#dorian x inquisitior

[aria-i-adagio]

Ch. 58: Honeysuckle

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“Perhaps that’s where they hid the actually good stuff.”

Maybe. It certainly doesn’t make sense for the everyday table wine to live up here, but it doesn’t necessarily make sense for the kind of wine Dorian is likely to describe as good to be found in a military outpost along a trade road. No harm in looking. Rhys brushes the dust off the front of the crate. “Antiva -” He slaughters the pronunciation of the estate name; Josie has been trying valiantly to turn his Antivan and Orlesian pronunciations into something acceptable. It’s an uphill battle. “8:93.”

“Ah! An excellent estate, and I’ve heard that was a good year.”

Rhys can hear how Dorian rubs his hands together with anticipation in the tone of his voice. “And -” The cask is covered with an even thicker layer of dust. “Starkhaven whiskey. 9:12.”

“Very nice.” Dorian actually sounds impressed, and Rhys smirks as he drags the cask out from the stretchy tendrils of spider silk and twists around until he can pass it down. Same for the crate. Finally, he swings his legs over the edge of the rack and drops back down to the floor. The puff of dust when he lands almost looks dramatic.

Dorian tsks. “And once again, my mudlark, you managed to turn yourself into an absolute mess.”

“I was already pretty much a mess.” Rhys shrugs and grins. “I could go for a stroll in the rain. Might wash most of it off.”

“Yes, well -” Dorian reaches out and curls his fingers around Rhys’s jaw and he runs his thumb over his cheekbone. His eyes flick down, then rise back to Rhys’s as he takes a step forward and sets his other hand on his waist. “There’s an equal chance you would have found a mud puddle and caught cold and then where would we be.”

“Huddled under blankets and drinking mulled wine?”

Dorian smiles. “I’ve heard much worse ideas.”

Read on AO3

[jawsandbones]

Seep - II.

“It’s been the same for the past three days,” he says. He turns the cup only slightly, porcelain against porcelain, stuck in that matching saucer. The tea remains untouched, still steaming. He briefly rubs at the corner of his eye. “I’m already halfway to the room when it starts.” His hand moves from his eye to settle on his shoulder, a half hug, as he leans forward, elbow on the table. “The mirror is waiting for me.”

It’s always on its own. Surrounded by sunshine, the glass of the windows cast brilliant vibrations of light across the clean floor, all colliding at the center. He tracks mud inside. His footsteps make no sound, or perhaps they’re simply silenced by it. It hums a song, low and rolling. Gnarled branches make up its frame, with halla carved by his own hand or perhaps a hand he used to have. The windows gently shake with the song. Dust falls from the cracks in the ceiling. It has its back to him. The sun sets and rises in that room a thousand times before he stands before it.

The mirror shows him what he already knows in his heart to be true. It reflects a pattern of infection, just under his skin. Mahanon presses fingers against the scar of his arm, gone from the shoulder, and follows the luminescent green bloom. The mirror reflects his carving of flesh, heaving chunks. Piercing fingertips into bone, pulling at the strings of vein and nerve through weighted muscle. There’s always the need to go further, to seek out the source of the rot. There’s always more fade lurking in his depths. The song hums what he’s told himself a thousand times. It will never be gone.

He tears himself apart, unravels himself to the end. The taint is in the weave. He is left, small and alone, but for his reflection. It regards him kindly, at least. His own mouth opens to speak, but it’s only the song and Mahanon can’t understand the words. They’re from a tongue far older than his own. Something shifts under his own reflection’s skin, as though someone else is wearing him.

“It doesn’t change,” Mahanon tells them, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. He turns the cup once again, can’t bring himself to drink just yet. “And I can’t hear the Well anymore.” Dorian and Maevaris exchange a glance. Dorian reaches out, puts his hand over Mahanon’s.

“We’ll figure this out,” he assures Nan gently.

First - Next 

[themefo]

So I didn’t get a chance to do a Valentines Day painting, but I didn’t want the day to go by with nothing for my sweet OTP. Here is Amrynn and Dorian being cute and in love, a very rough drawing but at least I did it!

[talesfromthefade]

"I need a hug." for June & Dorian?

June Lavellan & Dorian Pavus (the post-Adamant/Fade conversation) for @dadrunkwriting

“You have remarkably little here on early Tevinter history,” Dorian offers casually as the elf approaches the little alcove of the library the mage has staked out as his. “All these gifts to the Inquisition,” he continues, shaking his head with a frown, “and the best they can do is the Malefica Imperio. Trite propaganda. But if you want twenty volumes on where the Divine Galatea took a shit on Sunday, this is evidently the place to find it.”

“That’s the Dorian I know,” June smiles softly. “Critiquing every book in my library.”

June’s getting better these days, if not with everyone, then at least with his lover, about reading some of the social cues that usually elude him. He’s still inclined to say that he’s quite handicapped compared to some, perhaps even most, but he’s picking some things up. Enough by now to know that the frustration etched into Dorian’s brow isn’t about a book. Or, not exclusively, anyway. Best to simply be direct about it.

“What is this about, Dorian?”

“When we fell into the chasm- into the Fade- I thought you were done for. I don’t know if I can forgive you for that moment.”

They’ve not had much opportunity to talk about it since it happened. Not for June’s lack of trying, but he’d needed to brief the rest of the War Council on what had happened, assess their and the Warden’s losses, plan what their next move might be against Corypheus… They’d scarcely slept in order to march back to Skyhold as quickly as possible. Even now, there’s a sense of holding their breath. Corypheus’s plan will undoubtedly suffer from the blow they have dealt him, but it would be foolish to think he will give up now.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that with me,” June apologizes, frowning a little. Not for the first time, the elf feels frustrating conflicted and confused by the mage in front of him and the relationship they’ve embarked on together. Surely he should feel bad for making Dorian go through this. He does. June would do anything in his power to protect Dorian, from anything that might hurt him, himself included. Still, some small part of him feels… not pleased, exactly, but not disappointed either, that the thought of losing him is as frightening and potentially devastating as the reverse can be said of him. Nothing is certain, of course. The two of them, the whole of the Inquisition, face down enemies on an almost daily basis that could be their end. But it’s difficult, not something he even wants to try, imagining going on doing so without Dorian now.

“I’m not sorry I was there with you,” Dorian interjects, shaking his head. “I thought I’d lost you. You sent me ahead and then didn’t follow. For just a moment, I was certain you wouldn’t. I thought this is it. This is where I finally lose him forever. Are you- alright,” the mage asks, softening a little when he finally notices June’s frown.

“It was like walking in a nightmare, but everything was real… I couldn’t-” June trails off, struggling to put the events of Adamant and what had happened to them all in the Fade into words. Spiders. That’s what he’d complained of. Always spiders. Because who isn’t a little bit fearful of the ones the size of dogs. If that was not the form the creatures the Nightmare had sent after him took, if they instead looked more like ghosts-friends and family come back to haunt him for his failures- well, no one else needs ever know.

“Ah, it’s as I thought,” Dorian nods, softening a little. “The Fade is an ordeal under normal circumstances. To be the only real thing there… beyond description. That any of us made it out alive is difficult to believe. That you made it out, a miracle. You do realize this feat hasn’t been performed in over a thousand years? Corypheus and his contemporaries entered the Fade and began the blights. In comparison... “

“At least I had you on my side,” June offers with a slight smile. Truthfully, it was only having Dorian alive, volleying taunts and spells left and right at anything that came at them that kept him sane,  anchored, focused on the task at hand of getting out and back to the world he was more familiar with.

“No offense,” Dorian chuckles ruefully, “But I’d almost rather I hadn’t been.”

“No sense of adventure? That’s surprising.”

“I’ve not your talent for survival, and not everyone is as discerning as I. If you can walk in the Fade, others will try to follow. Who knows what secrets Corypheus has revealed? Not all of them will be so lucky as you. What they could unleash… My advice? Keep this quiet. Let them speculate. Too many will see this as a challenge.”

“That’s a good idea,” June nods. It’s exactly what he had thought to do, and he supposes, he wouldn’t really know what to tell anyone or how to explain much of anything he saw in the first place.

“There are enough idiots in the world who think if they just use enough blood magic, their problems will vanish. It’s exactly the sort of thing I want to stop back home. This… I don’t need. What I do need is a copy of the Liberalium. I’ll wager I can find Corypheus’s real name. If I can prove he was a grasping ankle-biter with no family to speak of? The luster would come right off. Wish me luck,” he grins softly, lifting a hand once more to comb over the spines of the books on the nearby shelf.

“You won’t need it,” June replies confidently. Dorian chuckles softly, shaking his head, before seeming to abandon his task of weeding the propaganda and more useless books from his corner shelves in favor of turning his attention back to his lover. He’s smiling now. A real smile, June thinks with relief. The rare ones that actually make it all the way to his silvery eyes, and pull at the crow’s feet he’d no doubt deny being old or happy enough to have. “Take a break.”

“You have something in mind, Amatus,” the mage asks, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Not particularly,” June admits with a slight shrug. “I’ve just missed you.”

“Oh.”

For a moment, June wonders if perhaps this is another instance where he’s unwittingly said something most people would leave unsaid, but the elf has never seen the sense in such things. He waits for Dorian to bluster or tease him as seems to have become their habit, so it takes him momentarily off-guard when the mage closes the gap between them, wrapping his arms around him, then that he goes for a hug, burrowing his face into his lover’s neck rather than a kiss. Surprised, but not unhappy.

“I missed you too,” Dorian whispers softly, mustaches and warm breath gently tickling June’s neck as he squeezes him just a little tighter.

[felassanis]

Crack ships in dragon age I sometimes think about

Purple Hawke x Solas

Iron Bull x Josephine

Sten x Dorian

Warden x Inquisitior

Inquisitor x Zevran (can you imagine Cassandra's horror)

Fenris x Zevran

[wepepe-draws]

this is stupid, but whatever XD I did a really weird crossover The Resident x Dragon Age Inquisition

This is a scene from Season 3 Episode 4, in a universe where the Dragon Age Inquisition characters are doctors. I decided to make a short comic from it, just to try challenge myself on making one. (I’m not a comic person sorry if the characters look stiff T_T)

Starring: Sera, Cassandra Pentaghast, Solas, Inquisitior Lavellan, Dorian Pavus.

[pimsri]

Man if i die from drawing too much gays then i die with a smile on my face but my ancestors ain’t gonna smile at me. 

[lypreila]

32. Kiss at dawn for couple of your choice?

Woo This took longer than I’d like.  Thanks Work >.>  Anyway!  Thank you for prompting me Nonnie!  I wanted to make this Solavellan but.. well…. Anya and Cole just kidna wouldn’t go away.  Enjoy! TW for implied CSA and A***tion

It is an hour before dawn, and she can not sleep.  She feels 13 again, the weight and hopes of a noble family lying heavy on her shoulders.  Mari staring at her, mouth agape, as she makes snow fall, and the expectations slide from her to settle on her young sister.  Locked doors aren’t enough to keep the resulting argument from her ears, listening as she is crouched beneath the window outside.  They speak first of sending her to Tevinter, hushed and hypothetical.  Anya’s wild, fleeting moment of hope that she will not be sent to the circle is dashed quickly though, and talk quickly turns to calling in cousin Phillipe, stationed right here in Ostwick till the end of the month.

She is 14, her birthday passed the day before, when Phillipe’s commander comes to personally escort her to the circle.  His name is Ystin, she learns, and he is older, kindly looking, though with a funny smell she can’t at first place.  Her mother leans down, embracing her, and whispers “Modest in temper, bold in deed.  You will shine, Anya.”  

Back in the present the clouds over Skyhold are growing lighter, but she is lost in memories, wondering if she is doomed to fail those she loves over and over, and she does not see the shadow, not as unnoticeable as he once was, standing on the balcony behind her.  

Instead she is 20, facing her harrowing with quiet dignity, humility learned at the hands of Ser Ystin beaten deep into her. She ignores the sick feeling in her stomach that now comes daily.  It’s the spirit that finally tells her what the morning sickness means, who listens when she speaks of how terrified she is.

“I’m scared.”

“Of the child?”  They look like an older woman at the moment, white hair floating about their face as they stare at her.

“I never want children.  Never have.”  Her hand clenches against her stomach.  With the recent tensions, the in fighting between the libertarians and the loyalists… this is a disaster.  

A languid shrug, the form shifting to that of her mother’s maid.

“So don’t have one.  Talk to Lorelei - she’ll help you.”  

That night, after Ser Ystin is done with her and takes his leave, she does. The older woman is tiny, but her anger fills up the room.  

“I see.  I see more than you young ones think.  Hide your hatred child, we have work to do.  He will be gone in a week.”  

And so he was.  The Templars come for them mere days later, tired of the neutrality preached by the senior enchanters and their own Knight Commander.  There is a schism, loyalists and Libertarians, and some small fights erupt.  Still sick from the bitter herbs Anya flees at Lorelei’s behest.  

“We can handle them.  They’ve almost no Lyrium left, it won’t even be a fair fight.”   She’s speaking of the Templars, of course, and Anya doesn’t ask what she plans to do about the Circle Loyalists.  She doesn’t want to know.  

So she runs, making her way south to join the Marcher delegation.  

The sun peeks over the mountains at last, and she feels Cole’s arm around her, solid warmth at her side  The gossamer strands of the past fall away, and she reminds herself that she is stronger now, the events of the last three years molding and shaping her into someone different.  Someone better.  She leans into Cole, both of them gazing at the glorious dawn as it lightens the courtyard.  He presses a kiss to her head, and she sighs.  

“You’re thinking of the past.”

“I was.  But the present is more concerning now.”

“You worry.  Without war, what of the Inquisition?  What will the council say?”

Anya nods, watching as horses and baggage are gathered below, preparations for their journey to Halamshiral.

“I think, dear, that I’ve gone beyond caring.  I am tired of having the weight of the world on me.  I just want a world where we don’t have to hide.”  

Cole smiles, something less rare than it once was, and presses another kiss to her hair, and they stay there for a long while, basking in the dawn.

[halla-hunts-the-wolf]

- Love Languages -

Ship: Dorian Pavus × Inquisitior Lavellan.

Mentioned Cullen x Companion Lavellan belonging to @ruinvevo.

Warnings: None

"Ellana seeks advice involving the Commander's birthday, and is surprised to find it in form of Dorian's sentimentality."

⚔⚔⚔

It was well past noon and the Inquisitior had not once gotten out of bed. Sunlight filtered in from the doors of the balcony, as shades of green and gold splashed across the floor due to the stain glass in the windows.

A winter chill was also present, a bit of cold air due to the mountains that the Inquisition called home.

All and all, the day had been dull and uneventful. This was something that Dorian wouldn't complain about, however, as they hadn't taken a moment to properly rest since returning from the Temple of Mythal.

The elf was sprawled out across the bed, back up, as he used the mage's chest as a pillow. Dorian didn't have the heart to move him and instead resigned to holding a book within one hand, while the other glided across the bare skin of the Inquisitor's back. Tracing out maps from freckle to freckle and scar to scar with nimble fingers.

He kept his touch warm with a bit of magic in order to weave the heat into his lover's stiff muscles; a natural relaxant.

Mahvir was a mess of long hair and exhaustion but he had barely stirred all morning. This was something rare, Dorian would note, but it was bound to happen eventually. You could only go so long before your body gives up on you- he didn't think the the old warrior would have been able to stay awake even if he'd wanted too.

Only Josephine had came to seek him out but upon being told of his current state, practically comatose where he lay, she had dismissed his need for duty until further notice. Something she had been promptly thanked for by his Tevinter paramour, before she departed. Not another soul had dared to disturb them since.

Until now.

A sharp knocking resonated from the base of the staircase and it shocked Dorian away from his thoughts. His grey eyes, cool as ice, rose from his book and turned instead to the man nestled within the crook of his arm. He didn't want to wake Mahvir, but he couldn't ignore whoever had come to see the Inquisitior.

He coughed to clear his throat, it was hoarse from having not spoken in hours. "Friend or foe?"

"Family!" A voice called back and he relaxes, closing his book and setting it aside before continuing to glide his other hand around the grooves of Mahvir's shoulder blades. The elf makes a small noise in his sleep, it sounds almost like a purr, and Dorian is fighting a fond smile as he watches Ellana turn the corner at the top of the stairs.

"He's still asleep?" The woman asks, her voice a thoughtful whisper.

Dorian inclines to the couch with a tilt of his head, waiting for her to take a seat before responding, "He wasn't feeling well last night and you know how he is. He won't listen to anyone, not even his own body." An annoyed sigh escapes him, "this is what he gets."

Ellana arches an eyebrow at him. "You didn't spell him?"

He lays his free hand upon his collarbone, unable to reach his heart in an otherwise dramatic display of mock hurt. "Dearest Ellana, such accusations wound me- but no, he's just gone and gotten himself tuckered out."

"Ah." The light dulls in her violet eyes for a moment. "I was hoping to ask him for advice."

"Perhaps I can help?" Dorian offers. The maker knew that he spent an unsavory amount of time with Mahvir, surely some of his sage like wisdom had rubbed off.

Ellana hesitates, undoubtedly because she had come to speak with her father figure and not his boyfriend, who she knew to be a lot more spontaneous.

"It's nothing serious." She finally says, biting her bottom lip in concentrating thought. "Cullen's birthday is coming up and he is refusing to talk about it."

"The Commander, stubborn? I never would have guessed."

"I want to get him something anyway, something that will mean a lot even in the years to come but he isn't a materialistic person."

Dorian considers this for a moment, his touch now linging at the curve of Mahvir's hip, tracing along the sharp bone- his lover was scrawnier by the day- he thinks, but then he remembers a conversation he's had with Josephine about the upcoming birthday.

"Believe it or not, you're not the only one struggling, our darling Ambassador has tried all sorts of ideas but finally settled on some tasteless Fereldan desert. Leliana has gotten him a gold chess set and I have a copy of his favorite book from childhood tucked away in here somewhere. I believe Mahvir has sought out something to alleviate his headaches and is sending a care package to his sister and her children. "

The woman on the couch seems to take this in for a moment, disappointment dancing across her expression. "You all seem to know exactly what he wants."

"Not at all but we do know things that will make his day easier."

Ellana groans and leans her head against the back of the couch. "You've all taken the best ideas." She complains, before tipping her head to the side to meet the mage's gaze. "What about you and Mahvir? What kind of gifts do you two give?"

Dorian considers this silently for a moment. "Without getting unsavory; my gifts usually include giving him refuge. He is an anxious person by nature and lives with a lot of physical pain as well. I order potions for him, make sure he has a bath drawn each night and I force him to see a healer at least once a month."

"Those seem more like chores than gifts."

"One would think so, but the greatest gift I could give him right now is being there to help him up when he falls. Like Cullen, he isn't materialistic. Sometimes actions speak louder than words."

Ellana furrows a brow, "So should I do something for Cullen? A gesture for how much I love him?"

"But with me," Dorian continues, "I find notes written in the margins of my books, or roses left by my desk in the library. My favorite brand of wine is always stocked in the cellar and I always have someone who listens to me just for the sake of listening."

"So actual gifts?" The poor girl seemed more at a loss than she was when she first arrived.

The mage can't help but chuckle. He was sure that he and Ellana shared the same amount of experience when it came to relationships, nothing serious prior to who they were currently with, and a few months ago he would have been just as put off as she. "The moral of this is, it all depends on the bond you two share. You are the only one who knows how Cullen gives his love and how you give yours. It's all very precious, if you think about it."

"He gave me his good luck charm." She slowly says after a moment as if the beginning of an idea was finally forming within her mind. "He used to keep it with him everywhere he went but then he chose to give it to me."

"The Dalish make each other tokens, do they not? You signify engagements with betrothal necklaces rather than rings?"

"Yes!" She sits up in excitement, eyes wide and ears perked. "I can make him something similar, so he can have a charm from me."

"A perfect choice." Dorian congratulates, offering the elf a smile as she springs off the piece of furniture and moves back to her feet.

"Thank you Dorian." She says, "You're really good at this."

"What is this?"

"Being a friend."

The man in bed, curled up among another body, blankets, and books, is at a loss for words. Straightforward sentiment had never been his strong suit. "Yes, well, don't go telling the others." He says. "I have a reputation to maintain."

"I wouldn't dream of it." She responds, with plenty of her own mirth.

"Go on would you, why wait around here all day when you have a Commander to charm?"

Ellana took his dismissal as her cue to leave, she'd hit one of his nerves, but neither of them seemed to actually mind it.

Her bit of farewell was a small wave, before she turns to the stairs and is gone a moment later.

"She's right you know." A gruff voice breaks through the renewed silence and Dorian turns his gaze away from the staircase to the elf at his side.

Dorian sushes his lover softly, turning on his side just enough to run his other hand through the length of his chestnut hair. "Go back to sleep, Amatus."

"You go back to sleep." The inquisitior retorts, almost grumpily, but a moment later his breathing had slowed once again.

Dorian sighs fondly, bends his head to leave a kiss on the other man's temple, and then returns to his book.

[saphylee]

Break down ALL of them gogo ;)

I realize that this is probably geared towards canon characters but I DON’T CARE :D I will always love to gush about my babies.

Thelrand Lavellan

How I feel about this character

He is my favorite character to write and he wasn’t supposed to be! I created him just to try out Dorian’s romance and he started off in a cameo in a rp just to push the crack eluvian plot. But he’s grown so much and writing him, no matter what’s going on, as been a huge source of joy for me. And there’s still so much story ahead of him that I can’t wait to discover.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Avira

Tulio @leothelionsaysgrrrr

The Iron Bull

Dorian

My non-romantic BROTP for this character

Delrand! Delrin Barris x Thelrand.

My unpopular opinion about this character

This is why I think this was meant for canon characters lol My unpopular opinion of my own character is that he’s too pretty for his own good :P

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

As Inquisitior, I wished he could have ran away to Tevinter with Dorian after Inquisition instead of dealing with cleaning up Thedas.

Sylathi Lavellan

How I feel about this character

MY SWEET BABY HIPPIE CHILD! Bad InfluenceTM best friend to show her that there’s more to life than duty and she’s allowed to fly and pursue her dreams. I love her optimism and love for life and maintaining that as she navigates the world. We need more Sylas in the world.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Maleus

Avira

Sebastian Vael

Solas

My non-romantic OTP for this character

Sylathi and Lux @leothelionsaysgrrrr

My unpopular opinion about this character

She can be incredibly secretive and keep her true feelings hidden which usually causes more bad than good.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

As Inquisitor, she should have stayed away from the egg.

Tamralan Lavellan

How I feel about this character

The dad I wish I had. He is an incredibly warm and kind being who always puts others’ needs above his own. He would take the shirt off his back to keep another warm, make sure everyone eats before he takes a bite, and adopts all the orphaned and misfit children. He’s just a wonderful person and deserves all the happiness in the world.

All the people I ship romantically with this character

Asami

Emma 

Cassandra

Samiha (some day maybe?? :D)

My non-romantic OTP for this character

Tamralan x Tasalin @leothelionsaysgrrrr

My unpopular opinion about this character

I can’t say anything bad about this man.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon.

As Inquisitor, I wish he was appreciated more. He gave so much of himself and got little thanks for saving the fucking world.

[rageagainstthemarine]

31 Days of Fic (An InkTober Alternative)

Day 6 - Describe your character’s hands

The ground beneath them all is bucking like some wild animal, attempting to throw the weight off its back. It's successful, very so, and Dorian finds it impossible to keep his feet. He's smart enough to throw himself backwards, away from the fight, but he's not strong enough to go far. The dragon's claws rake against stone and the bridge crumbles under the weight. Bull is close enough to solid earth just beyond the bridge's arch to get a firm footing and he lunges towards the other side. The side where Fahleon is quickly tumbling down after the bricks.

Bull is fast, but Dorian is closer. He turns himself around and makes a stumbling and faltering mess of himself that he is sure to demand Fahleon never repeats if they - when they - make it out of this mess. Fahleon's balance gives out after a minute of struggle, and he's on his back, rolling down what remains of the bridge and into thin air. Until there's a sudden stop that has him crying out at the sharp jerk of his arm. Dorian's arm shakes with the strain and he tightens his hold.

Fahleon returns his grip with a brief pull on his - a test to see if he call pull himself up the edge. Dorian can fell the callouses of years with a bow under a layer of sweat and blood. There's a rough patch on the outside of this thumb from a healing wound after an encounter with a frightened nug, and Dorian's finger traces the scab while looking for a better purchase. It's difficult when Fahleon's hands are so much smaller than his own, and nearly impossible to bring Fahleon up to solid ground. Not without help, at least. There's a look on his face that must have spoken for him, for Fahleon's grip has gone slack and there's a frown on his face with more determination than fear. It's one of Dorian's favorites.

He can't feel the prickle of magic, but he can hear it - the way the very air below them snaps and rips until there's a jagged cut in the dark pit where the bridge had once been. There's light, now, bright and unearthly, and the hollow sound of the Fade echoes from it.

"Let go," Fahleon says, and the elf's hand had never felt so heavy in his own before.

[aria-i-adagio]

"You looked so cute when you were little." for Dorian x Rhys?

Thank you for the prompt!

Modern AU (and apologies, American as that’s the context I know) where Dorian is the disgraced scion of a Republican political dynasty. No, Inquisition. Rhys is living his best life after dropping out of college a semester short of a horticulture degree and breeds cannabis strains.

---

Rhys is sprawled across the bed in Dorian’s old room, head just hanging the side, flipping through an album filled with pictures of a boy with dark curly hair and chubby cheeks who was frequently dressed up with a bowtie. The door clicks shut behind Dorian as he comes back in after finishing whatever after dinner chat his mother wanted to have with him.

“Oh dear god - where on earth did you find that?”

Rhys grins. “Bottom drawer of the dresser.”

“Hmm... Mother must have forgotten to get them back out since she started talking to me again.” The mattress sinks as he sits down next to Rhys. “How embarrassing.”

Dorian tries to take the album from him, but Rhys snatches it back and sits up, folding his legs in front of him. He abandoned his shoes and socks both some time ago. The carpet in the Pavus mansion is absurdly cushy.

“What?” Rhys flips over another page. Nine or ten year old Dorian playing tennis in a polo shirt and khaki shorts. “You looked so cute when you were little. Look at those eyelashes.”

“Are you implying that I’m not cute now?” Dorian lays down and folds his hands behind his head.

“Never.” Rhys reaches out and strokes Dorian’s short, soft hair. “Does your hair still curl if you let it grow out? We should find out. I bet it does. And what about these bowties. I am definitely taking this back with me.”

That earns Rhys an exaggerated sigh and an eye roll. “Why did I decide to bring you home with me again? I’m not going to have a single secret left.”

“Hmm, well -” Rhys sets aside the photo album and straddles Dorian’s waist, running his thumbs over his cheekbones. “I believe there was something about arm candy and the perverse pleasure of creating a scandal at all the holiday parties.”

“Ah, yes, trolling all of Father’s old friends in the GOP caucus.”

“Yes, I’m supposed to find all the mistletoe.” Rhys leans down and kisses each not-at-all-chubby-now cheek in turn. “Or carry some in my coat pocket and surreptitiously hang it in very public places, correct?”

“Or not surreptitiously. Give one your lectures on genus, species, and growing habits to get everyone’s attention, and then hang the mistletoe up and grab me.”

“Can we go shoot some out of a tree? After trying this homophobic cult chicken? That would make a good story.”

Rhys can feel Dorian’s chuckle where his fingertips are resting against his chest. “The homophobic chicken is not that good. And do you even know how to shoot a rifle, Lark?”

“No. But judging from one of those photos you learned at some point in your childhood. Keeping up appearances with the gun lobby?”

Dorian scowls. “I think there might even have been a campaign ad.”

“So now you get payback. New Year’s will be fun too.” Rhys licks Dorian’s lower lip - it’s too tempting when he’s pouting - and starts undoing buttons running down the front of his shirt while placing kisses along the side of his jaw. “Celebrating midnight in every timezone?”

“Oh -” Dorian arches his neck, giving Rhys better access to his throat. “It will be, but we’re going to Maevaris's soiree, and you might be the least scandalous person there, amatus.”

[jawsandbones]

"are you coming home soon?" for any pairing you'd like ❤️

Dorian follows dutifully behind him, and does his best not to distract him. This means heroically ignoring and not voicing his complaint of a number of things, which includes but is not limited to: the mosquitos, the mud, the sweat, the ache in his feet, his legs, his back… Nan crouches down, fingertips pulling up loose bark. He looks over his shoulder, breaks into a grin when his eyes settle on Dorian. “We’re close,” he says, bouncing once again to his feet. The curling roots and jutting stones are no obstacle. Nimble, light, standing atop a steep hill, his hand outstretched to pull Dorian up to him.

The third day of constant walking through a forest which looks increasingly the same. Dorian would be sick of it but – the nights are his refuge. Nan has always had the uncanny knack of being able to find the perfect place. There hasn’t been a need for unrolling the tent. They had bedded down in clovers, curled together, and it’s almost horrifying to realize the amount of times Dorian had fallen asleep to the sound of Mahanon’s voice. His mouth close to his, murmuring to himself in elvish. It’s far more than remembering, than practice. “I’ve been away so long,” Nan had said, with a low frown, turning away, “and now they call me the Herald of Andraste.”

“Thank you amatus,” Dorian manages, as he attempts to brush off his robes. Nan’s been harder to hold onto these past few days, a vine endlessly twisting towards sunlight, but he waits patiently for him here. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, over the evergreen of his vallaslin. Long hair pulled up into a loose bun, long strands wisp about his face, some caught in the sweat of it all. Dorian knows he’s in no better shape but the hold finally breaks, Nan’s hands raising to Dorian’s face. “What?” Whatever expression he wears, it makes Nan chuckle.

“They’re going to love you,” he says, before he leans forward, a kiss over a kiss, over a kiss. Dorian’s hands wrap around Nan’s wrists as he feels his face unexpectedly heat, the tips of his ears and the back of his neck just as red to match. Hands slipping back in hands, the leather of his archery glove unexpectedly cool, as Nan pulls him forward. Dorian couldn’t name the path again for the life of him. How Nan finds the crack through the stone wall is beyond him. Pulling through and – the clearing opens up before them, aravels hidden underneath the canopy of large trees.

Dorian smiles to himself. He had seen the reports, of course. Nan had brought them to him. The first, the second, the third, until Leliana refused his request for a fourth. They were all so certain that there was no sign of the Lavellan clan. Nan’s hand slips from his as he rushes into camp, chattering in bright and enthusiastic elvish. Dorian is certain that the vindication of being right is far from his mind, so Dorian minds it for him. On the way back, he’ll remind Nan of the reports. The scathing rant was entertaining the first time, Dorian has no doubt it’ll be even more so now.

Nan sprints forward, his arms opened up wide as a woman gasps in surprise, dropping the bundle she’s carrying. He swoops her up into his embrace, her feet lifting of the ground as he spins her around. They’re both breathless when he puts her down, hug unraveling as Dorian quietly walks beside him. “Such a big man,” she says as she smiles, reaches up to trace the lines of Nan’s vallaslin with her thumb. Moving gentle to the nape of his neck, and he bends easily to her touch. “My baby boy.” A soft murmur, and Dorian watches as Nan and his mother collapse into that hug once again, hold each other close, oh so tightly.

The other two are slow to break apart, to separate, faces shining with the same sort of tears. The rest of the clan is slowly circling around them, and Dorian recognizes the description Nan gave him of the Keeper. “Aneth ara Nan,” she says to Mahanon so warmly, “does this mean you’ve come home to us da’len?”

[themefo]

A teeny tiny sneak peak of a little side project I’m working on. I’m a sucker for neck kisses and bites 😘

[authorellenmint]

Chocolate Dorian

It’s chocolate Dragon Age week! I’ve got ten new stories coming over the week that pair various companions with rich chocolate treats. Enjoy!

Pacing about in his quarters, the Inquisitor didn’t look up from the latest reports out of the commander as he fished open a box of imported chocolates. They were a gift from somewhere for something. Josephine was in charge of keeping track and sending the requisite thank you notes. He had neither the time nor training apparently to fulfill such a dangerous task.

He was about to place the first unlooked upon chocolate to his lips, when his eyes finally swung down to find someone beat him to it. A small bite mark taunted him from the hard chocolate shell. Frowning, the Inquisitor threw back the lid on the box.

Maker’s breath! They’d all been chewed apart! Bites marred every single chocolate in the box, all thirty of them. Who could have…?

“Dorian?” He turned towards the only man he let in his quarters. The only man who was obstinately kicking a foot into the bed while trying to read. Holding the box up, the Inquisitor scowled, “Did you…did you bite every one of these?”

The book closed and Dorian’s insolent eyes cut through him. “You offered them to me.”

“I offered you one. One! And you bit into them all?”

Dorian rose from the bed, his gait quickly turning into a swagger. Oh, if he thought he could get out of this with sex… Pausing at the edge of the desk, Dorian placed a hand on his hip. “How else could I know which I’d want if I didn’t sample them first? The foolish chocolatier didn’t even feign to include a map. I did return them. Only partially used.”

“You…” The Inquisitor slammed the box onto the desk and for a beat Dorian’s eyes widened. After picking up the first in a long line of chocolates, the Inquisitor grabbed Dorian’s hand. The man sighed, as if he suspected he’d have to eat it, but his love surprised him.

Yanking him forward, the Inquisitor grazed his teeth against Dorian’s chin. The mage yelped in shock, a hand glancing to the love bite as the Inquisitor bit into the half-eaten chocolate.

“Nougat,” he sighed, returning the rest to the box. But he wasn’t finished, picking up the second in his fingers, he returned to his confused and concerned boyfriend. Tipping his head, his free hand brushing up Dorian’s cheek to tug him to the side, the Inquisitor’s chocolate-stained lips kissed right upon his throat.

He felt Dorian gulp through his hand as he puckered the thin skin into his teeth and took the tenderest nip. A shudder reverberated through the man but the Inquisitor was already biting into the second chocolate and sighing, “Cherry.”

“What are you…?” Dorian was blinking madly, shaking his head to try and put himself upon solid ground.

“Simple,” the Inquisitor fished up the third. He paused to catch the man’s eye, spinning the chocolate in his fingers. “For every bite you took out of my chocolates,” he paused, a lascivious grin rising. Rising up on his toes, his tongue lapped against Dorian’s earlobe. His hot breath purred in his ear, “I intend to take a nip from you.”

And he did just that, teeth pinching upon that earlobe as Dorian gasped. “That will,” he turned his head to the box. Three down, twenty-seven more to go. “Take some time.”

“Indeed,” the Inquisitor bit into the new chocolate to find it full of ganache. That one he happily finished off. With chocolate staining the side of his lips, he eyed up the man trembling in anticipation upon his desk. “I suggest you lose your shirt first, then the trousers.”

[jawsandbones]

“I got your back.”

The pick sits easy between his lips, his tongue pressed against the end of it. He pulls himself up to the windowsill, manages to squeeze his foot onto the frame. One hand holds to the rope, still looped around the chimney. He makes a note to thank Sera for the climbing claw later. Carefully crafted fingers move over the edge of the window. A few minor spells, but nothing that hinders his way. These spells are meant for magical attackers. Nan takes the pick from his mouth, begins to unlock the window. It swings open with ease, and he smiles triumphantly as he slowly creeps inside. He plants his foot carefully, ensures the floorboard won’t creak beneath his weight.

He pulls down his makeshift mask, the black cloth which covers his mouth and nose. He pulls back the hood, pointed ears twitching free of constraints. He runs a finger down the desk, feels it pick up the presence of a few more minor spells. Nan yawns, flops backwards into the large chair. He extends his legs out far, muddy boots dropping flecks under the desk. He slouches, fingers tapping against the tips of the armrest. He tilts his head, a flick of his ear, and in the moonlight from the window behind him, there’s a glint of something metal.

He gently pushes back the chair as he crouches underneath the desk, feels for the small lock. This one takes him longer than it should. He’ll need more practice with this. Still, he smiles when he hears it click. The drawer is small, thin, filled with fragile parchment. His eyes scan the pages. All Tevene. He sighs deeply, begins to gently roll them up together, pack them into the small sack slung over his bag. Even though he can’t read it, no one keeps something of no importance in a secret drawer. He presses it back in, just in time to hear heavy footsteps on the stairwell. Nan closes the window. He arranges the chair. His footsteps are easy, unhurried as he steps behind the door, waits for it to open.

The magister barges in, slamming it open, and Nan gently closes it behind him, turns the lock. They always expect a fight to come in the form of magic, not a brutal smash to the back of the knees. A pathetic whimper, and Nan kicks the magister to the ground, keeps his foot on his chest. He turns the arrow between his fingers as he slowly bends down. He taps the magister’s nose with the bladed tip. “Magister Caeso, I’m so pleased to formally meet your acquaintance,” Nan says pleasantly. “I’m guessing I don’t need to introduce myself since your assassins knew exactly who to look for.” The arrow’s tip now comes to rest against Caeso’s throat, and Nan’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he glares.

“What can I do for you this evening, Inquisitor Mahanon Lavellan?” Caeso laughs nervously.

“See, I don’t mind that you targeted me. I expected that all of you would. But,” the arrow bears down, “you also sent some after him. Now that is something I mind.” He can see it in the quivering of Caeso’s mustache, this mustering of magic. Nan sighs, rolls his eyes. “The poison should be in your system already, so you can stop trying.” They never feel the pinprick of spikes at the tip of his boots. “Your assassins failed. I won’t. Vote to pass his motion in the Magisterium or I will come back, and I won’t be so merciful.” He’s back to spinning the arrow between his fingers as he stands. “Say you understand.”

“I understand,” Caeso is saying, crawling away from Nan on his hands and knees. Nan shrugs. It’s enough. It’s a simple thing to pull the claw loose in the right way, once he’s on the ground. He’s been productive these past few months. He’s fleet footed across winding streets, knowing the best path home intuitively. He slips in through the back door. He’s discarding clothes as he goes, arriving at the bed in naught but his underwear. Everything else can be left to the morning. He’s too happy to see the shape under the covers. He dives in greedily, curling around Dorian’s back.

“You’re late,” hoarse, full of sleep, and Dorian doesn’t bother to move or open his eyes, “where were you?”

“I just had to take care of something quickly,” Nan says as he rubs his face between Dorian’s shoulder blades. “I’m here now.”

“Mnm. I sleep better with you at my back, Amatus…” Dorian mumbles into unconsciousness. The smile spreads wide across Nan’s face, his hands splaying against Dorian’s chest, feeling his heart beat. He presses a kiss against his spine, closes his eyes. The smile follows him into dreams.