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herearedragons · 2 months

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Homecoming

(3,876 words; Dorian/m!Lavellan; angst, post-Trespasser)

written for a Florence + The Machine prompt from @greypetrel : “Can you protect me from what I want? The lover who let me in, who left me so lost?”

read on AO3

On a summer night, the Pavus estate stands empty.

Not empty of visitors or of the presence of its owner - empty of everyone. There are no guards at the gates or in the garden; no cooks in the kitchen; no servants in the hallways. Its rooms are cold and unlit, illuminated only by moonlight breaking through the large windows and painting bright geometric shapes over surfaces and decorations.

In the study upstairs, one of those shapes falls directly over an armchair with a small wooden table by its side. On the table, a freshly opened bottle of wine; in the chair, the last remaining resident of the estate raises a glass to his lips, appreciating the fine vintage.

A staff rests balanced on his knees. An artisan dwarven clock with twelve handles ticks away on the wall beside him.

Magister Dorian Pavus drinks his wine, and waits for the man who is supposed to come kill him.

“All staff have been escorted off the premises, Magister.”

“Marvelous; thank you, Valeria.”

The captain of his guards regards him with a look that is familiar: respect, alertness - and the slightest hint of suspicion. She is saying, without speaking a single word aloud: you are behaving unusually, and I would like to know whether my job of keeping you alive is about to get harder.

“What are our orders?” she asks.

Unfortunately, she will not like the answer Dorian has for her.

“Go home,” he says. “Forget everything you’ve seen and heard here today.”

If she has an immediate reaction to his words, it doesn’t register on her face. Wait, no - it does, just very subtly; a slight tilt of her head to the side, a twitch of her brow.

She’s saying: excuse me?

“Magister, I beg your pardon, but I’ve been led to understand that someone will attempt to assassinate you tonight.”

Valeria is highly professional. A slight emphasis on the word “assassinate” is all she allows herself as an attempt to communicate extreme incredulity to her employer.

“Exactly - and I want you to be as far away as possible when it happens.” He sees the resistance brewing beneath her composed exterior and adds, quickly, before she has a chance to speak again: “This is an order.”

The resolve drains from her at once; an expression of defiance becomes one of defeat. She will not argue; this is above her station.

“Yes, Magister.”

Her tone, though subdued, is unbearably miserable; he can’t possibly end the conversation on this note.

“Oh, don’t look so grim; you don’t have to shop for a new employer quite yet,” Dorian says. “I can assure you that I have every intention to survive the night - and, when I do, I’d like to have your services still available to me. That last part will be tricky if you are dead; reanimated guards have fallen out of fashion, I’m told.”

Confusion, writ large across her face; the veneer of professionalism broken.

“This is about protecting me ?”

“This is about protecting all of you, if I can help it. You are very skilled, and I would trust you with my life - I do , in fact, trust you with my life, regularly - against any threat but this one. If you are here when he comes, you’ll be in his way, and you will die.”

Her brow furrows. He’s gotten through to her; there was enough gravity in his words to make her realize that his decision to send her away isn’t a foolish whim.

“And yet you will survive… him?”

“I certainly plan to. Now - ” Dorian raises an eyebrow - “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Valeria nods shortly and hastily collects herself; their little moment of eye-to-eye sincerity has passed.

“Of course.” She hesitates. “...Have a good evening, Magister.”

The setting sun shines in bright oranges and reds on the back of her armor as she walks away.

In the moonlit garden of the estate, there are shadows.

Their presence is subtle and easily overlooked. Their footsteps make no sound; their clothes blend perfectly with the dark greens and grays of the night, hiding them behind pillars and in foliage, in solid blocks of shadow and in the mottled patterns of bright moonlight filtering through leaves.

There are twenty-seven of them, in total. Fifteen serve the Divine, and have traveled to Minrathous in secret from various corners of Thedas. The remaining twelve are Dalish, who have made the long, long trek from Wycome to one of the most dangerous places for their kind - just to be here tonight.

Some of them are on the outer side of the fence. None of them are inside the building. They are scattered across the perimeter, and, when the intruder comes, they will make no attempt to stop him.

They are not a wall keeping him out; they are the iron teeth of the bear trap, waiting to close on him once he has taken the bait.

The morning sun reflects off the crystal embedded in his transmitter amulet, each facet polished to perfection. He’d be able to spot his reflection in one of those quite easily, had he tried.

He doesn’t.

“Tonight, then,” Dorian says. “Are you sure?”

A small blue glow ignites inside of the crystal for a fraction of a moment, indicating that his message has been sent properly. Some seconds pass as the other party speaks their response, and then the amulet vibrates with the familiar voice of the Inquisition’s former spymaster - or, as she is more widely known these days, Divine Victoria.

As always, the sound of her speech comes with a pinprick of irritation in his chest. This is not what this amulet is for, and no, he has not gotten over that gripe after four years of it being used in this way.

Still, it would be foolish not to use it at all. The ability to instantly communicate between Minrathous and Val Royeaux has granted them an immense advantage in their hunt.

“As usual, we don’t have much evidence when it comes to his intentions - but what we do have shows that it is likely.”

Dorian allows himself a moment to process her words, taking his thumb off the back of the amulet so that it would not record and send the sound of him taking a deep breath and slowly releasing it, with only the slightest shudder at the end.

He always knew that this was a possibility; hoped for it, even, on some of the worst (and best) days.

He tries to parse his own feelings. Fear is certainly present, his self-preservation instinct kicking in (good - it’s still working). There is also anxiety - different from fear; the vague tremble of uncertainty rather than a call to action - and something like… excitement.

Hope, even?

No. Not hope. He’s made some good progress from the point of denying himself hope for anything at all, but hoping for the best in this particular scenario feels too daunting.

Excitement, however, is something he can definitely work with. He did always love a challenge.

The amulet vibrates in his palm again.

“Is everything alright?”

He puts his thumb back on the warm copper.

“Never mind the pause; I’m still here. Now, what are our plans for tonight?”

The Magister finishes his glass of wine and sets it aside. He looks at the bottle for a moment too long, but does not reach for it.

This was his first and last glass for tonight. It was certainly good, even though he could barely taste it after the first sip; his mind is elsewhere, try as he might to anchor himself in the present.

For a moment, he thinks that he hears footsteps echoing downstairs, but he dismisses the thought. The sentries will not enter the building - and it couldn’t have been him , either.

His hand, idle without the glass, moves to rest on the grip of his staff.

The Magister knows: when he shows up, no one will hear any footsteps.

The first of the Dalish arrive soon after Valeria leaves.

Two figures at his front gate; two elven women with scarves on their heads, their faces bare, carrying large baskets. Servants; no one would look twice.

Through the study window, Dorian sees the taller of the two set her basket down and stretch; as she does, her hands form the signal gesture that was described to him.

He activates the spell inscribed into the wrought iron, and the gates swing open of their own accord, letting the two women inside.

He comes downstairs just as the front door opens. The first thing to cross the threshold is is one the baskets, which look even more enormous up close; the women haul them in and set them down unceremoniously, the shorter of the two slamming the door shut behind her.

Both of them acknowledge him with a brief glance before beginning to furiously wipe their faces with their scarves, removing the thick layer of makeup that was necessary to hide their vallaslin.

“Would you like some water?” he asks.

The taller - and older - woman takes the scarf away from her face, meeting his eyes in earnest for the first time. Hers are brown and warm, just as he remembers; her hair, also a painfully familiar brown, has more grey streaks than it did the last time he’d seen her.

Four years and six months ago.

His last visit to Wycome before he left for Minrathous; the last time he has seen her son.

“Would you like some water” is not, by any means, an adequate greeting for the situation they’re in, but - even after years of imagining their next conversation - he doesn’t have anything better.

To his own surprise, Dorian realizes that a significant amount of his fear has nothing to do with the impending attempt on his life, and everything to do with meeting her again.

Adria Lavellan smiles - a small, humorous smile; just a quirk of her lips and a slight rise of her eyebrows - and nods.

“Yes, thank you. Both to drink and to wash up.”

Nothing about her tone or demeanor is hostile. She’s friendly, and the attitude she projects suggests that she is genuinely glad to see him again.

Something in his chest tightens and tightens until it hurts. He tries to say something in response, but finds his mind horrifyingly blank, and his tongue heavy.

He silently nods and walks away.

More elves arrive. Most of them come in pairs; some come in a group of three, or alone. All in the guise of servants.

Many of them carry baskets. Inside - armor, weapons and traps.

The sun disappears below the horizon, the sky painted twilight purple in its absence.

When he speaks to Adria again, she has donned a set of ironbark armor - her husband’s finest work, no doubt - and is in the process of stringing a longbow.

It’s strange to see her like this. Every time Dorian has met her in the past, she wore dresses and aprons and seemed to prefer the role of hearthkeeper; here, she is in charge of a party of eleven, armed to the teeth.

He starts by complimenting her armor. She thanks him with the same small smile; still unbelievably non-hostile. She compliments his house in turn.

Be it any other person, Dorian would have interpreted her attitude as cleverly disguised contempt - but this is Adria Lavellan ; he knows her, and he knows the son she raised, and she would not lie to him.

He wants to ask her a question.

How -

No, why -

Does she -

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t write to you,” Adria says all of a sudden. “If the Inquisition was still around, they could have gotten my letter to Minrathous - but without them, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

She’s throwing him a lifeline, giving him an easy topic for conversation - and, shamefully, he elects to take it.

There is, at least, a question he can ask here.

“…Why would you want to write to me?“

The words come out without his usual flair. Flat. Vulnerable.

Thank the Maker that no one else seems to be listening, for the moment.

She regards him kindly with her warm, brown eyes.

“I lost my parents and my first husband almost at the same time. I remember what it feels like; I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I’m glad that you held up well.”

“…Well. Yes.” Dorian clears his throat. “I try. I - “

This is the perfect place to say something clever, perhaps some witty remark about his father’s demise, but the words do not come. This woman’s presence is equal parts comforting and terrifying to him, and it causes his brain to stop working.

He must do something about this. Now . He absolutely cannot remain a bumbling fool around - around his - around Neilar’s mother.

Dorian takes a deep breath.

“Why are you so calm?” he asks. “Why - “ his voice quivers - “Why are you not furious with me?”

A slight frown appears on her face as she parses his words.

“Well,” she says after a moment’s pause, “Those are two questions, and I’ll answer both. Why am I so calm: I’m not. I’m worried, and scared, and angry, and many other things - but those feelings are for me, not for the world. Sharing them with the world right now won’t help me or my children. And for the second question, I’m not aware of anything I should be furious about.” She tilts her head to the side slightly and perks up her left ear, which is closest to him. “ Have you done something I should be angry about?”

…Yes? No? He has spent countless sleepless nights trying to answer this exact question, and he still has no idea.

Is he to blame for what happened? Should he have postponed his return to Tevinter? Should he have been more thorough with his questions when he spoke to her son through the amulet that is now being held by the Divine?

Should he have dragged him away from that bloody Well by force before he could ever drink?

“I don’t know,” Dorian says.

Adria’s gaze lingers on him for a moment, inspecting him.

Judging?

Then, she nods and turns her attention back to the bow.

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” she says. “Not any more than I blame him. Everything you two did, you did out of love, and it was right; now we must deal with the consequences. I don’t like those consequences, but I don’t think that you could have chosen to do anything differently. If you could, you would have been different people.”

It’s not forgiveness or absolution, but it is something much more precious: acceptance.

A creature walks through an empty hall.

Despite the dry summer night, beads of condensation shimmer on the edges of its form. Its movements make no sound, save for a faint dripping noise.

The creature has taken nineteen lives so far. Thirteen throats slit open, bodies found in pools of their own blood; three of them Dalish Keepers, one a First. One a Tevene Magister.

Six more bodies found drowned or strangled, floating face-down in a body of water or inexplicably buried in undisturbed soil. All six served what remained of the Inquisition; all six died on duty.

Thirteen assassinations. Six casualties.

In the Magister’s study, the temperature begins to drop.

He was right - there are no footsteps. In fact, there is nothing at all; not even an ominous whisper on the wind, a creaking door or the howling of wolves in the night to herald the intruder’s arrival.

The doorway is empty. Then, Dorian blinks, and it’s not empty anymore.

His only exit out of the study that isn’t a window is blocked by a wraith with glowing eyes the color of veilfire. The dark figure stands unmoving just past the threshold, every detail of it obscured by shadow.

Tonight is the night.

His entire body tenses as fight-or-flight kicks in; he forces himself to relax again, easing back into the chair. He remembers the investigations of previous murders; the target was never struck on sight. There will be a trigger, something that will set off the assault.

Outside, twenty-seven fighters are getting into position.

“You came, then,” Dorian says. His voice does not betray him, thank the Maker; it manages to produce the exact amount of sarcastic aloofness he had hoped for. “And all I needed to do was to get rid of my guards and staff and sit alone in the dark for a couple of hours. Who knew it was that easy?”

The figure steps forward, over the threshold and into the rectangle of moonlight streaming in from behind Dorian’s back. At once, it ceases to be a shadow and becomes a material presence.

A revenant.

His face is pale in the moonlight, the green vallaslin of Ghilan’nain appearing dark grey. Scratches and dirt on every visible part of his skin; grown-out, unkempt hair with leaves and twigs caught in it. Eyes glassy, pupils glowing veilfire green.

When he speaks, his voice is low and rasping, barely familiar - but familiar nonetheless.

A single word.

“Vhenan.”

Fuck. He can’t do this. This is too much - this is wrong - he can’t -

No. It’s too late now. Either he sees this through, or he dies.

“Amatus,” Dorian states dryly. “Long time no see. Next time you decide to become possessed and disappear forever, maybe leave a note? ‘Dear Dorian, just letting you know that I’ll be away for a while. The ancient spirits I let into my brain have finally claimed my soul and I’m going to spend four and a half years murdering people on their behalf. You were right about everything and I should have listened to you. Love, Neilar.’ ”

It feels good, at least. Sure, he’s just rambling to buy a few more minutes for the people outside - but, while he’s at it, he might as well get some things off his chest.

Now that he’s been forced to work through the fear and the guilt at an incredibly fast pace, all that’s left is anger; quite a hefty amount of it, with the name of this glassy-eyed idiot written on it in giant glowing letters.

“Or how about using the amulet? You know - the magical marvel I invented specifically for the purpose of talking to you? It didn’t cross your mind to maybe mention all the sleepwalking and speaking in tongues that was happening? No! It’s all I’m alright, Dorian , and things are fine, Dorian , and I have to spend a month wondering if the amulet is broken before Leliana calls to tell me that you’re gone - ”

A sharp edge against his throat, clutched in ironbark fingers. Appearing without the warning of sound or motion, like Neilar himself.

The others should be about ready by now, shouldn’t they?

Neilar speaks. Ancient elven.

Dorian understands every word; he’s been doing his homework on everything elven and ancient ever since the disappearance.

“The will of Mythal demands your demise.”

The blade presses deeper - fuck - no, not deep enough to end it.

It takes all of his willpower not to start casting. Not yet. This isn’t just about saving his own hide; this is about capturing him for good.

The signal. Any second now. Surely -

“...Hold on, just a second - he’s not peeking, right?” Dagna asks, adjusting buckles and leather straps.

“I can’t - he’s covering my eyes!” Neilar protests.

His eyelashes tickle the inside of Dorian’s palms, as if to prove the point.

“Well, good - keep covering them. It’s all wonky and misaligned and you’re not allowed to see it until it sits right.”

Dorian can relate to her fretting. This particular project was, in many ways, a work of passion, and the necessity to finish it as soon as possible only added to the frantic energy of everyone involved. His own part was relatively small; he chimed in at the design stage and provided some arcane support at the tail end of the process, drawing on his necromantic knowledge of animating limbs.

It looks good, though. It should also work well; they’d checked everything a thousand times over.

Dagna finishes the adjustments and leans back to inspect her work from afar. Satisfied, she nods:

“Alright, let him see it.”

He takes his hands away from Neilar’s eyes and steps aside, making sure that he can see Neilar’s expression as he looks at his new prosthetic.

The look in his eyes is blank, at first, processing what he’s looking at. Then - surprise, curiosity; he leans closer to the artificial arm, inspecting it for details.

“Try holding it up to your face instead,” Dagna suggests.

“But how do I - ”

“Don’t think about it too much! Just do it.”

The arm moves, rising up to eye level and turning, allowing Neilar to look at it from different angles.

Silverite-inlaid ironbark, the metallic parts lovingly engraved with images of vines and halla.

Dorian can see the exact moment when Neilar finds the writing hidden among the designs. His lips move silently as he reads the text.

The same quote in elven, dwarven and Tevene, snaking along the vines:

“Wounded and blinded, I will find my way home.”

A line adapted from the tale of Ghilan’nain, changed ever so slightly to make it into an oath; the same oath Neilar had taken, years ago, upon completing the trial to earn him a place among the clan’s scouts.

Despite the recent revelations from Solas, it seemed appropriate. Dorian doesn’t remember who was the first to float the idea for adding text, but the approving look he received from Taren - Neilar’s father - upon suggesting that particular quote has been firmly burned into his memory.

And yet… This is all fine and good, but the most important question is -

“It’s… perfect.” Neilar sounds almost puzzled, as if liking their gift is a surprise to him. “I didn’t know what it would look like, but now - I can’t imagine it looking any other way.”

Dorian feels something inside of him deflate with relief. Neilar keeps inspecting the prosthetic, turning it this way and that, then starts playing with it, testing how far the fingers can bend and how quickly he can shift from one gesture to another.

It’s not as good as the real thing, it’s a little slower; Dorian knows that for a fact.

Still, right now Neilar doesn’t seem to mind; after messing with the hand some more, he shifts his attention to Dagna and pulls her into a hug, thanking her. Then, it’s Dorian’s turn.

The hug is tight enough to make his ribs hurt.

For the first time in weeks, it feels as if everything will be alright, after all.

A sharp whistle cuts through the silence.

Neilar freezes, both ears perked up. Distracted.

At the sound of the signal, relief floods Dorian's system. He feels the corners of his mouth twist into a smile of their own accord.

“I still love you, for the record,” he says, “But letting you slit my throat is a little too much, don’t you think?”

With a snap of his fingers, the lightning glyph he’d drawn on the floor of the study hours ago detonates.

#dragon age #dragon age inqusition #dorian pavus #dorian x inquisitor #pavellan #inquisitor lavellan #dragon age fanfic #dragon age fanfiction #mild swearing #oc: neilar lavellan #herearedragons writing #IT'S DONE #uh #tw: death mention #tw: grief #tw: blood mention

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spicywarl0ck · 2 months

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Happy Friday! “Have you lost your mind?” “Not recently.” for whichever characters you're feeling tonight!

Happy Friday, and thank you so much for the prompt x3 I chose Dorian/mLavellan for this, but I might redo this one day for mHawke/Fenris. I had a lot of fun writing this x3 @dadrunkwriting Pairing: Dorian/mLavellan Rating: G Length: 466 “You want to meet my father? Have you lost your mind?” Dorian’s voice echoed against the Rotunda Walls, the book in his hands almost dropping to the ground.

“Not recently. No.” Revassan knew the question was rhetorical, but he couldn’t help but answer with a smirk on his lips. But he dropped the smirk just as quickly when he became of Dorian’s expression.

He knew the Tevinter mage could be dramatic, but he never looked at him as he did now.

“What’s wrong with meeting your father?” The elf asked quietly instead, not daring to approach the man he’d grown close to in the past months. Unlike him, Dorian hadn’t talked about his family too much.

“The question you should rather ask is, what isn’t wrong with meeting him.” Dorian huffed, but even he couldn’t keep the dramatics up.

“My father and I rarely saw eye to eye in the past,” he added after a moment, a tired sigh following. Something in his eyes had shifted, making the mage appear softer than usual.

Dorian looked vulnerable.

“Neither did my father and I.” Revassan’s voice was soft when he spoke, his forest green eyes gentle as they gazed at Dorian lovingly. “I know talking to a parent can be harsh, and I can only guess that there were many things between you in the past, but…”

“You can’t even imagine.” The mage scoffed at him.

“No, you’re right. Maybe I can’t. Not without you telling me.” He dared to step forward. “Look, I don’t want to press you, and I would never push you into anything you wouldn’t want but,” Revassan took a breath. “I didn’t leave things as well with my father as I should have, and I might never see him again. I received no messages from my Clan, but you got a letter from yours.”

“A letter from a messenger.” Dorian duly noted.

“Yes, maybe, but that’s still more than I have.” The elf watched Dorian's face soften as he stretched his hand out gently to brush over the silky robes. “It’s not a decision I can make for you,” he added softly. “I’m just saying that maybe you should hear him out before you regret it. I know you’re a decent man, Dorian, and you might be full of hurt and anger, but you also care a lot.”

“By the maker. I hate it when you are right.” The mage sighed, gently taking the elf’s slender hand in his.

“I love you too.” Revassan chuckled, gladly accepting the lips that started to brush against his to pull him into a sweet kiss. He felt the soft breath against his lips, the warmth of Dorian’s body pressing into him.

And for a moment, he wanted nothing more but to let this moment last forever.

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #prompt #writing #dragon age inquisition #dadrunkwriting #dadwc #prompt fill #my writing #Dorian/mLavellan #Pavellan #Dorian Pavus #male Lavellan #My Oc

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transandersrights · 7 months

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Would love to see some m!Lavellan x Dorian with the prompt "It's so easy to forget that there's magic in all of this" -Sleeping at Last, Body

(I take prompts! See info here)

Thank you for the prompt to this lovely song! (I wrote most of this p late at night two weeks ago so I don't remember how this premise was linked to the song. It is, though!)

For @dadrunkwriting, 1k of post-canon Pavellan angst into fluff :)

The end of the day rolled around, and Dorian was alone yet again.

It was like that yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that… endless halls of an endless legacy-palace-prison, echoes of past crimes baked into the shining bricks that welcomed him home. It would be like that tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that — constraining walls and the same office floor to pace over and over again.

He was tired. He was always tired, at the end of the day, what with the endless wheedling and scheming and all those things he used to think would be so exciting if he actually got to use them for something he believed in. Turned out it was just dangerous, and that wasn’t nearly as thrilling as he used to think it was when his father came home in the rose-tinted robes of boyhood idealism with another tale of an assassin in a covert meeting place.

Dorian could walk through to his library, if he wanted. Ages of history watching him, judging, and a book he could lose himself in if his eyelids weren’t already drooping. If he wanted to walk instead to the garden there were the plants he had to hire a gardener to take care of, roses he chose but had no one to give to.

At least, no one who’d be able to receive them before the flowers shrivelled into nothing. Funny, how long a distance really was. The other side of Thedas was the same as the other side of the city when it came to someone as busy as Ilassan, but endlessly more of a chasm when Dorian just wanted to know what he was doing today rather than three weeks ago.

If he went to the kitchen, he could eat a meal alone, prepared by the chef he hired on the weekends to cook his meals for the week. In the sitting room, he could sit with no one at all, just like he had for the last few months because his friends were usually around for business, not pleasure.

In his office… no. Not so late, with the moon already high in the sky and half the city in bed. There was always work to do — he had to draw a line.

Bed it was. Just like yesterday, the day before, and the day before that. Just like tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. The endless cycle of his life, so rarely interrupted by anything worth noting. The wheel he’d turn for the rest of his life in the hope that someone, at least, was feeling the effects of his hard work.

At least he was tired enough to sleep well. Probably.

So Dorian climbed the lonely stairs, walked the lonely landing, and opened a lonely door to his lonely bedroom and tried, really, not to feel too sorry for himself. He wasn’t good at it, but he had to try. For his—

“Amatus?”

For a fraction of a moment, Dorian was convinced someone had replicated Ilassan’s form in a perfect doppelganger meant to catch him off guard. And then Ilassan smiled, that tiny, wry little thing, and everything else in the world melted away.

“Surprised?” Dorian’s feet moved unbidden towards his voice. His face had to be an absolute picture in that moment. Yes, he certainly was surprised.

“You didn’t say a word!”

Ilassan’s face creased again, and in the lamplight his freckles were as constellations to a sailor, guiding Dorian home again. “I didn’t know when I’d be able to get into the city,” he admitted. He gestured to the pack on the ground, which almost certainly did not contain anything resembling his official credentials as former Inquisitor, one of the most important southern figures in the entire Imperium.

“I could have got you in with a click of my finger,” Dorian pointed out. Ilassan shrugged. He looked good, happier than the last time Dorian saw him. That wasn’t hard, seeing as last time they were parting, and that always… well, it never got any easier.

“And then everyone would know I was here.” Rather than just Dorian. And rather than having all their time to themselves, this would turn into something else entirely. Dorian could understand.

“So you… how did you get in?” Dorian knew that, when it came to the man in front of him, assuming there was anything he couldn’t do was ludicrous. Still, there was always something. Another surprise stacked on top of the near-impossible feat, his brightness so blinding Dorian could almost imagine what dwarves felt, coming to the surface for the first time.

“Oh, you know.” Another shrug. Always the shrug, the nonchalance, like he wasn’t about to say something utterly ridiculous and make Dorian fall in love all over again for the thousandth time. “Climbed over the wall? Disarmed an enchantment. Unlocked the door with your key.”

Unbelievable. Wonderful. And his Ilassan, same as ever. Dorian could only make a noise of exasperated fondness, ripped straight from his heart up through his throat, and jolt towards him like he was no longer in control of his body. “Come here already.”

They always waited to close the distance between them. Dorian didn’t know why; the tradition had developed at some point, over the years, and he’d long since missed exactly when it just became what they did. But now Ilassan launched forward right into his arms, letting Dorian lift him (just a little) and spin him around (not all the way — Dorian had never quite had the upper body strength for that).

“I can’t quite believe you’re here.” He’d thought it would be months before they’d manage to carve time out of their respective schedules to get any time worth having.

Which begged the question: did Dorian have the guts to ask how long he was planning to stay? Would he rather count down the days, or wait until Ilassan felt it wouldn’t be too sad a prospect?

“Well, I am.” Ilassan smiled again, leaning in until their foreheads touched and their lips were only a whisper apart, and Dorian decided he didn’t care.

The night stretched out ahead of him, and he wasn’t alone anymore. Nothing else in the world mattered in that moment.

#dragon age fanfiction #dragon age #pavellan #dai #dorian pavus #da drunk writing circle #ilassan lavellan

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halla-hunts-the-wolf · 11 months

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Lavellan Tells a Story

On their way to track rogue apostates, Inquisitor Lavellan tells a story to his companions.

Featuring: Mahvir Lavellan, Dorian Pavus, Varric Tethras, and Cole!

Length: Short & Sweet.

⚔️⚔️⚔️

"There is a story among the Dalish," Inquisitor Lavellan says as he walks amongst clefts in the hills. His years of outdoor experience allow him to avoid rock falls and loose stones, while his companions stumble and slip behind him.

"Right." Dorian chides, his foot catching on rough ground and causing him to stumble into the elf's back. "Now seems like the perfect time for stories."

"It's always a perfect time for a story, Sparkler." Varric fires back, clinging to the back of Cole's leathers so the young boy could guide him safely down the path.

Mahvir reaches back with a gloved hand to steady his mage, and Dorian takes it as an opportunity to draw his staff. The Tempest was a dangerous weapon, pillaged from a demon-infested temple within the Western Approach, but today it would be nothing more than a walking stick.

"Very well," he huffs, missing the warmth of his lover's hand as it moves away. "You lot have your fun, while I try not to die."

They continue their descent, creeping amongst the hills in the Hinterlands. This was the first place the Inquisition had gained influence and yet war still raged in these lands.

Rogue Templars in the area clashed with apostates who refused to join the Inquisition. Both sides thought they were fighting for a higher cause when in reality, they were putting innocent people out of their homes and killing themselves out of pride.

"So the story," Mahvir continues as his gaze maps out safe routes down the rocks. "The Goddess Andruil catches Fen'harel hunting her Halla in the forest and demands satisfaction. As Fen'harel is tied to a tree to be held hostage for a night, he is sentenced to serve Andruil in bed for a year and a day-"

"That's not as righteous of a punishment as I'd expect from a God." Varric comments.

"I suppose we all have our vices." Dorian agrees.

"While Andruil is setting up her camp for the night, a forgotten one known as Anais, flew into her camp. He claimed that Fen'harel had also wronged him and he demanded satisfaction as well."

"This is a violent story," Cole remarks.

"Most of them are." Varric soothes.

"They decide to duel for their right to Fen'harel, while he watches from his place against the tree. He eventually calls out to Anais and tells him of a weak point within Andruil's armor. Anais heeds the wolf's advice, and as Andruil falls to the forest floor, he turns to regard Fen'harel..."

Dorian chuckles lowly, despite himself. "Turning your back on an enemy? A novice mistake for anyone."

"Anais didn't see Andruil rise from her place nor her arrow coming until it protruded from his abdomen. Both now unfit for battle, they sit beside the camp's fire. As they are forced to tend to their wounds, Fen'harel chews upon his binds, and escapes."

There is a moment after the story ends where the only sound is their footfalls, the soft clanking of Mahvir's armor, and fighting in the distance.

"A lovely story, Amatus." Dorian finally says, skidding down a few feet as his staff dislodges a small boulder. "That Fen'harel is a tricksy bastard."

"You think we are like Fen'harel?" Cole offers, there is something hidden within his voice, but the other three men easily dismiss it as his usual touch of whimsical.

"The Inquisition, yes." His voice carries softly and does not echo against the stone that was around them on all sides. A fresh cloud of smoke, caused by an invasive fire, had caught his attention.

His ears twitch.

After another moment of silent consideration, he continues. "We make enemies on all sides and maneuver our way out of danger. The mages and templars, Celene and Gaspard, The Grey Wardens and Corypheus..."

"We do end up in the middle of things quite a bit, don't we."

"I'm half afraid I'll start praying to Fen'harel before this business is done," Mahvir says. He seems genuinely bothered by this admittance. A weakness shared among friends. "The creators know that I could use some of his cunning, in the days to come."

"Why do you need his when you have your own?" Dorian challenges. He knew the Inquisitor well enough by now to recognize when the elf was on the hunt. He'd already prioritized a plan, by the time the fire's smoke had reached the sky. "The plan?"

"We're going to drive the mages' into their fire and smoke them out. Once it enters their lungs, they'll lose focus, and we can handle them quietly."

"I suppose I'll be dispelling anything they throw at us," Dorian says, already thinking of the smoke and ash that will be clinging to his robes.

"And Cole and I will be boxing them in?" Varric finishes off, already pulling Bianca free and fondling her trigger.

"I'm not equipped for stealth," Mahvir announces. Leaning back on his heels just for his armor to creak and his grappling chain to rattle. "I will keep watch and warn you of any reinforcements. Keep an ear out for a robin's call."

"A whistle, amidst flames and fighting?" Dorian sounds dubious.

"I will hear it," Cole says, his face shadowed by the brim of his hat.

"If we can take the mages out quickly, we can take the Templars by surprise. I'll join the battle then and hopefully, this road can be open for travel and trade within the next few days."

"Ah yes, the Inquisition's most important duty; returning commerce to Thedas one hovel at a time."

They reach the base of the hills just as Dorian finishes speaking, and Mahvir steps out to hide amongst the trees that had not been struck or burnt down by some miracle. "Get the job done here Dorian, and we may see less of Fen'harel in the future."

The mage's staff begins to glow- its decorative skull rattles with ambient magic- as its sunken eyes begin to gleam with a faint purple light. "As you say, Inquisitor."

The apostates do not live long enough to see their fire scourge the Hinterlands, nor do they get the satisfaction of seeing their enemies struck down in their stead.

The first caravan of the season travels down this war-torn road not two days later.

Fen'harel remains, as always, in the middle of things.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dorian pavus #mahvir lavellan #pavellan #varric tethras #da cole #dragon age cole #dragon age fanfiction

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scurvgirl · 1 year

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I want to write a body positivity/body worship fic series. So far, pairings I’ve thought about are FemHawke/Fenris, FemInquisitor/Bull, Solavellan, M!Warden/Zevran. They’d all be NSFW, focusing on body changes and appreciation of different body types. Trying to gauge interest - y’all want this? If so, drop a reply or come into my asks and tell me.

#i just want more interaction from readers T__T #dragon age #fanfiction #scurvysays #iron bull #fenris #solavellan #zevran arainai #i maaay do pavellan but i haven't thought of an appreciation focus for them yet

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transprincecaspian · 1 year

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WIP WEDNESDAY THURSDAY

@rosella-writes and @melisusthewee both tagged me for WIP Wednesday and I!!!!!!! :3 am special!!! I have no sense of time and but ONE WIP!! A little something for my new Iveani Lavellan. You can read my short Drabble below the cut :3

“I do think that is the first time that I have ever seen you smile. You should do it more often; it’s dashing on you.”

Iveani raised an eyebrow as he caught the hazy sight of the other mage lingering in the doorway. His own mind was afar; The Iron Bull being plagued by Haven’s gleeful young refugees at Krem’s urging had brought up the memory of elven children becoming enamored with the halla for the first time. He had not been allowed—he had been considered too dangerous, and kept away by his Keeper’s will. Still, it had always been envious to watch. Watching him, however, was Dorian, and his lingering was letting in the cold.

“I have found little reason to smile of late, Dorian,” said Iveani, with a sudden frown. “What with being far-flung into a future where I had to witness my allies falling upon their swords for me.”

“Ah, yes, that nasty business,” Dorian sighed as he pried himself away from the door frame to stand next to Iveani. “But you gained the aid of the mages. You can save your friends from that future. They are your friends, yes?”

“Not particularly,” Iveani said with a sigh. He looked out toward the mountains, but they were little more than white blurs to his eyes. “We are allies. We share a common goal, and little else.”

“I find it hard to imagine that they would throw themselves upon their swords for so little,” Dorian said. “Do you truly think so lowly of them?”

Iveani’s lips twitched into a frown. “Perhaps I should speak in simpler terms. Cassandra and Leliana are both too pious and distrustful of me, as mage and apostate. Cullen tolerates my presence but was once a Templar. Sera holds disdain for her own kind,” he pauses only to take a breath, not to allow Dorian a word edgewise, “Blackwell has made it clear that our stance is as allies, Vivianne disapproves of my opinions of other mages and seeks to secure her own political stance, and I am quite certain that Solas and I will come to blows over the nuances of elven culture any day now.”

After a pause, Iveani added, “Varric is quite amiable. For a dwarf. And so is Josephine—though she doesn’t truly understand how my religion affects my beliefs with what is happening here.”

Iveani looked simply back at Dorian, smugly expecting to find stunned silence. Instead Dorian held his gaze for a few mere seconds before he began to laugh—uproariously so, and for long enough that he left Iveani fuming hot despite the encroaching promise of winter on the wind.

Dorian wiped a fake tear from his eye with a dramatic flourish. “Anything else?”

“You make a jest of me!” Iveani snapped, bristling as he held his staff tightly in his hands. Anything to keep him upright while his head was spinning.

“I do,” Dorian said. “That’s what friends do. Those people out there? Those are your friends—they think so, even if you do not. You don’t really have the luxury of choice, though. Do you? We are all tangled in this Breach mess together. We might as well make the most of it.”

“You vex me,” Iveani spat. “I should have asked the Templars for aid.”

“And risk proving Commander Cullen right? Your pride would not have let you see it through. Is that why you wield your staff as a pole-arm?”

“Pardon me?” Iveani asked, as Dorian gestured to the top of his staff, where an iron blade had been nestled snugly into the reinforced wood.

“A staff is a ranged weapon in itself. Why armor it further?”

Iveani frowned. “In case someone gets too close.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, with a warmth that Iveani wasn’t sure was meant to be genuine. “That’s exactly it, isn’t it?”

#wip wednesday #tag game #cas writes #iveani lavellan #Dorian Pavus #pavellan #that’s right babes a new ship #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #my mutuals my beloveds

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maleficarum-and-mythal · 2 years

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So I’ve been working on an Adoribullavellan fanfic (with my boy Cylvin Lavellan) for the last month or so, and have been posting it to AO3. I figured I should actually post a link to the fic on here for people who are interested, so here it is!

Chapters: 4/? Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: The Iron Bull/Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, The Iron Bull/Male Lavellan (Dragon Age), Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus Characters: The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor (Dragon Age) Additional Tags: Polyamory, Eventual Relationships, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, Childhood Trauma, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, No Beta we die like Clan Lavellan, Near Death Experiences, Hypothermia Summary:

Vhenan; a word that means both heart and home.

With the Iron Bull, love is risk, it's excitement and adrenaline and a spark of potential. It's vulnerability, old wounds and discarded masks and a need to protect. With Dorian Pavus, love is trust, a refuge from the storm and shattered expectations and intimacy. It's familiarity, fumbling and insincere jabs and understanding.

And they both were home and heart to Cylvin Lavellan.

#dragon age: inquisition #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor lavellan #oc: cylvin lavellan #adoribullavellan #bullavellan #pavellan #dragon age #dai #da: inquisition #fanfiction #been working hard on this so any comments or the like would be appreciated :)

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go-fornicate-yourself · 2 years

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"Waking up, bound in shackles wasn’t unfamiliar or new to Lio Lavellan. When he woke up he was quickly able to notice the armed humans that surrounded him, that wasn’t new either...”

A rework of a Pavellan fanfic I wrote a while ago that’s basically a canon divergent AU

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age oc #male inquisitor #male lavellan #inquisitor levallan #dorian x inquisitor #pavellan #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic

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blarrghe · 24 days

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haven't promoted this story in a minute because idk I got tired of tumblr and took a sort of break. Tomorrow I will be posting ch. 14, which is halfway through the story, so it's a great time to pick up...

The Hunter The Snake and the Fox

Rating: M | Category: M/M | Words: 27 081 | Chapters 13/28

Summary:

When Magister Dorian Pavus' expedition meets unexpectedly with a clan of unhappy Dalish elves, First Taren Lavellan may be the unhappiest among them. Unhappier still to be put to the task of helping to see his quest through. This is the tale of how a fortnight in the forests of the Free Marches can change everything.

And here's a long snippet from Ch. 3 for some Drama:

A sliver of light shone briefly in from a crack in the tent, and a leather-clad elf stomped through it. The elf barked something out towards the tent flap, and before Dorian could muster more than a groan, he stomped out again. Dorian blinked a few times after the fading blur of light.

Minutes went by. Possibly hours. Dorian’s head hurt. He tugged on the binds at his wrists, bending them uncomfortably this way and that. It only seemed to tighten them, so he stopped. His head began to clear. More time passed. He attempted to count the minutes. When the elf returned again, Dorian managed a few inquiring calls for attention. Things like, “Where are the others?”, and, “damnit, I’m talking to you!” His calls went ignored.

The elf poked his head back out into the bright daylight beyond the dark tent, and shouted something in grumpy Elvhen. Another elf soon pushed through the flap, they stomped grimly forward together, and then one on either side hoisted Dorian up by the elbows.

Dorian’s legs were half asleep and still bound, painfully tingling with each jostling step as the two elves dragged him forward. He groaned. The elf on his right barked back something he was sure was an insult. His unwilling legs were dragged on.

Dorian did his best to make his case for answers and mercy as they went. “We have no qualms with you," he pleaded, " I know Tevinter hasn’t historically been kind to your people, but really, this expedition wants nothing to do with you, so if you’d simply let us go on our way…”

Sharp grunt.

“You’re making a huge mistake. Kill me, and you’d be inviting a war, do you have any idea who I am?”

Angry Elvish epithet.

“Dorian of house Pavus,” he said proudly, “ Magister Pavus as of recently, I have a fortune, you could be handsomely rewarded and —”

Big knife.

“— and a wife! And children! Please!”

The big knife pressed closer to his throat. There was a bandage there already.

“Alright! So I don’t have children, or a wife, but I am engaged, and —”

Dorian was shoved through a tent flap by the elf holding the knife, who wound up at his back as his second captor pushed his unstable and bound legs down into a kneel.

“Relax, shemlin,” said a low voice.

Thank the Maker, Dorian thought, blinking now at the woven mat he’d been forced upon, its zigzagged pattern slowly coming into view in his still foggy vision. Finally, here was someone who spoke the Trade speech. King's Tongue, they called it in the south. Crude. In Tevinter, the nobility still had its own.

Dorian’s eyes rose from the ground to take in warmly lit canvas walls draped in soft pelts and colourful woven blankets. He knelt near a smouldering fire pit. Smoke was rising up through a narrow hole in the tent’s roof. Through its haze, in a grand and intricately carved wooden seat, sat a man. The man stood, and Dorian watched leather-wrapped feet pace forward, around, circling him. There were more seats, less grand but still intricately carved, all around the fire pit. None sat in them except for one old woman. She sat still and proud, squinting at him through the smoke.

Dorian lifted his gaze all the way up to the face of the man who was just now finishing his pacing examination of him. An elvhen mage stood before Dorian with his staff planted firmly on the ground between them. He was not tall, but stood in towering regalness over Dorian all the same. His posture was straight, his shoulders strongly set and covered with a heavy green cloak woven through with threads of blue and gold. He wore his deep auburn hair in a long, thick braid hung over one shoulder, and he held his carved, spiralling wooden staff in both hands, emanating power.

“You are Master Pavus ,” said the standing elf, speaking down to him.

“Master Pavus was my father,” Dorian replied, flashing the man a winning smile, “as I am evidently your prisoner, it seems only fitting that you simply call me Dorian.”

DAFF tags list: @warpedlegacy @rakshadow @rosella-writes @effelants @bluewren @breninarthur @ar-lath-ma-cully @dreadfutures @ir0n-angel @inquisimer @crackinglamb @theluckywizard @nirikeehan @oxygenforthewicked @exalted-dawn-drabbles @melisusthewee @agentkatie @delicatefade @leggywillow @about2dance @plisuu

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k9rage · 4 months

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13 and 16 for the new years ask game, please and thank you!

Hope you’re having a resplendent day, my heart ❣️

-Lexi Sun ☀️

13. Aside from fanfic, are there any other fan works you’d like to try creating? Fanart, or fanvids, gifsets, or podfic?

I'd like to do more fanbinding/fanfiction bookbinding, but printing so much stuff and getting the pages right intimidates me 😔🕺 maybe this year I'll start by rebinding some of my existing books then doing fanbinding again :0

16. Do you have that one fanfic that you wrote a ton for, ages ago, but never posted? Will this be the year, come hell or high water, that it WILL get finished and posted?

Yes... 😔😭 I wrote a whole bunch for my original pavellan fic concept before scrapping it and a lot for my original Fen'an x Yuo Lavellan before setting that one aside as well. I may revisit the latter this year since I think the concept is good and I was just skittish about writing OCs the first time around!

#hiii ty for the ask sun!!#calico speaks

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spicywarl0ck · 3 months

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I had so much fun with the ask yesterday, that I rewrote some bits to make a Dorian/trans male Lavellan version x3 I crossposted both on my Ao3, because I had fun writing it, but I am sharing the altered version here too x3 Just be mindful that this could use some triggering words, and if you are not comfortable with the Cl** and Cu** words being used, stay clear of this please x3 Pairing: Dorian/trans male Lavellan Rating: E

The rush of air felt cold against his flushed cheeks.

He heard the soft splashing of the nearby well, the sound comforting in contrast with the noise inside. Just a moment for himself was all he needed, a moment of calmness after dealing with too many politicians and murder plots.

Revassan took a deep breath, inhaling the soft scents of the exotic flowers around him.

“Ah, and there I wondered where the hero of the evening went. I figured I’d find you here.” Dorian’s voice made him smile on the spot. It had been hard to find even a minute for themselves with everything going on. They’d only been able to squeeze in one tiny dance on the balcony.

“You always seem to sense where to find me,” Revassan smirked at the mage. “I’d almost say you keep a magical tracker on me.”

“Maybe I do.” He watched the eyes of the Altus glinting slightly, his lips stretching into a mischievous smirk. “We Tevinter mages are rather good at keeping track of our elves.” Dorian joked. “Wouldn’t want them to run away and develop free will, right?” he teased.

“Ah, I knew there was a catch.” The elf chuckled, observing as Dorian's expression softened. “I take it you came to fetch me then?”

“Actually, I wanted to steal a moment with you.” Dorian presented him with the bottle of wine he’d held behind his back. “What could be nicer than a picnic in Celene’s gardens right?”

“And also her wine, I assume?”

“Of course.” The mage gestured him toward the stone frame of the well. He would never get dirt onto his outfit. “But to soothe your conscience, I asked very politely,” Dorian added swiftly.

“Aren’t you always?” Revassan chuckled as he graciously sat next to the Tevinter mage. “I’m impressed.”

“As you should be.” By the creators, he loved this cocky man. He’s tried to withstand his charms at first but fell for him sooner than expected. Now, he was caught in his trap, unable to let go of the magnificent man that Dorian Pavus was.

“I see you’re very humble tonight.” Revassan teased, watching as Dorian conjured two drinking cups up before he filled them with the sweet red liquid.

“Of course I am.” Dorian’s mustache moved with his smile. “I am the humblest man you’ll ever meet,” he added, only his eyes betraying his words and calling his tease out. By now, Revassan was more than capable of reading this man.

It took him a while to see the vulnerability of Dorian, but he’d taken a deep understanding after meeting his father in Redcliffe.

“Thank you for sneaking the wine out.” Revassan’s smile was genuine. “I needed it,” he added. The past evening had been a lot, and he hadn’t been sure how to deal with political situations. His people didn’t really meddle in things like that, the conclave being the only exception he witnessed.

If he was honest, it was surprising that they listened to a Dalish elf.

“I know.” Dorian’s voice sounded soft when he spoke. “You’re not ballroom material,” he added, the tease evident in his voice. “For me, it’s like coming home.” His gaze drifted away for a heartbeat, the corners of his lips dropping slightly.

“Do you miss it?”

“Home? Of course. Tevinter might have his flaws, but it’s still my home. Don’t you miss your Clan?” he replied, taking a thoughtful sip of wine as he let it dance on his palate. “Hm, I have to say not bad, but nothing could beat a Tevinter Redwine.”

“I miss them.” A sad smile danced on Revassan’s lips. “I miss them ever since I left. Funny, isn’t it?” he chuckled.

“I always wanted to leave, but now that I am so far away from them, I can’t help but want to go back.” It wasn’t as if he could or would, to begin with. There had been nothing more he wanted but to go back when he woke up in the dungeon in Haven. But he knew there was no turning back now.

He’d come too far for that.

Also, there was Dorian. He wasn’t sure if his father would approve of a Tevinter Altus, meaning he’d need to make a choice sooner or later. For now, though, he didn’t want to choose.

“We always miss the things we can’t have. Or so they say.” The mage’s face turned firm, his eyes studying him intensely.

“I told myself I won’t compromise myself anymore.” He set the cup aside before his hand stretched to touch Revassan’s cheek. The elf felt the cold metal of Dorian’s rings pressing against his skin, the touch soothing against his wine-heated cheeks.

“Neither should you.”

Revassan couldn’t say who initiated it, maybe both of them, but he didn’t care much about the hows and who’s as he melted contently into the kiss. Dorian always knew what he needed, the sweet taste of Orlesian wine lingering on his lips.

He got lost in the touch, slightly shuddering against the mage’s palm cupping his cheek.

It was easy to forget everything around them as he closed his eyes, just enjoying the moment and closeness of the other man against him as neither wanted to withdraw.

“Getting a little excited?” Dorian chuckled against his lips as he felt him shiver

He didn’t even give him a chance to answer until his tongue brushed against his lips, gently asking for entrance before slipping in. This bastard knew all too well what he did to him. Revassan melted in his arms as his whimpers were muffled by the invading tongue exploring his mouth.

An unbearable heat began to claim his body, yet he also shivered as he felt the chilly breeze.

All he felt was the body pressing against him and the tongue moving inside his mouth. A hand pressed against his lower back, drawing him closer while the mage ravaged every corner of his mouth, leaving him wanting more.

“Dorian~” his voice got muffled against his devouring lips, and he wasn’t sure if he had spoken or just uttered the altus’s name in his head. It didn’t really matter.

“You’re shivering.” The smug reply indicated that Dorian heard him after all. “And you’re aroused. I know it,” he added, luring a groan out of the elf’s lips as their pelvises touched.

“So are you.” Revassan teased before a rushed breath escaped him when Dorian pushed him further against one of the walls surrounding the gardens.

“I am always excited for you, Amatus,” he whispered against his ear, his tongue darting over the pointed tips and making him moan hoarsely. Revassan tried to hold back, but he couldn’t betray the want in his voice.

Creators, he wanted this man, and he wanted him now.

“We can’t.” The elf tried to protest still, fighting a battle against his wine and lust-filled brain. He wanted to do nothing more but to be ravaged by the tevinter mage, no matter the place or the time.

“I can tell you don’t mean what you say.” Dorian chuckled, his lips still too close to his sensitive ears.

He dragged his tongue all over the tip, causing Revassan’s fingers to curl into his tunic tightly. A strangled moan escaped him as he tilted his head to the side, giving the impossible man more access to his ear and neck.

“I guess I have to make you beg for it then. We both know you will.”

It was both a threat and a promise. Dorian always managed to bring him to that point, and Revassan was sure the Altus would manage this time, too. No matter if they were in the Empress's gardens or not.

A part of him needed to admit that the thought excited him a bit.

“What if someone sees us?” The elf asked, even though the chance added to the thrill. He knew the corner that Dorian was dark enough that no one would see for real, but just the implication of it would serve the nobles enough topics to gossip about.

“Are you truly caring about that?” Dorian’s voice was husky, but Revassan knew he only needed to say the word, and he’d stop.

“I leave that to you to find out.” Revassan teased him, only to moan as quietly as he could when he felt Dorian’s teeth scrapping against the sensitive skin of his ears.

One hand slowly snaked towards his crotch, brushing against his pants innocently enough to play it off accidentally. But he knew it wasn’t. He couldn’t help but press against the hand, secretly yearning for more as the mage’s lips and teeth drove him insane in such a short amount of time.

“Dorian…~” he whimpered as the Altus kissed his way to his earlobe, only to continue at his neck.

His hips couldn’t help but move against the hand, but he was too proud to beg. He wouldn’t give in to Dorian’s demands that quickly, but he also couldn’t help the dizziness rushing through him. It probably was the mixture of the blood flow and the wine.

“I love it when you moan my name like this, Amatus.” The cocky mage whispered against his heated skin.

His lips left marks where they touched him as his hand slowly vanished within the elf’s trousers. They were so close to the goal as they stretched over the smooth skin above his cunt, the touch so very teasing as Revassan wanted nothing more but to be touched.

But Dorian wouldn’t give him what he wanted. Not just like that.

“You’re such a… a prick.” Revassan stuttered out, his brain unable to focus on anything but the heat and the wetness.

“I am, but admit it, You love me for it.” Dorian chuckled against his neck, leaving another mark behind after sucking the sensitive skin. Revassan felt every tooth dragging over his skin and the soft sensation of the mage’s lips as it pressed right against him.

But Dorian was right. He loved this man more than anyone else.

“Dorian…” a moan broke past the elf’s lips again, his hips grinding wantonly against the hand touching anything but his pulsing clit. “Pl… Please.” he gave in and fought his pride, not caring if anyone would see them.

All that he wanted was Dorian.

“I told you. You would eventually start begging.” The altus chuckled just as his hand traveled lover to rub Revassan’s clit. “It’s alright,” he added in a soothing voice as the elf moaned underneath his touch, his fingers curling firmly into his clothes.

“I take care of you,” Dorian promised softly, his hand never stopping its circling motion as it pressed against the elf’s engorged clit.

It drove him insane. The sensation, as much as the knowledge of being handled in the Empresse’s gardens, was too much. He didn’t know what to think since all his thoughts became a heated blur, his hips thrusting into his lover’s hands on their own.

It didn’t matter anymore where they were or what they did. All that mattered was that Revassan was here and the heat rushing through him, wanting more. And what he wanted right now was to find release within his lover’s hands.

“I’m close.” he moaned, his forest green eyes hooded and foggy when he tried to make eye contact.

“Then come for me, Amatus,” Dorian answered, his voice hoarse since he couldn’t hide his own desire. “Come,” he added in a whisper, his lips gently sucking at the tip of Revassan’s pointed ear as his hand kept pressing firmly against his sweet spot.

He didn’t budge when the elf found his release within his hand, hips stuttering as his cunt clenched around nothing.

For a moment, he felt shaky. Only the body of his lover could keep Revassan from falling onto the ground as his heart rate went up. He almost felt like he was bursting, and everything around him was a blur.

But he felt Dorian’s warmth and strength as it held him, the mage’s aftershave so prominent in his nostrils.

Revassan could’ve fallen asleep but forced himself to regain a clear head. No one was around them, just the two of them sharing a heated embrace as the elf slowly came to his senses.

“What about you?” he asked hoarsely as one of his hands softly brushed questionably against Dorian’s bulge.

“How about we join the party for now, and you repay me after we retire to our quarters?” The altus whispered against his ear, cleaning his hand with a handy spell and giving Revassan a moment to make himself decent again.

“You think anyone can lend us any silk shawls?”

#dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #writing #my writing #Pavellan #dorian pavus #male lavellan #trans male lavellan #trans author #lemon #smut #AU version #I can never decide between Revassan being cis or trans #so please bear with me #that's what Au's are for right?#dragon age inquisition

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transandersrights · 1 year

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Happy Friday! For dadwc: m!Lavellan/Dorian, sitting by a lake.

Pavellan for @dadrunkwriting! 725 words, G rated, no major content warnings. Feat. my Inquisitor OC Ilassan Lavellan (this is the first time I'm actually writing him w Dorian, though, so thank you for the prompt!!

It was easy, in the dark, for his fingers to find Dorian’s. With everyone else back at the camp, the dock jutting out into the lake felt… quiet. Isolated. Safe.

Dorian twined their fingers together without a word, and together they sat, listening to the water. It lapped against the shore, the wood, in a steady, slow murmur. Like the breathing of an ancient beast, quiet but powerful. The water could turn, in the right conditions, and waves could sweep them into the lake, under the cold dark water — but it wouldn’t. Not now. Not with the two of them here like nothing else mattered.

It was the hand with the mark that Dorian held. But his fingertips didn’t trace the contours of the mark, not in the way Ilassan traced it himself, willing it away. He just… held it. Like Ilassan’s hand was precious for Ilassan, nothing else.

Dorian couldn’t see his smile in the darkness. Ilassan smiled anyway, letting his head rest against Dorian’s shoulder. He was warm (for now — the wind was chilly out here, they’d have to go back soon). It was nice. Just the steadiness of his presence and the sound of the water.

And the stars, of course. With the way the fires burned all night in Skyhold and the parapets blocked out parts of the sky, Ilassan didn’t get to see nearly as much of the stars as he wanted to. Now, they were everywhere, stretching far beyond his view in exactly the way they were meant to.

It almost made him want to break the silence — were the skies so clear in Minrathous? Was this the one part of the south Dorian couldn’t find fault with, or did he prefer his skies empty? The thought almost made him laugh; who would even think that? When he put it like that, the question didn’t even need to be asked.

And yet, silences were made to be broken. Dorian’s steady breathing edged into speech with all the ease it always had for him. “You’re thinking awfully hard there.”

“How can you tell?”

“The furrow of your brow. It’s rather endearing.” His left hand moved to poke the spot between Ilassan’s eyebrows. “No, don’t smooth it. I meant what I said.”

“I was thinking about the stars.” Was that another conversation they needed to have at some point? Looking at the sky and picking apart which of the words and shapes for everything from up there came from his people rather than Dorian’s. Which ones would he want to cling to? Did he even care, with not a single night of serious navigation to his name?

Any wondering was rendered meaningless in an instant, as Dorian merely tilted his head upwards in silence. His smile was just barely visible in the darkness when he finally spoke. “They’re more visible here than in Minrathous. One part of the south I really cannot bring myself to find fault with, I must confess.”

Ilassan couldn’t help it; he snorted a decidedly undignified laugh, and Dorian startled.

“Is it really so strange I would say that?”

“No, no.” Ilassan held in another laugh. It wasn’t strange, just… “You’re very predictable sometimes.”

Dorian let out an offended huff. “Must you wound me so?”

“Absolutely.”

“And without even a hint of an explanation as to why?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re utterly insufferable sometimes.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.”

“Ah.” His voice was softer, this time. They weren’t talking about stars or temperament anymore. “You’re right. I do.”

Ilassan was even quieter in reply. “Me too.”

When Ilassan closed his eyes, there was nothing but Dorian, darkness, and the breeze off the water. It was perfect. It could never last.

Still, he breathed in the cool night air for a moment longer. Then another, then another, until everything felt clean and clear. Clear as the sky, clean as the lake. Until the thrumming in his heart was calmer than the waves, and the chill in his fingers no longer felt uncomfortable; just a part of life, sure as the turning of the seasons and the arc of an arrow.

Ilassan missed the moment he fell asleep on Dorian’s shoulder; didn’t even wake when Cassandra came to find them, carrying him back to the camp. He didn’t mind — the fact he’d managed it at all was a miracle enough for him.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #pavellan #dragon age drunk writing circle #ilassan lavellan

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