#dorianmance

[surnumanaja]

@dragonagekissweek Day 2: Injury

I head-canon that Trevelyan, Lavellan and Adaar all survived the temple explosion by not being in the temple. Valerio Trevelyan becomes Inquisition's and more importantly Inquisitor Cadash's personal healer. Yet he's trying also find time to court Dorian.

Kiss to cure an headache + Valerio getting beaten up in suledin keep

[lucenorthstar]

amatus / anchor

[trashwarden]

Happy Dragon Age Day!

This is from 2021 but I don’t think I ever posted it. Dorian talking with his son Felix.

Still grateful to DA for the friends I’ve made while gushing over the game, Dorian specifically 🥹

[silent-words]

Now I'll give you REAL Trespasser angst.

At the beginning of the Exalted Council Dorian Pavus receives news of his father's death. He is all alone, and he has to go back to Tevinter not only to work in the Magisterium but also to investigate the murder of his own father. If you romanced Dorian, his only family is the Inquisitor.

And then Dorian learns that the Inquisitor is slowly dying. The love of his life, the closest person he ever had, the only light of his existence gradually consumed by the Anchor.

[saltyowlets]

Don't know if I mentioned it here but despite being a massive Dorian fan, I never thought about exploring a Dorianmance. I always wanted to in some form but I rarely have had an interest in making a male oc in games.

I know Adoribull is popular but I actually have my eyes on BullxBlackwallxLavellan so yet again Dorian is on his own.

Until now. When I say I spent all day thinking about a Dorianmance, I really am not kidding. I just need to figure out how to create my guy in both DAI and DATV cause I like to imagine him as a potential Rook as well.

Brownie points if you can guess if he will be a Lavellan, Cadash, Trevelyan, or Adaar.

[riddlebot]

dancing the night away

[kingoftheratpeople]

y’all someone take capcut away from me

[lasatfat]

Hey welcome to DADWC

"A hand mirror, its glass irreparably shattered" from the artefacts of thedas list. For Gideon Lavellan/Dorian

artefacts of Thedas | @dadrunkwriting

Risk My Hands to Pick Up Shards

“Ouch!”

Dorian snatches his hand back, and instinctively shoves his stinging finger into his mouth. The taste of copper tells him that he has, indeed, drawn blood, and apparently rather a lot of it. With his good hand, he fishes a handkerchief from his pocket, and wraps it around the wound.

“Fasta vass, and thank you very much!” he tells the offending box of…well, he was still in the process of ascertaining what exactly was in the box when something inside decided to fight back. A lot of useless trinkets, so far. Peering in, he can see the culprit: a shard of mirror glass, now bearing a glob of carefully curated Tevinter blood, sticking haphazardly out of a rather handsome frame. Shame, it would be a pretty thing, if it wasn’t now a collection of shards and glittering dust.

The door creaks open behind him. “Dorian? Are you alright?”

Oh, joy of joys. Of course the universe would conspire to make Dorian look like either an incompetent fool or a dishonest blood mage in front of the Herald of Andraste. The former is marginally less damaging, so he decides to push for that interpretation.

“Gideon!” he says, brightly. He holds up his covered finger, as the handkerchief is rapidly becoming saturated. “I wonder if you might be able to help me. I’ve finally met a mirror that doesn’t like me.”

The joke might have landed, if Gideon had been less concerned. He hurries over, and kneels beside him. “Let me see.”

He pulls back the handkerchief, examining the cut with sharp eyes. Fresh blood oozes over Dorian’s finger. The wound is not quite as large as he’d thought, but it seems to go rather deep. Even so, Gideon appears less worried than he had before. He pulls a fresh cloth from a pocket on his belt, folds it over the handkerchief, and squeezes tight, drawing a hiss of pain past Dorian’s teeth.

“Ir ab…sorry,” Gideon mutters. He lifts Dorian’s hand over their heads, his grip like a vice. “I need to stop the bleeding.”

They sit in that odd position, in an uncomfortable silence. Gideon may be new to the political game, but he has perfected the impassive mask essential for navigating it. He watches Dorian’s elevated hand, his brow furrowed slightly in thought. Dorian can’t parse anything from him now, other than maybe he’s concentrating on the job at hand.

“What were you saying there?” he asks, if only for something to talk about. “Ir ab?”

“Oh, ir abelas. It means, ‘I’m sorry,’” Gideon explains. “I didn’t think you’d know much Elvhen.”

“Not as much as I’d like.”

“Well, the exact translation is ‘I am filled with sorrow for you,’ but that’s a little overly dramatic.” Gideon smiles, companionably, and Dorian smirks in return. “In any case, I am sorry I hurt you. I can heal this up in no time, but not while it’s bleeding like that.”

Dorian chuckles. “Yes, I know. It’s not the first time I’ve sliced myself open on something. Accidentally, of course,” he adds, hurriedly.

“I assumed as much,” Gideon replies. “I imagine if you’d done it on purpose, you wouldn’t have shouted ‘ouch.’”

“No, I’d imagine not.”

The time passes a little more pleasantly after that. Gideon teaches him ‘andaran atish’an’ and ‘dareth shiral,’ and Dorian teaches him ‘avanna’ and ‘vitae benefaria’ in return – while Trade is the common tongue in Tevinter these days, a little Tevene might go a long way. Eventually, Gideon cleans the wound – he pulls the stopper from his waterskin with his teeth, which is far more alluring than it has any right to be – and suddenly, it looks more like Dorian has suffered a small cut and less like he has been savaged by a wild animal.

Gideon meets his gaze, soberly. “Would you like me to heal it for you?”

Perhaps it’s a courtesy to ask in the South, or among the Dalish. Perhaps it’s simply a quirk of personality. Either way, it’s quite endearing. “By all means,” Dorian replies.

With a small nod, Gideon rests Dorian’s hand on his marked one, and passes his right over the both of them. A soft, blue glow suffuses their gathered hands, settling in the divide in his flesh, shrinking to a thinner and thinner line as it pulls the split pieces together. Finally it disappears, as the skin closes.

Dorian lifts his hand, examines the finger from all angles. “Not even a scar,” he says. “Excellent work.”

“Thank you.” Gideon looks over his shoulder, into the box, and his gaze falls on the shattered mirror. “That’s seven years of bad luck, isn’t it?”

Dorian laughs. When Gideon stands, and offers a hand to help him up, it feels like the furthest thing from bad luck.