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perkeleen-lavellan · 9 months
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Vivienne: If it was a date why did both of you bring your weapon and armor? Sacha: Foreplay reasons. Vivienne: I don't know why I expected anything else.
this Inquisitor uses he/him pronouns!
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bluerose5 · 11 months
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Their Perfect Oasis
Prompt fill from discord for Maxwell Trevelyan/Dorian Pavus. Turned out longer than I expected (because of course it did) but hope y'all enjoy! Click the title to read on ao3. 💙
Summary:
All Dorian wanted, at first, was his book back.
The last thing he expected was for Maxwell Trevelyan to spoil him with an afternoon together.
~~~
Maxwell Trevelyan had always been quick on his feet.
There Dorian was one afternoon, minding his own business while he combed through tome after tome in the Inquisition’s library. Their meager collection had few works that he deemed to be of any noteworthy academic merit, let alone worthy of his time to read, but some proved interesting enough to add to his ever-growing pile of books.
What they found during their travels typically turned out to be far more interesting, ancient ruins filled to the brim with anecdotal accounts and mysterious artifacts. While he left most of the elven stuff for Solas to study, there was still so much to review in between his own research.
He was going through all that he had gathered on the connections between rift magic and time magic when his beloved Inquisitor made his appearance.
“There you are,” Maxwell greeted.
Although he tried to put on an air of indifference, Dorian ended up smiling in spite of himself.
“Where I always am around this time of day,” he said, not once looking away from the scroll he had spread out over his pitiful excuse of desk, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Not that he was all that focused anyways, it being near impossible to pay attention with Maxwell around.
After he pressed a kiss to Dorian’s cheek, Dorian quickly turned to scour through his and Alexius’s old notes, more so to hide his now-flustered expression.
Warmth spread throughout his cheeks at Maxwell’s low chuckle.
“Looking as stunning as always,” Maxwell breathed, his words overflowing with a reverence that made Dorian’s heart skip a beat. 
“Was that ever in question?” Dorian countered.
Maxwell pressed himself flush against his side, a hand braced upon the table as he leaned in to brush his lips along the shell of Dorian's ear.
"Never," he replied. Dorian’s fingers froze when he started to shuffle through the pages, but he could hear the smirk in Max's voice, clear as day. "Am I distracting you?"
Dorian shook his head, more so to clear his mind than to answer the question.
"I—No, of course not! I was just—"
"Then, let me try a little harder."
Without warning, Maxwell disappeared from his side.
One second, he was snuggled up to Dorian. Then, the next, he was leaning against the wall near the staircase, a book in hand that he pretended to flip through. He studied Dorian, eyes alight with mischief, but the latter watched him skeptically, arms crossed over his chest.
"What are you doi—" Dorian started to ask, but it was in that exact moment that he processed what book Maxwell held.
It was almost comical, how his head snapped towards the desk, then back towards Maxwell, then to the desk again.
Maxwell pinched one of the book's corners, allowing it to dangle precariously.
Oh, the horror. To have a work so highly disrespected.
Dorrian huffed.
"What?" Maxwell teased, attempting to sound innocent but ultimately failing, way too pleased with himself for his own good. "Need something?"
"Well, now that you mention it," Dorian sighed, "it has come to my attention that I am indeed missing a book."
"You don't say."
"Mm-hmm…" Dorian took a step forward, but Maxwell mirrored him easily enough, one foot positioned on the next step. "A book vital to my research, in fact. One that I would very much like back."
"Ah, and what would you be willing to do for this book, I wonder."
"Name your price."
The next step down was more purposeful, the way Maxwell shifted his weight. 
Understanding dawned on Dorian then.
"Maxwell," he warned, pointing a finger in his direction, "I am not chasing after you."
Maxwell simply beamed at him in response. He tucked the book underneath his arm, pressed tightly against his side.
"I'll make it worth your while," he promised.
"I'll make it worth yours if you just— Well, and there he goes," Dorian grumbled.
The madman didn't even hesitate to dart off down the stairs.
"Max!" Dorian called out, forgetting where he was for a second. 
Teasing laughter rang out in a slight echo that traveled throughout the tower. A few unimpressed glances were tossed their way, but Dorian ignored them.
Tapping his foot upon the floor, he shook his head in disbelief.
"I am not going to chase him," he told himself. "I am not…"
Down below, he could hear Maxwell say, "Hi, Solas! Bye, Solas!" as he escaped into the throne room. Not that Solas had much time to mumble out an amused greeting of his own, the Inquisitor there and gone in the blink of an eye.
Time was wasting, but Dorian’s curiosity eventually got the better of him.
He paused his mantra, bottom lip poked out into an exaggerated pout.
"Vishante kaffas," he swore, approaching the staircase. "Okay, and now I'm chasing after you."
The things he did for that man.
He followed after him at a brisk walk, not a run!
He had to retain some semblance of dignity after all.
It was bad enough that he had to put up with Solas's knowing stare as he passed through the rotunda, so it seemed that Dorian would suffer even the greatest torments for Maxwell’s sake.
Whatever he had planned better be worth all the effort.
When Varric heard his entrance into the main hall, he didn't even so much as look up from his writings. Instead, he simply jabbed his thumb in the direction of the doors, Dorian smiling sheepishly before continuing on his way.
Once outside, Dorian caught a split-second glimpse of Max on his way towards the stables, but Dorian saw the bait for what it was. He knew all too well that, if Maxwell truly wanted to elude him, then he would have done so by now. Either that, or he would have melted away into the shadows, only to be seen when it was his moment to strike.
Dorian had to admit, part of him actually enjoyed this little game of theirs. He knew it to be playful, all intended in good faith, and he absolutely adored how Max loved to tease him.
It would make "catching him" all the more rewarding.
However, as things turned out, he didn't even have to catch him, not when Maxwell came to him instead.
Rushing down the remaining stairs and through the courtyards, Dorian stopped short when he heard the clomping of a horse’s hooves draw closer.
With a tug on the horses’ reins, Maxwell guided two of the Inquisition’s best mounts to a stop in front of him. Both of them were of sturdy, dependable builds with slick, glossy coats, one brown and the other black.
When they shifted to a halt, Maxwell fed them some apple slices from their packs, then turned to beam at Dorian.
“After you, my dear,” Max said, his hand outstretched to him.
“What?” Dorian asked, eyebrow raised in question. “Are we going for a ride?”
“How observant of you to notice,” Maxwell teased, “but, yes, we are. I have a surprise for you.”
“A gift?” Dorian pressed. “My, my, I do love being spoiled, especially by you.”
“Then, you’ll love this,” he said. His expression gentled, causing a swarm of butterflies to flutter around within Dorian’s chest. “I promise.”
Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, Dorian coughed quietly under his breath to clear it.
“Right,” he said. He nodded at the closest horse, the one that stood as black as night. “I’ll take this one.”
“A fine horse for a pretty man,” Max praised.
“The prettiest,” Dorian corrected.
Placing his hand into Maxwell’s, he hoisted himself up into the horse’s saddle. Not that he needed the assistance, but he could hardly turn down such an offer from Max. He adjusted his weight around to get comfortable while Maxwell mounted the other horse with ease.
Dorian froze into place when he glanced over, only to become tongue-tied at the very sight of him.
Back in the library, the lighting had been muted enough —and everything had happened so quickly— that Dorian didn’t really get a good look at him before.
Now, it was as if he was seeing him clearly for the first time.
Sunlight washed over him in a wave of gold, each feature emphasized with the attention reserved for the most revered religious icons. Dorian wouldn’t be surprised if they were already carving statues in his honor, devoted to reproducing every last detail to perfection.
Perched upon his horse, Maxwell held himself upright with the utmost confidence.
Warm, sun-kissed skin soaked up the afternoon rays. Brown hair was carefully slicked back, teasing glances beckoning Dorian to follow him to the ends of the world itself. Maxwell inspired a loyalty influenced by a power greater than a siren’s song, a loyalty that might even lead them to their eventual demise, a fate accepted in stride so long as Dorian could remain by his side.
Maxwell circled his horse around him, and Dorian couldn’t help but wonder if the posturing was intentional.
After all, he had certainly cleaned up for—for whatever this was.
Gone were those tasteless rags of his, those drab, brown pajamas hopefully tossed out of his wardrobe for good.
In their place, Maxwell wore a blue shirt, crafted of the finest silk that shimmered lightly through each shift of his chest. The top few buttons were left undone, revealing a golden chain nestled around his throat and hanging down between his pecs. Black, form-fitting pants accentuated the shape of his legs, hugging Maxwell’s hips and thighs. The fabric was tucked into a pair of black, leather boots, designed for both style and comfort.
Dorian had to admit, he was impressed.
All of that, and he didn’t even have to lift a finger to help.
Safe to say, Maxwell took his breath away.
Younger Dorian, who spent his days reading and fantasizing about handsome, heroic princes from far-off lands, positively swooned at the sight before him.
Not that current Dorian was faring much better.
He swallowed thickly as he watched Max, his lips parted in awe.
Maxwell, oblivious to Dorian’s appraisal —or, perhaps, acutely aware of it— flashed him a blinding smile.
"Race you!" he stated.
With a slight flick of the reins and a click of his tongue, the horse sped up into a steady trot towards the drawbridge. People maneuvered around them both, steering clear of their path.
It was hard to ignore all of the stares they were attracting; but, for once, Dorian was inclined to let them look.
He had the most amazing man in Thedas all to himself, and that was all that mattered.
Catching up to him, Dorian feigned an annoyed grumble.
"A rather unfair challenge, don't you think?" Dorian asked. "Considering the fact that you know the way to our destination while I am left in the dark, following on blind faith alone."
Maxwell hummed in contemplation, drinking in the sight of Dorian from head to toe, which was fair. Dorian had certainly gotten his fill of Max. The latter deserved to marvel in the excellence of his resident altus.
And if Dorian happened to sit up a bit straighter under the weight of that appreciative gaze, head held high with pride…
Well, that would remain between the two of them.
Voice warm and low, Maxwell leaned in and told him, "Try to keep up then."
Without warning, he took off into a galloping pace, a hearty laugh left in his wake.
Once again, Dorian was left chasing after him, ringing out with his own laughter in turn.
"Oh, you're delightful!" Dorian called out over the whipping winds, quickly gaining on Maxwell’s position, only a couple of paces behind.
Together, they rode through the mountainside until the blank canvas of white gave way to snow-covered flora. Icicles hung like crystals from bare branches, capturing sunlight, only to cast it out in an array of colors.
Thankfully, Dorian had little time to even think about the cold, let alone fixate upon it.
Eventually, they arrived at the edge of a clearing. Maxwell slowed to a stop, far enough from Skyhold to grant them some privacy yet close enough to be back a moment’s notice, should they be needed.
While Dorian didn't think himself to be much of a praying man, he happily prayed then that they not be needed. Not anytime soon, at least.
After Maxwell jumped down from his horse, he approached Dorian’s side without missing a beat. Offering his hand out again, Dorian gladly took it, allowing Maxwell to help him down to his feet.
They stood there for a second, chest to chest, while all of the world and its problems melted away into the background.
"Well," Maxwell said, "looks like I won the race."
"You don't say," Dorian hummed. Gentle fingers combed through Max's hair, coaxing any strays back into place. "I never would have guessed."
"Mm-hmm…"
They stole glances at each other's lips.
Maxwell tugged him closer by the waist, Dorian’s arms wrapped around his neck.
Their noses brushed ever so slightly.
"Tell me," Dorian whispered. "What prize does the illustrious Inquisitor desire for his well-earned victory?"
By then, their lips were barely a hair’s width away.
"A kiss from a certain someone would suffice, but that must wait, I'm afraid." Their lips had only just grazed against one another when their warmth disappeared entirely. Dorian's breath was stolen from him as Maxwell pulled away, placing a careful distance between them both. "All in due time, handsome."
"Hmph, you're such a tease," Dorian huffed, albeit with no real heat to his voice.
"It'll be worth it," Maxwell reminded him. He even had the audacity to wink at him. "I'll make it up to you later."
"You better."
"I swear. Now, close your eyes."
"Seriously?" Dorian scoffed.
"Please," Maxwell said. "For me?"
Well, when he put it like that…
"Oh, alright, fine!" Dorian closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "You're lucky you're so cute."
Maxwell only chuckled in response.
Dorian listened closely while he coaxed the horses away with soft murmurs. His footsteps faded off into the distance, but logic told Dorian that it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before he returned.
Didn't stop those few minutes from feeling like an eternity.
Maxwell took him by the hands and led him forward.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready for what, exactly?" Dorian wondered.
"You'll find out. All I ask is that you keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them."
"Not cryptic at all."
Nevertheless, he followed, trusting Maxwell with his life.
Dorian spoke to fill the ensuing silence.
"You know, we should have ridden double," Dorian stated. "Like in the stories! The ones where the protagonist whisks the love interest away on horseback, arms wrapped tightly around them as they ride off into the sunset together."
Max snorted. "But of course. One small problem, though."
"And what is that?"
"As lovely as the idea is, horses can only support so much before you start to risk injury to them or yourself, and I, for one, was not going to be on the receiving end of Master Dennet's anger for hurting one of his precious babies."
"Fair enough," Dorian conceded, sighing dramatically. "Foolish books, giving me unrealistic expectations of romance."
"Heh, hopefully this will make up for it."
Snow crunched beneath their feet until, surprisingly, it stopped.
Before Dorian could question him about it, Maxwell beat him to the punch.
"Just a little farther, and…" Maxwell trailed off. He took Dorian by the shoulders and arranged him into position. Strangely enough, Dorian felt the cold wash away. In its place, a wave of heat enveloped them, but Maxwell hardly sounded shocked by this development. "There!" He released him. "Now, open your eyes."
Dorian didn’t have to be told twice.
He squinted, blinking past the relentless daylight, and eventually managed to pry his eyes open.
What awaited them was unlike anything he had expected.
It was a scene plucked right out of a fairytale.
Without thinking, Dorian placed a hand over his racing heart.
“Wow,” he gasped. “This is amazing.”
Even then, that was the understatement of the century.
The clearing that Maxwell brought him to was secluded; however, more than that, it had the thriving appearance of a meadow in spring. A large, square area was protected from the harsh winter snow. Lush, green grass sprouted all over, sprinkled with patches of colorful wildflowers that danced in the occasional breeze.
In the center of it all, a blanket was spread out. And upon that blanket, there sat a basket, alongside Dorian’s long-forgotten book.
Streams of golden light filtered through the nearby branches, reflecting off of tiny motes that glided through the air.
Their horses were secured to a tree close by, grazing happily amongst the fresh grass.
It was their own little oasis, surrounded by a cold desert.
After another speechless moment to really soak it all in, Dorian was finally able to catch his breath.
“Maxwell.” He turned to him, incredulous. “How did you manage to do all of this?”
He waved his arms grandly at the setting before them, twirling in place.
Pleased with his reaction, Maxwell shrugged, uncharacteristically bashful, as he glanced around.
“I might have asked Dagna for a favor,” he said, nodding at each of the square’s four corners. “The work of runes. They ward off the cold and ‘any critters or creepy crawlies,’ as she explained it. Kind of like a mixture of fire runes for warmth and protective sigils to keep the wildlife at bay.”
“Makes sense,” Dorian breathed, once again impressed with the quality of her work. “Remind me to thank her later.”
“We both will,” Maxwell assured him, then admitted, “I had actually wanted to bring you sooner, but I needed to position the runes just right. Then, after that, it was basically a waiting game for the snow to melt and the mud to dry up.”
So, he had been working on this for a while then.
Dorian smiled at him tenderly.
“Thank you,” he said.
Maxwell chuckled.
“You haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.”
“You mean, there’s more?”
“Of course.” Taking Dorian’s hand in his, Maxwell bowed slightly at the waist to press a kiss upon the back of it. His lips lingered, eyes trained on Dorian the entire time. “Will you dine with me, Serah Pavus?”
“I’d be honored to.”
Eager to see what else he had in store for him, Dorian all but dragged him over to the blanket. Maxwell, ever the gentleman, helped him get seated before joining him at his side.
Dorian didn’t so much as hesitate before snuggling up to him.
Maxwell tossed him a grin and opened up the basket.
A whiff of warm spices instantly greeted them. Dorian’s mouth watered. His stomach grumbled.
The scent was a familiar one, one that reminded him of home, but he didn’t dare get his hopes up, trying his best to sneak a peek.
“So, what’s on the menu today?” he asked.
“I made us lamb curry,” Maxwell answered, casual as can be.
Dorian choked at that.
“Wait, what?”
“I said that I made—”
“I heard what you said, but you cooked?” Dorian stammered. “For me?”
“Was I not supposed to do that?” Maxwell deadpanned. 
“I— No! I mean, it’s just that…” Dorian blew out a frustrated breath, at a loss for words. “Surely, you have more important things to do than wait on me, hand and foot. You must be incredibly busy.”
“Not busy enough to neglect spending time with you. I know you’ve been homesick,” Maxwell stated, his brow furrowed in concern. He reached out and cupped Dorian’s cheek, brushing his thumb along the curve of it. “I know it’s not the same, but I wanted you to feel a little bit at home. Here, with me.”
Dorian melted into his touch, releasing a shaky breath.
“Damn it. You’re going to make me cry at this rate,” he informed him. Already, he could feel a slight sting building at the corner of his eyes. He blinked past the burn of unshed tears. Carefully, he wiped at them before they could fall. “Stop it. I have an image to uphold, you know.”
Maxwell snickered.
“Of course. Here.” He reached into the basket and unearthed a bottle, cradled with the utmost care. “Something to cheer you up.”
Dorian didn’t even have to read the label to know what it was.
“You got us an Antivan Red imported in?” he asked. “Out here? Don’t even get me started on the spices that you had to get for that curry, Inquisitor.”
“Leliana and I might have pulled some strings,” Maxwell said.
“Of course you did.” Dorian playfully glared at him, the bottle hugged close to his chest. “Okay, out with it.”
“Out with what?” Maxwell questioned. He cocked his head to the side.
“What’s the special occasion?” Dorian countered. “My guess is that you’re either going to propose, or you’re going to ask to fool around out here in the middle of the woods, where anyone could happen upon us.”
“The real question is, would you even say yes to either of those options?”
Dorian thought it over, then shrugged.
“Ask me after my third glass.”
Once he opened it, he shamelessly took a swig from the bottle, comfortable enough to ignore decorum when they were all alone.
Maxwell passed him two glasses, which he filled up generously. In the meantime, Max worked on uncovering their dish, still steaming with warmth over a bed of rice.
“Want to try a bite?” he asked.
Scooping up a heaping portion with his fork, he held it out in offering.
As if Dorian would refuse.
“I’d love to.”
The instant Dorian wrapped his lips around the fork, he swore that he transcended to a whole other plane of existence.
Now, usually when he read fiction, the premise of someone moaning over their food was always eye roll-inducing at best.
However, after trying Maxwell’s cooking, he was a changed man.
The richness of the base, the tenderness of the lamb, the warmth of the spices…
All of it came together perfectly.
“Oh,” he purred, “you, my good sir, are a god amongst men.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Maxwell teased.
He took his glass of wine from Dorian and raised it between them.
They stared into each other’s eyes while he made his toast.
“To us,” he whispered.
They clinked their glasses together.
“To us,” Dorian agreed, as they both took a more tentative sip to savor the taste.
The light, fruity notes complimented their dish well. An exquisite pairing that lingered on the palate, but not that he expected anything less from Max.
Once again, Dorian found himself stealing glimpses of Maxwell’s lips.
“You know this will cause people to talk,” he said.
“Compared to usual,” Maxwell replied, his sarcasm deafening, “when they remain absolutely silent about the two of us?”
“You know what I mean.” Dorian snuggled closer, his lips quirked up into a smirk. “You ran off to some secluded location with that dastardly Tevinter magister.” He rolled his eyes at the misuse of the title. “Maker have mercy!” He raised his voice in pitch, mimicking a tone of fright and scandal. “Will our beloved Inquisitor return the same? How are we sure that madman isn’t conducting some sinister ritual in secret, sacrificing the blood of goats and virgins in the name of the Black Divine?”
“Hmm…” Maxwell hummed with a pointed look around the clearing. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t think there are any goats around.” He snorted. “Or virgins, I’m afraid.”
“Alas,” Dorian sighed, “I guess that we’ll have to make do without.”
“Cast your magic then. I’d happily fall under your spell.”
“You’re terrible.”
Using his free hand, Dorian curled his finger around Maxwell’s chain, tugging him closer until their lips brushed.
Maxwell swallowed thickly.
“Kiss me,” Dorian whispered. “Please, I—”
Whatever he was going to say, Maxwell cut him off in an instant. Their lips crashed against one another, pleading, desperate. They gasped for breath, only to reclaim the kiss with renewed fervor.
Dorian didn’t know how long they stayed there, lost in the moment and the feel of each other.
Part of him wanted so badly to remain there forever, but all good things must come to an end, or so people said.
Eventually, they parted.
Maxwell rested his forehead against Dorian’s while they struggled to compose themselves.
The words slipped free before Dorian could even process them.
“Are we sure that I’m not dreaming right now?”
“If you are,” Maxwell answered, stealing a swift peck, “then promise not to wake up, because I don’t ever want this dream to end.”
Dorian smiled into the next kiss.
“Neither do I.”
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fancytrinkets · 4 months
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Bits & Pieces
Little ficlets, set before Dreadwolf, in which former Inquisitor Trevelyan is now living in Minrathous with Dorian. (The ficlet below continues a subplot where Trevelyan's ex-boyfriend Marcus from the Ostwick Circle, formerly Tranquil and now unexpectedly cured, has been staying with them as he recovers.) Link to the full collection of Dorian/Inquisitor ficlets.
The guest room where Marcus slept had been transformed. Plants spilled their greenery over every surface. The floor was covered by pots and planters. As if that weren't enough, so were the dressers, the corner shelves, and the chair by the window.
"A bit excessive, in my opinion."
That had been Dorian's only comment thus far. The plants were too much, but he hadn't made an issue of it. Of late, he had neither the time nor the stamina to spare for domestic squabbles. For weeks he'd been overly preoccupied by his work in the senate. Of course, it didn't help that nearly two months had gone by and he still wasn't sure how to properly relate to Marcus, the uninvited interloper in his household. So he left the burgeoning matter of indoor flora entirely to his husband.
Galen seemed to think it was a good idea ��� an aid to recovery, he called it, and promised it would hasten the eventual departure of their convalescent guest. Dorian remained unconvinced, and this evening he could take no more of it.
"That man is broken. He needs some other sort of arrangement than whatever this is."
"Probably," Galen agreed, "but I'm not turning him out and neither are you."
He summoned his best Inquisitorial voice to make that point clear. And while that was incredibly infuriating, it was also ridiculously arousing — and so the argument was set aside, abandoned in favor of more pleasurable activities between the two of them. Lying in bed afterwards — with all the worst of his annoyance and tension having been siphoned off and swallowed down by his husband — Dorian felt relaxed enough to offer a piece of unsolicited advice.
"His appetite is better than it was. He almost looks properly fed. We ought to consider that his libido will return — if it hasn't already. He'll need companionship."
"Companionship?" Galen sounded shocked to hear it.
"Don't you think so?"
"I'm not going to drop him off at a brothel, Dorian. If that's what you're suggesting."
A brothel wasn't at all what Dorian had in mind. "Why not host a small dinner party?" he asked. "We'll introduce him to a few of our finest friends and associates." Mostly, he was curious to see if Marcus and Rilienus might find each other interesting. It would make such a good story if they did hit it off.
But Galen wasn't ready to hear it.
"Broken," he said, sounding both annoyed and accusatory. "That's what you just called him. And now you think he's ready for entertaining at dinner and welcoming gentlemen back to his room?"
"Well, sex always helped me sort things out when I was a broken mess."
Galen sighed. "I think the plants are helping. That's always been his area of expertise."
"Perhaps you don't want him to find other men." It was simply an observation. Dorian was trying to be helpful here. Nothing more.
"Perhaps you want to hurry him along in this regard," Galen said. "For some unexamined emotional reason of your own."
Dorian rolled his eyes. He was well aware of his own jealousy. It wasn't entirely unexamined. "He's fixated on you." Dorian pointed it out in a reasonable and helpful fashion.
"From twenty years ago!" Galen objected. "I'm not that person now and we all know it. The only thing he feels when he looks at me now is rage."
"Galen." Dorian chuckled, genuinely amused by that assertion. "I don't think so."
"Really?"
"You don't see it?" How could he not see it? How could he possibly miss the way Marcus looked at him sometimes — with trembling lips and eyes full of uncontained longing.
"No, I mean–" Galen sighed in frustration. "Yes, all right then. We can introduce him to some friends of ours. Gently though. Not all at once. He'll find it overwhelming."
That was not the response that Dorian had expected. More defensiveness, perhaps? More strident objections? Yes, in fact, he'd been bracing himself for a flurry of those.
"You honestly don't want him anymore, do you?" Dorian asked.
And that was a strange question to consider. To accompany it, he felt a twinge of some unpleasant emotion. He'd first thought it to be jealousy, but maybe it wasn't. Perhaps it was something more akin to disappointment. But why would that be? Dorian tried to puzzle it out, but the answer wouldn't come. All he could do was repeat himself, his voice sounding flat and dull even to his own ears.
"You don't want him."
"Honestly?" Galen propped himself up on his scarred left elbow, lifting his head from the pillow to gain the higher ground. "You want to have this conversation now? We can wait, if you like. Maybe when things are less stressful with the Magisterium–"
"A glorious day that will never happen," Dorian said. "Best get it over with now."
"Right then." Galen paused, brow furrowing, as if it took him a visible effort gather his thoughts.
Their discarded clothing was scattered across the bedroom floor. Dorian wanted to sort it all neatly, to fold it, and put it away. Wait, he wanted to say, don't tell me. You're right that I'd rather not know. But his own curiosity kept him rooted in place.
"Here's how it is," Galen said. "I can feel it here." He touched his chest. "Little sparks of attraction sometimes. And I've thought about sex — a mental image here and there during lessons. But that's it. There's no version of him that's matured for twenty years along with me — emotionally speaking, of course. There's nothing we could bring to each other now that wouldn't be fraught and painful."
Dorian frowned to hear it. A mix of jealousy and disappointment churned within him.
"If it were me," Dorian said, "I'd want you to risk everything to win me back."
Galen nodded.
"If it were you, I would."
Stunned speechless, Dorian couldn't tell if his confession was something to welcome, or else condemn as hypocritical. Lacking a clear sense of what to do with it, he opted for a clarifying question.
"Oh?" he asked. "And where's the difference?"
"The difference," Galen said, "is that you wouldn't have left me the same way he did."
Dorian sighed. The jealousy slipped from his grasp like a bottle he'd grabbed with spilled oil on his fingers. "You're right about that. I would have fought against Tranquility with all the strength I had."
"I know it," Galen said. "And I know it's not Marcus's fault that he didn't. But it changed me."
"I understand it."
Dorian could feel himself relaxing. He'd had a long day, after all. Another exhausting day of politics would rear its ugly head tomorrow, but for now, he could rest, reassured by the comforting presence of his husband beside him.
But then, he remembered the guest room, overwhelmed by a chaotic mess of plantlife — a trivial remedy that wasn't doing nearly enough to soothe the room's sullen occupant.
"Maybe not a dinner party yet," he said. "But at least he ought to meet Rilienus."
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creamecream · 4 months
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The Iron Bull: “how’s the prettiest boy in camp doing today, Kadan?”
Terra, without looking up: “I don’t know, how are you?”
The Iron Bull: “…” *slinging Terra over his shoulder and slapping him on the hip while laughing!*
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bxtgrl · 2 years
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aya lavellan in dragon age: inquisition
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acciokaidanalenko · 2 years
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Inquisitor Trevelyan, we meet at last.
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magicrobins · 2 months
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youtube
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sunshine-gumdrop · 3 months
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Here's Johnny!!
My customization attempt of John Seed! Also, here are the rest of the seedlings and the judge deputy.
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ffc1cb · 1 year
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something something parsley again
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palipunk · 1 year
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Asma Lavellan tweets - idk how many of these I will make
Bonus:
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pinayelf · 10 months
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OC Aesthetic Boards
Amihan Amell
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Sinag Hawke
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Imryll Lavellan
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perkeleen-lavellan · 2 years
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He's just a little bit in love.
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theluckywizard · 4 months
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In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 62: Vertigo
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Summary: Rose navigates the fall out of her handling of Crestwood's mayor, her intensifying liaison with Hawke, a surprise that comes from Skyhold and meets yet another legendary warrior.
Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.
Excerpt below the cut 👇
When Hawke returns, he motions for me alone to follow. We walk silently together ducking protrusions and stalactites and shimming through narrow passages, the lightness of yesterday, the brightness between us cast in the shade of today’s revelations. The doorway we push through is marked with a whitewashed skull with a red streak across its eyes, the old smuggling ring’s stamp.
“It’s us,” he says. A man rises from a makeshift table covered in scribbled and crumpled notes, his features overtaken by the kind of beard one doesn’t choose to have. His armor is nondescript, his Warden credentials hidden away for safety’s sake.
Alistair Theirin. 
Another legend. 
Perhaps this time I can keep it together. He looks about my age, with dark blonde hair and a noble brow, but his overgrown beard and generally haggard appearance make him look worn beyond his years.
“Maker, man, you look like shit,” says Hawke with a grin.
“Cave chic,” he answers, yanking Hawke in for a firm handshake that quickly escalates into a bear hug. Alistair’s hazel eyes land on me next, nearly as bright and mischievous as Hawke’s and then jump to investigate my hands. At this point it feels like my blush is merely part of my uniform.
“You must be looking for this,” I say, holding up the anchor.
“Maker’s breath ,” he says. “I’ve always maintained there’s too much bizarre shit in the world.”
“That’s me. Bizarre shit,” I laugh. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Rose, Alistair. Alistair, Rose,” says Hawke. “We’re good with first names here, right?”
“Of course we are, Garrett ,” says Alistair pleasantly and I suppress my smile. He comes forward to shake my hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I wish it was someplace less— moldy. And you’ll have to forgive my looks. The combined effect of fugitive life, cave life and a missing wife is pretty potent. If I’d known you were coming I might have broken out the fancy soap.”
“I’m just happy we found you before the Wardens did,” I answer.
“As am I, my lady Inquisitor,” says Alistair.
“Well. Here we all are,” says Hawke. “I’m as eager as Rose is to hear what you have to say about the Wardens. I haven’t heard from Carver. Last letter I received was from the Anderfels. I asked Aveline to try and track him down to convince him to stay far from Orlais, but I’m assuming he told her to fuck right off.”
“As far as I know Carver is back in the Marches,” says Alistair, “But that was months ago. Who knows how far this nonsense has spread.”
“Then we can’t waste time,” says Hawke.
Read the rest here
Start the Fic Here
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fancytrinkets · 1 year
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dragon age inquisitor sketch
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rozzwil · 2 years
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Part two of my and @diirthara-ma​’s full Dragon Age OC lineup ft. our inquisitors
Here’s a link to the naked version on twitter, here’s link to part one and, here’s my post on Isha’s diabetic gear!
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gromlyn · 2 months
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thinking about my dragon age ocs again…. (2021)
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