might.”

“Thank you.” David placed a grateful hand on Dorian’s shoulder as he drank. “Honestly, Dorian, I couldn’t have done this without you here.”

“Then it’s a good thing I came along, isn’t it?” he grinned. “Ah. I believe we’re about to be intercepted.”

David looked up to see Leah approaching them, her head bowed low as she weaved past distant relatives attempting to catch her attention. When she drew closer to her brother she looked up and met his eye. “Follow me,” she whispered.

Exchanging a curious glance, David and Dorian did as they were told. Leah slipped into a side passage and led them up a set of servant’s stairs. They climbed for what seemed like forever, until finally Leah stopped outside a heavy door. She pushed it open, and the three of them walked inside.

The room beyond was a small library, much neglected. The shelves were dusty, and the floor had not been swept in some time. Fae and Rosco were already there, sitting at a small table by the fire. They raised their glasses in greeting as David entered the room.

“Come in,” Fae said. “We thought you might need a break. Maker knows I did.”

“I remember this room,” David said, pulling up a seat beside her. “Rheda practically lived in here when she was a child.”

“We thought it would be appropriate,” Leah said. “The Chantry rites serve a purpose, of course. She had been delivered to the Maker now. But there are some ways only we can mourn.”

As if on cue, Rosco produced several bottles of dark wine from beneath the table. “From my own vineyards. If we drink to Rheda, we should do it well.”

“A man after my own heart,” Dorian said, taking a seat next to David. “If you don’t mind me participating in the toast?” He trailed off, making it a question.

“Of course not,” Fae said seriously. “You’re family now.”

Leah nodded. “Don’t let our father concern you. He is set in his ways. If David has welcomed you in, then so will we.”

David felt his throat grow tight. He associated home so closely with his parents that he often forgot how much he missed the rest of his family. Rheda was the third sibling they had lost. Sometimes it was too difficult to be around those who had survived, knowing who was gone. Yet he loved them anyway, and they him. He raised his glass. “To Rheda,” he said.

“To Rheda,” they echoed.

David would remember that evening until the end of his days. He and his siblings had talked for hours, drinking wine and sharing stories about their sister. They laughed, and cried, and paid tribute to her in a way that the somber group below could never manage. Fae and Leah welcomed Dorian into the fold, and he spoke animatedly with them long into the evening. As the night wore on David put his arm about Dorian’s shoulders, and did not feel uncomfortable doing so. He had been accepted by the people who mattered. That was enough.

They retired late, and David woke tired but content in the morning. He could not say that he was happy - Rheda’s death still weighed too heavily upon him for that - but he felt that he had done well by her, returning home and reconnecting with his remaining siblings. There were few enough of them left, and he knew from now on the three Trevelyan children would be closer than they were before.

There was still uncomfortable business to be taken care of, however. He sat in a terse meeting with his father where they discussed what would be done with Rheda’s share of the estate, and dealt with the innumerable other small things that must be done before he could return to Skyhold.

After what seemed like forever, all was done. David arranged passage back to Orlais as soon as he was able, longing to return to the place he now considered home. His farewells with his parents were short and formal, but Leah, Fae and Rosco came to wave him off at the docks. Leah and Fae both embraced Dorian warmly when they said their goodbyes, and Rosco pressed a crate of fine Antivan red onto David as a parting gift. To David’s surprise, he felt a pang of regret that he must leave so soon. Of all the things he had expected to feel upon leaving Ostwick, that was not one of them.

The weather had cleared somewhat since their first voyage, and the return journey went swiftly. It helped that David was once again comfortable having Dorian close to him. The days at sea and on horseback were easier to bear now that he could speak frankly to the mage of how he was feeling. Dorian listened attentively to David’s anecdotes about Rheda, never interrupting or turning the conversation to happier things. David chastised himself for not opening up sooner. Every word he spoke allowed him to heal a little more.

Finally they saw the shape of Skyhold in the distance, and a few hours later they were crossing the great bridge to the castle gates. A cry of greeting went up from the soldiers on the battlements, and when the portcullis lifted David rode through to find the rest of his companions waiting for him in the courtyard. They greeted him and Dorian happily, each one delighted to see them safely back. A small homecoming feast had been arranged in the great hall, and David sat down to it happily.

“You missed quite a bit, Inquisitor,” Cullen said. “We’ve made some unexpected inroads in the Western Approach. You should see the reports as soon as possible.”

“Give the man a chance to breathe, Cullen,” Josephine said, swatting the commander’s arm. “He’s been back less than an hour. Let him rest.”

“How was it returning to Ostwick?” Cassandra asked David. “I never relish trips back to Nevarra myself.”

“Better than I expected,” David said, helping himself to more wine. “But not by much.”

Varric chuckled at that. “Ostwick isn’t exactly the most exciting city in the Free Marches,” he said. “You should stop by Kirkwall next time.”

“What, Qunari invasions and exploding Chantries?” Sera said, flicking a chicken bone at him. “Yeah, dead exciting. Proper party.”

“You found something there,” Cole said, turning his eerie gaze on David. “Unlooked for, unexpected. Three died, three survived. A family within a family.”

Varric placed his hand on Cole’s shoulder. “Kid, what did we talk about?”

“Don’t be creepy,” Cole said, looking down at his plate.

“That’s right,” Varric nodded, clapping him on the back. “Don’t worry. You’ll get there.”

David found himself speaking little that evening. Instead he watched his companions around the table, talking, shouting, arguing. The mismatched folk he had brought together did not always see eye to eye, but there was an undeniable bond there. They were a family, he realised suddenly. His family, in a way that those he shared blood with were not. There was a reason that returning to Skyhold had felt like coming home, and returning to Ostwick had not. He loved his sisters, it was true, but even with them he did not feel as comfortable as he did with the Inquisition. He smiled at the thought.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Dorian asked, seeing the look on his face.

“Not a lot,” David said. “I’m just glad to be home, that’s all.”

Dorian returned his smile. “I thought as much. It’s good to see you happy again, Amatus.”

The night was winding down, and people were starting to excuse themselves from the table. David and Dorian rose together, without a word needing to pass between them. They climbed the stairs to David’s chamber in silence, fingers intertwined, and when they reached the bedroom David pulled the mage close. He kissed him without restraint for the first time in weeks, and with that felt the last bit of tension he had been carrying dissipate. Dorian, more than anything else, was both family and home to him.

When they finally broke apart David sighed, and rested his forehead against Dorian’s. “Thank you for coming with me,” he said. “I don’t know if I could have done this without you.”

“It was no trouble. I liked your sisters.” He paused for a moment before speaking again. “I wish I could have met Rheda.”

“As do I,” David swallowed. “I’ll tell you more about her, one day. But not now. I don’t want to think of it now. I want to forget, for a while.”

Dorian smiled, and closed the space between him. “That, Amatus, I can help with.”

[hawkezone]

THE SEAT OF POWER

In the wake of Fen'Harel's escape, former Inquisitor Angus Trevelyan handles his transition from being Ostwick's most finicky and least eligible bachelor to being on the arm of Minrathous's finest; while juggling the beginnings of an elven rebellion. A Trevelyan-Dorian & Fen(m!)hawke imagining of the events leading up to Dread Wolf, Part One.

CHAPTERS: ♕ [1] [2] [3] [4]

♕

Chapter One: The Sun Shines In Winter

Lord Angus Trevelyan was a man of particular tastes, though he tried rather hard not to let those tastes betray him. His quarters, however, at Skyhold, the bustling castle to which he called home, were a matter entirely different: Here, where he need not worry about bolstering the Inquisition by seeming brave and inapproachable at all times, he had allowed for the most - in his esteem - ludicrous of vices; brandies from Antiva, fine furnishings from Val Royeaux, bespoke window fittings by Orzammar artisans featuring delicate, yet carefully provocative, inscriptions of the Inquisition in charming red and white; the centerpiece of his quarters was a massive, canopied bed with seizable wings in the Orlesian style, atop which sat a golden mask which, in Lord Trevelyan’s opinion, leered at him a little bit too much when he sat down to write his letters.

Next to his respite was a solidly stuffed white nug-leather couch, upon which the object of his affections, the rebellious Tevinter mage Dorian Pavus, sat in a position of agonizing repose, loudly and dramatically flipping through a missive that the spymaster, Leliana, had placed in Lord Trevelyan’s trust earlier that evening.

“‘The amorous tale of a guard-captain and her stalwart love, standing together against crime - with crimes of passion’?” Dorian read aloud, in a sing-song, mocking voice. “Varric’s really outdone himself with this one. The back copy writes itself. Which, evidently, is a testament to how predictable he’s become.”

“Predictable?” laughed Angus, with a bit of a snicker. “Varric’s tales are anything but predictable. Tell me you saw the twist with the Champion of Kirkwall fighting the Arishok in single-handed combat coming in The Tale of the Champion? You couldn’t. You didn’t.”

Dorian pouted. “Yes, but that was technically nonfiction. I’m not sure Varric’s penny dreadful romance serials are based on anything real. Or anyone behaving realistically, I’m afraid.”

Angus, who was stationed at his desk a few feet away sorting through a pile of letters, gave a playful shrug. “People around Varric tend not to behave realistically. Besides, I’m fairly certain there really is a Guard-Captain Aveline in the service of Kirkwall’s city guard. I think Josephine has forced me to address several of these insufferable letters to her, in fact.”

Dorian frowned doubtfully, looking back down at the dog-eared hardcover. “Yes, I’ll give you that, but could you imagine such a woman saying - and I quote - ‘The fire that burned Andraste is second in tempestuousness only to the fire for you that burns in my loins’?”

Angus shuddered. “Knowing Guard-Captain Aveline, I think she might punch me in the face for saying about half those words in her presence.”

Dorian laughed airily, and tossed the book back onto the floor, from whence it came. “Why did the old Nightingale leave this for you, anyway? Has she gone soft? Or is she attempting to get second in line under you after you unceremoniously throw me to the dogs?”

Pausing, Angus set down his letters, turning to face Dorian with a look of small concern.

“You know I don’t feel that way, Dorian,” he said, softly, saying his name with the gentle air of someone who wants to carefully coddle a pigeon without hurting its wings.

For a moment, Dorian’s face looked sad, as if believing that fact would lead to some sort of horrible tragedy, a case which he’d clearly wore over many times in his head before.

Crossing over the room, Angus gently placed a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, and gave it a little squeeze. “The book is Cassandra’s,” he continued, back to his usual perky banter. “I caught her reading it in the courtyard the other day, and it was one of Varric’s that I hadn’t gotten my hands on yet, so I asked to borrow it once she was done. Leliana had it delivered since one of her scouts had passed by the Seeker earlier in the day.”

Angus gave Dorian’s shoulder another squeeze. “I know you were joking,” he clarified, but he still looked concerned.

Unconsciously, Dorian brought his hand to Angus’s on his shoulder, as he idly played with Angus’s fingers. He looked a million miles away, as if he was contemplating thoughts as deep and dark and far away as Tevinter itself.

But in a moment, just as suddenly as he disappeared, Dorian perked back into life, giving Angus’s hand an elegant lift and turning to face him, with a glittering, cocked smirk on his face. The kind of smirk that sent Angus into a fiery oblivion where nothing else existed except pulling his paramour’s hair back and asking him his deepest darkest fears.

“I know you know,” Dorian said, rising from the couch with his hand still on Angus’s. “I’d never be worried. I’m willing to share. But I also know I’m twice as valuable as a social option than that washed-up Orlesian tongue-wagger.”

Angus laughed, pulling Dorian close. “Well, I’m not willing to share. But I am absolutely certain you’re a champion tongue-wagger.”

Dorian chuckled, wrapping his hands around Angus’ formal collar. “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

-

The mood around the war table was tense, but not in the least due to Angus’ behavior at Halamshiral the previous evening. It had been a long one, and even though certain members of the Inquisition enjoyed social events and the playing of the Game more than others - Ambassador Josephine coming to mind, who had been beaming and speaking glowing anecdotes about the party at the Winter Palace to anyone within earshot all morning - others, like Commander Cullen, were not only hungover, but sorely tired of all the political machinations and forced how-do-you-dos a visit to Orlesian court entails.

Nursing an actual hangover in addition to, in his unfortunate estimate, a nasty bout of lyrium withdrawal, Cullen groaned as Leliana tapped the table for the hundredth time, arguing with Josephine over how to best navigate the new royal couple next.

“We cannot simply bow to their demands and deliver the Inquisition’s aid on a platter,” Leliana called, emphasizing each point with a jab on the table with her gauntleted finger, causing Cullen’s headache to stab in rhythm.

“Sending a thank-you note is not delivering us on a platter, Lady Nightingale,” Ambassador Josephine retorted, eagling haughtily over her writing tablet. “It is simply a matter of common courtesy.”

“It sends a message, Josie,” Leliana continued, her voice exasperated. “Let them come to us. We helped them, so let them make the first move. I swear, sometimes I wonder how you ever survived playing the Game.”

“And sometimes I wonder how long you made it without someone evicting you from the premises,” Josephine added, sniffing.

At that, the large oaken doors to the War Room creaked open. A formidable figure, dressed in all black with crow’s feathers to match, marched up to the table, dusting herself off as she passed.

“Have I missed anything?” Morrigan asked, eyeing the crew at the table. “Have you been antagonizing your compatriots again, Leliana?” she continued, darting a daring glare and a satisfying smirk at the Nightingale.

Leliana frowned, but it was out of pure habit. She was not going to let Morrigan’s antagonizing get to her today.

“They usually get along much better than this, I swear,” Angus added, a bit helplessly, as Josephine glared, Leliana tapped, and Cullen sank deeper into his attempts to shut out everyone’s blathering.

To his surprise, Morrigan laughed, a breezy one, unlike what he expected from the dour witch he’d only recently become acquainted with.

“I warrant I’ve known Leliana for much longer than you have,” she said, cryptically, to which Leliana sighed.

“You were both traveling companions of the Hero of Ferelden,” Angus said, reaching back into his head on his lessons on Ferelden history. As a resident of Ostwick, in the Free Marches, and as someone who had relatively little interest in court intrigue beyond the fun parts, the parts with hors d'oeuvres and outfits - Angus’s recent imposition into the position of Inquisitor led him to wrangling his every last shattered memory of who’s who, who’s done what, and who’s the Champion of Where in order to continue attempting to steer the ship in some kind of order.

“That’s one word for it,” Leliana said, with a snort, and, for once, Morrigan nodded in agreement.

“We were friends, if you could call it that,” Leliana said, carrying on. “It is difficult, I think, to go through an event as serious as a Blight without forging a connection to those closest to you.”

“What we had all been through, Your Worship, would bond one another for a lifetime. But, of course,” Morrigan continued, leafing a single finger along the edge of the War Table’s map, in a dramatic and inviting gesture calculated specifically, Angus thought, to antagonize Leliana - “our Nightingale here is simply remembering how the Hero left her for Good King Alistair.”

At this, Leliana spluttered, causing Cullen to look up with either interest - or annoyance, in a new unexplored flavor - and Josephine’s eyes to go wide, as they usually did when salacious gossip was on the table.

To her credit, Leliana narrowed her eyes, and buckled down into her old Orlesian self, giving the most astute reply she could muster under Morrigan’s toying, and satisfyingly mean-spirited, gaze.

“We were more than friends, yes. It’s true,” Leliana said, not breaking eye contact with Morrigan, but addressing Angus directly, it seemed. “But her heart was in another place. And I think it’s fine, Morrigan, that things ended the way they did. Don’t you?”

Morrigan sniffed, apparently having failed to get under Leliana’s skin. “I suppose. Not everyone can have a happy ending, like those stories you tell in your life as a bard? Insipid as they were, they seemed to keep our friends happy on those nights where they were too bored to make their own fun.”

Leliana glared, and folded her arms. “You simply do not understand the kind of relationship Antoinette and Alistair and I had prior to her - her betrothal. And Alistair is a friend. Perhaps our feelings were simply too nuanced for someone like you to understand.”

This seemed to set Morrigan off, and her eyes flew from detached cat-and-mouse to a brief, but blinding, rage.

“Do not tempt me with your guesses at how capable I am of feelings, woman,” she spat, a genuine spite in her voice. “Do not presume to know how I feel.”

“Then do not assume how I do,” Leliana said, turning away and facing the window, but still glaring angrily at Morrigan out of the corner of her eyes.

“Ladies,” said Cullen, wearily, raising his arms - and slumped head, which he was cradling - off of the table, standing to full height. “Please. After Halamshiral, the last thing I need is more political bickering about who slept with who and what it meant and whether or not an entire nation will become unhinged due to their collective sexual miscapades,” Cullen groaned, laying his palms on the map and trying to wrest control of the situation.

“Which leads us to the Empress and Marquise Briala,” Josephine added, helpfully, before Cullen could sink into another bout of depression and Leliana could send assassins after Morrigan in the night for another perceived - however legitimate - slight. “We shall send them a letter, then. A simple thank you for having us at their party, as Gaspard, as you know - who invited us originally - awaits his execution at the gallows in Emprise du Lion.”

At this, everyone, including Morrigan, turned to face Angus, who looked drawn. Sheepish, though, for a man who had inadvertently sentenced someone to death.

“Yes,” said Cullen, slowly. “It is unfortunate, Gaspard’s meddling, but the law for treason in Orlais is firmly solid. I recommend,” he added, looking around the table, rather seriously, “that we drop any associations we’ve had with the man. And perhaps, on another date, we can focus on why the Inquisitor’s desire to reconcile the Empress with her lover superseded his ability to tell me his plan to do so in the first place.”

Angus, still looking sheepish, sighed, with genuine remorse. “I’m sorry, Cullen,” he said, brushing his short auburn hair out of his sight. “I should’ve told you. I simply became so wrapped up in the machinations of the Court -”

“And, undoubtedly, we can all agree Lord Trevelyan played the Game quite well,” said Josephine, closing the matter with a flourish of her quill. “Perhaps it would be wise to leave this particular issue for another day. I shall send the letter, then? Thanking the Empress and the Marquise?”

Everyone looked at each other, and, with a heaving sigh, Cullen pushed off the desk, nodding along. “Yes. Thank you, Ambassador. Perhaps it would be best. We’ll adjourn in the evening?”

With a loafing shuffle, everyone began to file out of the War Room, as Lord Trevelyan trailed along at the end. Perhaps Josephine was right - maybe everyone simply needed a break from the events of the night before. It was nothing a stiff break - or a stiff drink - couldn’t solve.

-

“Two shots of brandy, please,” Lord Trevelyan said, holding up his fingers in the universal “two”, as if that would help Cabot, the bartender, assist his order further.

As two grubby, thumb-smeared shot glasses of aged brandy, sealed and imported from Antiva, appeared in front of Angus’s eyes, a sliver of an elf with a glint of utter mischief on her face sidled down next to him on the empty barstool.

“Lord Fanycpants,” she said, poking him antagonistically with her elbow. “Are you still moping after what happened at Halamshiral?”

Angus - Lord Fancypants - looked at Sera, who had somehow already procured herself an entire flagon of Fereldan whiskey - eyes going wide with the universal sign of “I’m up to something, and I’m not giving up what”.

“I’m not moping,” Angus said, with composure. He shot the first shot of brandy, and winced, as if the silver spoon in his mouth was coming into rancid contact with some sort of melting mercury.

Sera made a face. “I don’t know what you’re on about, all sad, and mopey,” she said, drinking a third of her flagon in one go. “It went good, din’it? You got those two back together, the world is saved, you got to dance with your little sweetheart, everything’s good, innit?”

Angus looked wearily at Sera. “Do you know why I’m drinking this blasted stuff, Sera?” he asked, despairingly.

Sera shrugged. “You hate yourself?”

“Yes,” Angus said, with a small, dramatic sigh - almost a wail. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Sera looked at the glasses. She made another face - a sly one, the “I’ve caught your hand in the cookie jar” one.

“You’re drinking the stuff that reminds you of him,” she said, jabbing Lord Trevelyan with her finger once more. “You big old softie, you.”

Angus sniffed. “I’m not a softie,” he said, reaching for the second glass of brandy, but chickening out at the last minute, as the aftertaste of the first stuff hadn’t quite worn off yet.

“Softie,” said Sera, but she was starting to soften her own edges herself. She looked at Angus, a little sympathetically, a lot firmly.

“I didn’t really get to dance with him, not really,” said Angus, the small wail still in his voice. “I was so enraptured in playing the Game and ensuring the Empress’s safety that I never got the chance to - well, formally invite him to dance. Imagine. I take the hand of someone on the ballroom floor at Halamshiral and it’s not his. It’s - oh, Andraste’s tits, the one formal dance I had was with Duchess Florianne!”

Sera snorted, and a little bit of the whiskey came out her nose. “At least she’s pretty to look at,” she conceded. “And you two cut a bit of a rug out there. The nobles couldn’t get enough of it, apparently,” she said, snorting again.

Angus looked dismal. “I don’t care. I had these plans, Sera. I was going to make a big deal out of it. I was going to formally invite him to take the floor with me, and take him by the hand, and lead him in the most elegant rendition of the two-step those arsehole nobles had ever seen.”

Sera nodded solemnly. “Dorian would have liked that,” she said. “He loves when you make a big deal out of him.”

“I know,” Angus wailed, fully, this time, causing some of the tavern’s patrons to turn and look at him. “I didn’t get the chance. I successfully stopped an assassination attempt and reconciled the most star-crossed lovers the Court had ever seen, but I never got to give him that enchanted evening.”

Sera puckered her face, like she was sucking on a lemon. “That’s important to you noble lot, is it? Can’t you just sweep him away some other how? Offer to duel his old man to the death or something?”

Angus sighed. “It’s important,” he said, resting his arms on the old, mead-soaked bartop, “because I never really thought I’d get to take who I really wanted to the ball. To any ball. At all.”

And at that, he looked directly at Sera, rather sadly, and she knew immediately what he meant.

She patted Angus lightly on the arm, looking a little heartbroken, herself.

“Ah, to the Fade with ‘em, all of ‘em,” she said, rousingly. “You don’t need any ball to make you two feel special.”

“But it would have been important. Don’t you ever want to march back into your home town and do the things you always wanted to do, but with the man - er, woman - you love? Bit of a “fuck you” as well as a bit of a happy ending, isn’t it?”

Sera’s eyes glazed over a little, as she undoubtedly wondered how she could’ve disrupted the ball with a sweetheart of her own. Probably someone with whom she could partner unspeakable pranks.

“Ah, when you put it that way. I hope you get to have your fuck-you dance soon, then.” Sera grinned, and elbowed Angus affectionately.

“Thank you, Sera,” Angus said primly, reaching for the final shot glass and downing it in a solid swoop. He choked a little bit, thumped his chest, coughed, and spluttered a few drops back onto the counter.

“Never change, Inquisitor,” grinned Sera, sliding off the bar stool in search of her next flagon. “And good luck impressing the sparkly one.”

She paused, for just a second, then turned back to Angus.

“‘The one you love’, eh?” she said, grinning again, ear to ear.

Angus, already a redhead, and already flushed with his poor choices of brandy, turned somehow even more red.

He coughed, and spluttered a little again. Sera waggled her fingers and turned on her heel, wandering off into the tavern.

Angus looked back towards the bar. Two more brandies, perhaps, should do it. That should wipe his memory suitably for the rest of the evening.

-

[yamisnuffles]

Celebrating Dragon Age Day with my boys, all cuddled up on a winter morning.

[rosella-writes]

Rosella's Recs

I thought it time I finally make a compilation of some of the fics I've enjoyed recently. Sometimes you read something and just need to shout it to the world! In this one I'll share fics that focus on some rarely-touched-upon subjects, characters, or pairings that really tickled my fancy.

but I never had a name (and I never felt the same): by mafalda_157 (@darethshirl) Rated G. In which Merrill meets Audacity, and the tangled, beautiful relationship that results from it. This fic really captures the dreamy, treacherous land of the Fade in my opinion, as well as hammer home the otherworldliness of spirits and how very different their outlook is from "normal" people's perceptions of right and wrong. Audacity is a chillingly fascinating character here and I absolutely love them, and Merrill's character voice almost brought me to tears. It's a feast for the soul from beginning to end.

doldrums: by mafalda_157 (@darethshirl) Rated G. This fic had me simultaneously howling with laughter and internally cringing at every turn. Dorian makes the mistake of discussing slavery with Lavellan, and accidentally alienates his newly-found friend. He's lonely and cold in Haven, and to offend the Herald only adds insult to injury. Dorian's internal monologue (and external monologue, let's be real) is just absolutely perfect here, and he both shatters me and heals me. Absolutely lovely and heartwarming and funny all around, and has become one of my all time favorite comfort fics.

let me occupy your mind (as you do mine): by mafalda_157 (@darethshirl) Rated E. When I finished the Eight Little Talons in Tevinter Nights, I immediately made a beeline to AO3 to find fics for my new favorite Antivans, Teia and Viago. At the time of looking, however, there were none. Since then, this little beauty was written, and boy does it deliver. It's sweet, it's fluffy, it has assassin shenanigans in Orlais, and it has two little murder hobos hopelessly in love with one another. Some of the hottest smut I've ever read, 10/10 cannot recommend enough!

Two Elves and a Vint: by cellophaneflowers (@melisusthewee) Rated T. In which Quinn Trevelyan doesn't need help so much as help when it comes to wooing our favorite Seeker of Truth. I loved reading him struggling with his pride and his need to please his lady, especially through Dorian, Sera, and Solas's eyes. To see each companion deal with Quinn in their own, very unique ways was a pleasure, and I couldn't stop grinning by the end.

The Many Faces of Wisdom: by cellophaneflowers (@melisusthewee) Rated G. This fic singlehandedly made me ship Solas/M!Trevelyan. In which Solas goes searching for remnants of Wisdom in the Fade after the events of All New, Faded for Her... and finds it. This idea was fascinating to me, of the spirit being reborn in a not-quite-familiar way, and yet still just enough of Solas's friend to make it difficult to let go. Wisdom-Curiosity-Purpose is just delightful here, morphing between its different aspects as it tries to figure out what to Be, and the face it chooses tells us more about Solas than Solas ever wanted to know. Beautiful, heartwrenching, angsty fic with a fluffy, fuzzy core.

[fancytrinkets]

Fic excerpt, WIP, M!Trevelyan/Dorian, journal entries

Papers of Galen Trevelyan

Field notes, undated, written in ink, and clearly not by Trevelyan's hand — the tall and narrow shape of the letters contrasts sharply with the Inquisitor's own stout handwriting

-----

Hello Trevelyan,

First things first. Relax please. Deep breath in, deep breath out. All that.

Much better, yes?

Good.

I promise I haven't read any of your "field notes" or whatever silly, masculine thing you prefer to call this little diary of yours. No, instead all I've done is open it to a blank future page to write you a note.

Why, you ask?

Well, I think it should be obvious, but perhaps not. It's simple, really. I want to tell you some things, and I don't want you to read them right away.

So, here goes:

These past few days with you have been indescribably wonderful. I do mean this earnestly. And I'm not only talking about the sex — which you are very good at, by the way. (Congratulations on that.)

I've said that I like you and I mean it, of course, but that's not even the half of it. I like you more than I know what to do with. And the fact that it seems to be mutual — well, that still doesn't seem quite real.

So if, by the time you're reading this, I've done something foolhardy to ruin whatever's between us, I want you to give me another chance. This is all going to be so new for me — I'm fairly certain I'll smash it to bits and be very sorry about that, but I won't have any idea at all how to make it up to you. So, keep that in mind. If I have ruined it, I'll probably want very desperately to unruin it, but I won't know how to tell you so.

So maybe you come find me? And we try to work it out? I'm sure I'd want that.

—Dorian

-----

Hmm, you still haven't found this, have you? I thought you would have by now.

No matter.

Do forgive the melodrama. I was feeling rather anxious about everything at the start. But now here we are, nearly three months later, and I still haven't ruined anything. Fantastic, isn't it? I'm not often this pleased to be wrong.

-----

I suppose I'll just have to keep adding secret little notes here now that I've started.

It's surprising. I've fallen in love with other men before, you know? But it's never been reciprocal before, and certainly not something I've ever been so free to imagine and indulge and enjoy.

I can see it in little ways. I'm a different person now because of you. Well, because of us. Not different in a bad way. Trust me, I don't mean that. More like a "living up to one's potential" sort of way — which, ugh, sounds so dreadfully boring and responsible, like something my father would say. (But no, I'm crossing that out. He doesn't get to be part of this, not even in a fleeting reference.)

The point is, I love you, Trevelyan. And though it's not all thanks to you — do keep that ego in check, you smug bastard — it is true that I like who I am right now. In fact, I like myself more now than I ever have. And some of that is your doing.

Thanks for that. It's not so bad.

—Dorian

-----

Dorian,

I love you, too. More than I can put into words. I know we've only just started, but I do feel so deeply that you're the great love of my life. And loving you has changed me as well — very much for the better.

But this is not a diary. I don't write in it daily, so therefore, by definition, it can't be one. Masculinity has nothing to do with it.

Yours, Galen

-----

Hah! It's a diary!

—Dorian