Here, actually, I'll post a little snippet of a Swan/Dorian drabble I was working on. As a treat.
There’s a sharp intake of breath, the sound of metal-laced footsteps, and warm hands take his face, fluttering over his skin.
“Amatus,” Dorian breathes, pitched up in worry. His fingers comb restlessly through the downy crop across Swan’s scalp. “You cut your hair!”
Swan just sways there. No words could express the breadth of his emotions. Relief, to see his love--revulsion, as well. Shame. Confusion. And grief, always grief.
He can hear Varric ushering people--and Hawke’s mabari--out of the room, and the muffle of their voices after the door is dragged shut. Dorian’s anxiety continues to grow, but his magister sensibilities have begun to check his behavior. Fingers trembling lightly, he steps back, taking Swan’s hands in his own. When he brings them to his mouth to kiss them, a wave of grief crashes into Swan at the memories this simple action brings back. All those times, all those kisses. It feels a hundred years gone, though it’s only been a matter of months.
He’s no longer the person he was then.
Perhaps Dorian can see it in his eyes, then, because he pulls Swan tightly into his arms. His voice is raw as he repeats over and over-- “Amatus, amatus...”